I hit a coffee shop.

It’s opposite the Borneo Post.

I’m with the editor.

My writing is crap, I say, and surely it will need a big ‘user-friendly’ edit.

I’m drinking roasted beans coffee.

The owner sells the best coffee in Malaysia.

Now that’s a claim.

He has tonnes of articles written on him but just doesn’t care to hang them up on the wall.

I’m getting a buzz from three coffees.

I thank the editor for the free copy of the Borneo Post. They don’t have any native editors.

‘Our English is usually better quality than theirs,’ says the lovely editor.

I’d have to agree.

And did you know they charge the foreign tourists double at the James Brooke Gallery?

She was shocked.

I hit the pool.

I find the lifeguard.

His name is Jake.

He goes through a bag of swimwear, most likely what has been found in the change room over the years, and he hands me a pair.

It fits.

I rent a pair of goggles too.

All the better for seeing underwater, right?

Do you want to sell me the shorts and goggles outright, I say, after paying him for the rental of them.

Yep, he does.

Twenty Ringgit flies into his hand and we have made a quick deal.

I pass a Chinese mother who is brooding over her daughter who is learning how to swim in the shallow pool.

I notice mum has a big set of tits and her hair is dyed blonde.

She’d be a goer, I think as I take the plunge.

The first lap was ok. I put on my best freestyle performance.

‘You swim well,’ says Jake, when I reach the shallow end.

He’s admiring my sacred tattoo on my back that protects me from bullets, knife blades and the occasional bus bomb.

‘I’m not a terrorist, I’m  a tourist.’

Now who told him that story, I ask.

Nordin has been talking. I’m apparently a celebrity at the pool already.

The laps are getting slower. I’m sinking. I’m going down.

I’m in now. I’m dead tired. I’m just gonna wallow in the bottom for a while and get my act together.


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