Getting on a bit

You know you're getting on a bit when you remember the baby in the photos of your little cousin's 21st invite. Conversely, you know you still have a ways to go when your first thoughts are: free booze, I'm there, I'm going to get hammered.

Fruit Tangle - A Ko Samui flashback

The banana lounges were sumptuous; we stretched out and let the Ko Samui sun coat our bodies. The sun kissed the aqua blue sea in front of us. Backing that was the feint outline of distant, overarching cliffs, the steam rising up from the water. My spine nestled into the cushion and my body drifted into something reaching relaxation. We'd been in the same spot for five days now. It was perfection, we saw no need to move. And that's when I saw movement in the distance. Somewhere under a wide straw hat was the face of our little Thai fruit vendor. He was severely hunched over as he walked, a long, thick bend of bamboo slung across his shoulder that hoisted a sizeable basket of tropical fruits on ice. He was cutting through an inlet of water, heading our way with each back-breaking step. I didn't want any fruit. My girlfriend didn't either. We were, for want of a better word, all fruited out. And still he edged closer, like a little black insect expanding. The ridges of the bamboo stick became visible. I could now hear his footsteps in the sand, could see the muscles in his thin legs bulging with the effort. He was humming a tune. I started to wave him away. I even put on that moronic Asian accent Westerners use as compensation for not knowing the local language. No, thanks. Not today. And now he was upon us, the sweat dripping off his dark, ageing face, his teeth pearly white and smiling. He lifted the huge weight off his shoulders and it hit the ground with a weighty thud just in front of us. On offer was the same chilled smorgasbord as the previous few days. It all looked fresh enough. I knew we were his livelihood, perhaps his only customers. But with the tang of pineapple still on my tongue the only word that kept presenting itself in my brain was NO. Flashing his whites, he pointed at the watermelon. No. Rockmelon? No. He picked up a wedge of pineapple and thrust it toward me. He knew I was a sucker for the stuff. But it was another shake of the head. Everything was a no. I employed the accent again. Maybe tomorrow? His smile remained, but I could see the disappointment in his eyes as he hauled the weight back over his slender shoulders, his raggy t-shirt tearing slightly with the force as shuffled off. There was an even more pronounced sag to his posture now. The sad music needed to kick in, but all I could hear was distant jungle beats. It wasn't until my girlfriend jabbed me that I came to my senses. I ran after the little bugger and handed him the equivalent of AUD$10. I'd buy the lot. He did somersaults in the sand. My girlfriend winked at me as I returned to my towel. A warm charge of self-justification rose in my chest. Then I let the ants at the fruit.