It’s summer holidays, which can only mean one thing: we are in our respective home countries, weeping with the effort of domesticity, salivating over incredible supermarket produce, and unable to find the time to either text, or post said non-existent texts. In times such as these, we do what all great artists do: reproduce earlier work…. This post is from this time last year, but is no less pertinent now than it was then.
This summer, as last, the island essentially empties of expat spouses and children, and becomes a forlorn expat wasteland, populated only by lone expat men roaming in packs, looking for comfort in their time of temporary familial abandonment. Some of these men, we are told, occasionally find themselves, late of an evening, in the environs of a large office/retail complex called Orchard Towers, the first four floors of which comprise bars favoured by prostitutes. This has earned the building the
misogynistic and offensive nickname “The Four Floors of Wh*res”. However you might describe it, it’s generally accepted that if you’re a man in that building after hours, you’re there for one reason only – and it’s not to eat dinner. (No matter *what* you might tell your wife…)