Sitting in the Bulls Head the other night watching the local chess club in action, MyTGF related the teary-eyed story of how when she was a youngster she would stand tip-toed at the edge of the table and peer over the top as her (now-departed) father and older brother played chess. Of course being a girl meant she wasn’t allowed to play so she simply watched in fascination and took it all in.

She went on to explain how years later as a university student she challenged a male friend to a game and promptly trounced him, much to his chagrin – it seems Thai blokes take being beaten by a girl even worse than us farangs do. She won the game, but lost a friend as a result.

Curiosity soon got the better of us, and she challenged me to a “friendly” game over a pint (she has discovered Guiness too – something I can’t stomach). How could I refuse…though about 10 minutes and as many moves later I wished I had, as my King was put into an early grave twice in a row.

“You like to play again? Maybe you are winner this time?” she asked mock-innocently in broken Tinglish. Having my ego bruised and my libido questioned as a result of not being able to match her guiness-quaffing abilities, I decided that enough was enough and promised myself I would teach her “Who’s The Boss” in the bedroom when we got home.

There must have been something in the roast chicken I ate for dinner, as I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. MyTGF never got to see me do my Tony Danza impression, and I went to sleep having nightmares about her bringing home a chess set to play with during the upcoming wet season.

Might be time to buy that return ticket to oz while I still have some dignity left and the nightmare becomes true.