The Male Trailing Spouse keeps himself busy at a salon in Atlanta
I am at a tea party in Bangkok surrounded by embassy wives, enjoying, nostalgically, a cucumber sandwich. As we small talk about apartments near the British Embassy (with pool, gym and tennis court paid for by you, dear British taxpayers), the best personal trainers and the abhorrence of thieving maids, I try my hardest to pass as one of the women. I am the cuckoo in the nest, the only male, one of a rare but growing new breed of expat husbands.
11st 8 (fat caused by work). Alcohol
units 0. Jamaican Woodbines 6 (very good). Big feature published in Vice (bloody good).
Calories 2,850 (on soup and pumpernickel bread due to extraction of three back teeth).
11st 7 (hideous fat on lower wall of abdominal section after eating way too many hamburgers) cigarettes 10 (have run out of duty free Benson and Hedges) alcohol units 0 (no booze for almost 4 years but tempted by $10 bottles of Old Grand-Dad bourbon and $12.99 cases of Stella Artois in the local liquor store).
My new Labour Party membership card has just arrived in the post. I must be the only card carrying member of the Kensington Consituency Labour Party in Virginia Highlands, and, quite possibly, the only "democratic socialist" in Midtown Atlanta. Good: a lunatic is always in a minority of one.