"You no have girlfriend?" The fifty year old, self-concious Mary Magdalen said. She had all the appeal (and more than half the size) of a Sumo wrestler and above her shoulders orbited a full moon face - dark crater's shadows marring the bloated disc. She was a lovely girl and popular among the Scandinavian expats who found themselves short on cash. The last week of every month she doesn't have a moment to herself.

"No."

"Not in Thailand?"

"No."

"Not in Portuget?"

"No."

She didn't believe me and demanded to see my hands. It would have been great if she was a palm-reader to boot, but she was looking for a wedding ring. She seemed puzzled that I didn't have one and thought about it for a second.

"Maybe you are buttefly," she said at last, and I thought she meant something else. "You know butterfly? Fly from plant to plant, and kiss every flower."

I have you guys as my witness that I am no such thing - but isn't it a delightful description?