HOT ROCKS
Five beers and a curry into the evening and the James Bond credits are rolling in front of my bleary eyes.

I've just come from Le Grand Hotel d'Angkor, a unashamedly pompous palace of a hotel in Siem Reap, Cambodia, where the doormen are so posh they wear ivory-white Prussian-esque Pickelhauben. The architecture was French colonial in style, the pool was Olympic in size and you need a mortgage for dinner.

Yet this isn't even the most impressive hotel here. Everywhere I look, I'm blown away by the builders. Sipping beer alongside the FCC's saltwater pool I felt like a sweaty, French civil servant from the 1930s.

Even the new hotels, which could have ended up like a tacky version of Las Vegas, are mind-blowing. If ever I come to build a gaudy mansion on The Bishop's Avenue, I'm going to ship over boat-loads of Cambodians.

Ealier today I had two of them catering to my every muscular need, kneading my folds of flab and aching limbs with their hands, elbows and boiling hot stones. The chef d'oeuvre involved one of them leaping on to my torso and pressing down hard on my groin. Needless to say, I finshed myself off back in my room.

Soon after, I sent L a mail that I began writing the night before. It was one of the toughest things I've ever composed. In it, I fessed up to five years of obsession; that I'd always felt a deep connection between us; and that I'd never met anyone like her nor felt that I ever would. I told her everything. Why? Because she asked. Now I have to wait for her reply. I dread to think what it might say...