So. There's this film called Sliding Doors. In it there is a crucial moment at which point Gwyneth Paltrows life is divided into 2 possible alternate realities. In one she makes it past the sliding doors and onto the tube train where she goes home and catches her errant boyfriend with another woman. In the other universe the doors shut, she misses the train and consequently doesn't find out about her cheating fella. Happily nothing in a similar vein to be reported from Thailand apart from the idea of a life (or in this case 2 lives) diverging at a given point. Lisette and I were in Chiang Mai and having just finished our cookery course we were getting itchy feet. We got talking to this retired American guy who'd just been to Luang Prabang in Laos and couldn't stop talking about it - all French Asian and dead pretty lanterns and the like. Bakeries. So we thought we'd give it a crack. Love a bakery we do. Off to the travel agents with our cunning plan to fly East to LP and then a couple of days later South to Krabi (back in Thailand). However the cost of doing this was prohibitive. And the lady running the travel agent dangled the alternative possibility of just flying South to Phuket - near Krabi we were told. At this point in one reality a more adventurous John and Lisette said "Hang the cost, it's Luang Prabang for the likes of us!" In this reality J+L said "Hmmm... bit expensive... we can go another time... let's just go to Phuket instead - it'll be fine". (Besides I'd chatted with Matt Bridger before I'd left and he'd raved about Phuket, but told me to stear clear of Koh Lanta.)

... read the sign on the restaurant wall. Not the sort of thing you'd see at home. It turns out that Thai people have a very strong affection for the orange robed Buddhist monks that roam the streets and pretty much venerate them. Monks don't queue as a general rule of thumb, they have reserved areas in airports and are given the best seats on planes and, that weren't enough, they are given money by the locals on the street. The upshot of this is the modern day occurrence of fake monks; tribute monks if you will. People who purport to be monks (shave their heads and wear orange) so they can experience the benefits. Hence the government is now warning tourists not to be taken in. But apart from saying "Beware Fake Monks" they haven't really provided any guide on how to pick them out. Lisette suggests keeping eyes open for monks ordering steak, smoking and swigging beer but we've had no takers on that front so far. Sneaky monks. (Or genuine - we don't know anymore) Did think we had one possibility at the airport earlier; saw a guy with a noticeably recently shaved head and wearing brown robes. Either he wasn't trying when out buying his robes or possibly when back at home and not faking a monk he put his then-orange robes in the washing machine on a "darks" load - with unfortunate consequences....

So the flames licked up the side of the building and smoke billowed like billy-o. The people up and down the street turned, pointed and stared and the restaurant where Lisette and I had eaten our first meal in Bangkok was consumed by fire. Yup, Lisette and I are on holiday and appear to be blazing a trail in a more literal sense than usual. We are currently resident in Bangkok and making plans to head North to Chiang Mai.

Hi all, Have had eyes opened to the seedy underbelly of France. Am shocked and appalled. Lisette and I had moved on from Ambois to Blois (about 20 minutes up river) and were exploring the local market. Very scenic, rotisseries full of chicken being roasted, stalls carrying great wedges of nasally powerful cheese. Interesting soap, you know the like. The marketplace was crawling with people and as we stood taking it in I felt a slight prod behind me. When I turned around I realised a French woman on a bike (say early-40s) had just run into me. I moved aside and watched her cycle on through the marketplace colliding with people as she went. Perhaps unsurprisingly, not everyone took this well. An old man (80+ if he was a day) who was on the receiving end of one of her collisions with the masses took umbrage. He bellowed something French at her and waving his arms chased after the woman through the marketplace in the style of a zombie in Dawn of the Dead. She, for her part, was as interested in this as the rest of us and stopped on her bike to watch the strange not quite undead man scampering in her direction. What happened next was unexpected. The man reached the woman and without pausing for breath (which zombies probably dont need anyway) he struck her full in the face. There followed that sort of stunned silence that follows a shock to the normal social cohesion. You could see men throughout the crowd all involuntarily taking a step forwards - all presumably having reached the conclusion that this not good and it was indeed their duty to do something. You could see on our faces the conumdrum being furiously turned over - it's an old man, we can't hit him, but he hit her, that wasn't right, he might hit her again, we must do something... But what? Whilst we pondered the social niceties of restraining an old (but clearly not enfeebled) man, the woman on the bike took her chance to react. She leapt off the bike and in one massively unexpected moment executed an elegant drop kick on the old man. Doing the proper Bruce Lee on her opponent. The man staggered backwards and once again you could see the cogs whirring throughout the crowd: That woman has just kicked an old man, that's not right, but he did hit her, so I guess that's fair, mind you two wrongs dont make a right, someone should do something... Still not sure what though... I fancy that in the end people would have stepped forward and restrained both parties but in the end it proved unnecessary. The man decided that discretion was the better part of valour and started retreating with great haste. The woman started shouting something about the police and pulled out her phone so she could take a picture of her assailant. The man was last seen retreating backwards whilst shouting and being pursed by the woman taking snap after snap. It was like a very surreal and aggressive photo shoot.

