Gawping at Farmers
When I go to find myself in Thailand, I marvel at the lone farmer, combing the land with his shimmering silver rake.
I contemplate the fisherman, sending ripples through the water in
elegant, velvet strokes.
I study the ox, as it slowly jangles through the fields, its form so perfectly
suited to work in harmony with man.
When Thai backpackers come to England, do they do the same?
Do they stare with awe and amazement as Bill Higgins from Oldham slowly rotates his turnips? Each cursed drop of the trowel more zen and humbling than he could ever begin to understand.
Do they take photos of the bewildered Higgins family, as they huddle around their kitchen to prepare the Sunday roast?
Perfectly framed casual black and white images that show the isolation of the family in comparison to their barren field, subtly cropping out the sign to the M60 that stands to the right of
the house.
If you look really closely, in the distance, you can see the unmistakable luminous green outline of a BP Wild Bean cafe service station.
What is this mystical centre of healing?
This shamanic temple of worship?
I’d love to go and see, but I don’t want to have to take my shoes off before going inside.
Shh, shh!
My G-d everyone, look, inside the house! Get your Lonely Planet out, quietly, don’t startle them.
Open it to page 16, can we see what tools the Higgins are using?
A potato peeler, used for the religious preparation of chips or wedges.
A spiralizer, left here hundreds of years ago by Californian missionaries.
A gravy boat, one of their last remaining naval vessels.
A traditional large Sports Direct mug, clearly intended for the whole family to drink and bathe out of.
Such bizarre, beautiful ancient rudimentary devices that add to the honesty and serenity of this untrodden foreign land.
On the flight back to Thailand, with a 16 day layover in Doha, you now begin to begin to wonder.
Did I find the answer in the mystical Kingdom of Britain? Did I find the root of life?
In your Bangkok apartment, memories turn to tears which cascade down your cheeks as you put on your raincoat, lay on the floor and continuously play the best of Noah and the Whale.
It’s not the same you cry, it’s just not the same.
Your flatmate grunts in agreement and steps over you to make breakfast, watching indifferently as you continue to writhe on the floor.
