A Fat Purple Fig

I once spent valuable time with a person who believed the sole purpose of life is to ‘work out who you are’. I’m not sure if I’m achieving that, but I do know I spend at least as much time thinking about everything I do, as I spend actually doing it. This is never more apparent than when I am alone, and have a pre-conceived idea of who I should be in in that particular moment. Who, for example, visits restaurants that have a Michelin star?

Not me (according to me).

‘I’m going to regret this,’ I say to Eva, ‘because I will always remember that I ordered the Pigmund Freud from The Hungry Pig for lunch in Vietnam. And I made someone deliver it to me on a scooter in a thunderstorm.’

It is so hot here, the rising sun feels coercive. When it appears, the temperature is a number that will not be repeated until midnight, or thereabouts, so a creeping dread accompanies the mercury rising. A silent voice entreats, ‘Leave. Leave now. Get out and do something’.