It happened last night as we were approaching dinnertime. I'd felt the odd twinge throughout the day but nothing serious. Come 6pm last night matters took a turn for the worse though as I was overcome with a massive pain which caused me to collapse doubled up in agony. Fortunately we were at the hotel when this happened and so I could stumble to the bedroom and crash. Never had pain like on the stomach front. Felt I was gifted a small insight into veil of tears that comes with childbirth. Lisette was my saviour of the moment, heading out to acquire a multitude of pills from the local pharmacy which were quaffed with much urgency. Following 12 hours of bed-rest I'm pleased to report that I'm feeling much more normal. Nevertheless, there have been changes on the gastronomic front prompted by this. No more with le steak frite and creme brulèe. No more with the mounds of cheese and butter. No more l'escargot (though it was only Lisette and Una who were brave enough to dabble in this). Instead we have switched to what I suppose we best call the "Patisserie-diet". Important to have a system. We'll consume anything that can be obtained in a patisserie. Generally this means a croissant or a cafè au lait (or tasse de thé if you're Lisette). Granted this is not a massive step up in terms of how good the food is for us (pastries alas not yet counting towards your 5-a-day). However, in terms of food volumes I'd say we're coming on in leaps and bounds.

After nearly a week of eating French cuisine I am presented with a mystery and it is this: how are the French not yet extinct? Each meal appears to consist of a *minimum* of 3 courses. Each course contains enough calories, cholesterol and fat to give an elephant pause for thought. So how are these people still functioning let alone skinny? I have some vague notion that the French send themselves away to foreign countries every now and then where they find the cuisine so repulsive they abstain entirely from eating while their bodies return to healthier levels. A "detox trip" if you will; this may explain South Kensington. We see Lisette's (French) mum and (English) dad next week in Spain and so I intend to consult Annie on the matter. Perhaps that's what led her to make for Geordieland in the first place...

Dear all, Am typing this on the strangest keyboard I have ever encountered. It appears to be the standard French keyboard which for no reason that I can comprehend does not tally with any other computer keyboard on the face of the planet. Can't think why they made it like this other than to slow the non-French down. It's definitely working. Struggling to find the letters and have given up on punctuation. So if this reads a bit odd I apologise - it's this or insanity. Lisette and I arrived in Paris on Friday night and met up with our good friend Una who had just flown in from Belfast. It didnt start off as the most French of experiences. Due to the trains not running - maybe a strike - we had to catch a taxi into town. We ended up being driven by a man in gleaming white robes, strange hat and listening to "Africa 1" Radio which is about as local as it sounds. Una, Lisette and I had decided to venture into unknown waters on our weekend in Paris and were staying on a barge moored next to the Eiffel Tower. The barge was owned and normally lived in by a Parisien lady who lets it out on the occasional weekend to raise some spare cash. Its quite strange staying in what is clearly someone elses home. Particularly when the home in question is rammed to bursting with pictures of famous maharajas and, strangely, naked Indian ladies. Still we didnt dwell on the matter and ventured out onto the Seine in the early hours of Saturday morning in search of a drink. Our first port of call was a jolly looking nightclub facing onto the Seine. Not to be though, as we uttered "Bon Soir!" to the bouncer we were looked slowly up and down before he pronounced very definitely the phrase "Private party" and waved us off into the middle distance. Perhaps we should have got changed before venturing out. Una was outraged at this and could be seen mouthing the words "private party" to herself at numerous points over the weekend. It had clearly deeply affected her as she encouraged us to made a second attempt to gain entry on the Saturday night. Only bottling out at the last minute when it became clear that the same bouncer was in place and so our odds were at best unfavourable.