Trust Seonai Gordon to head on up to Heaven the same week as the king of pop leaves this planet. Waiting at the pearly gate with pen and note pad poised? Never a dull moment is there dear! First time I met Ms Seonai she’d just joined the ranks at Artasia Press, moving from less than pristine Pattaya to pretentious Phuket. We had a ball becoming fast and firm friends in this expat island’s sisterhood. A Scottish lass and an Aussie girl running wild in Thailand, just like the two fat ladies we were except slim and nimble, but just as wicked and twice as fun. It was Seonai’s fluency in the Thai language that made our lives that bit richer, like the time we were in the wrong place at the wrong time during a nightclub raid in the Thaksin-era, around about 2003 or 2004. I had visions of false imprisonment, deportation. Seonai charmed the police officers, convincing them we were merely researching the raunchy after-hours night life for magazine stories. To help with our research they arrested us too. She had a habit of collecting people, the more offbeat the better. Thailand is full of eccentric types so Seonai always had new friends to play with. Over time, her net grew wider. The phone would ring quite often, calls from Malaysia, Cambodia, Spain and beyond. I met some of her old mates, she met some of mine. Even my family came to know her in time. Seonai was an intuitive girl, always knew what I was thinking. In fact, she knew me better than I knew myself. She understood me better than anyone else ever had in my life. She was my big sister, a true soul sister to me. Seonai knew when I was hurting even before I showed any symptoms. Now I know that was because she knew how to hide so well her own suffering and pain. There was one thing missing in her life when I met Seonai – her son Ziyo. She had the biggest void in her heart until finally regaining his custody. I was so very proud of her to take that journey in a foreign country and fight for her magical boy. Not long after the tsunami she disappeared upcountry on a mission and returned triumphant with her only child. He’s a special soul too that Ziyo. He spotted me from across a busy intersection in old Phuket town. Never met before, not even seen a photo – just knew who to look for I suppose. Seonai loved to share the story of Ziyo as a toddler telling how he’d made her eat fish while he was in her tummy. It’s true, she’d swear – “I craved sardines like mad when I was pregnant with Ziyo”. One of the funniest moments we ever shared was in her wooden bungalow on Yao Noi island in Phang Nga Bay. Seonai had married local Thai man Mat and lived for a while in the Muslim world. We’d been entertaining a very old man, chatting over tea on the front porch. Being naughty we switched to spirits before the evening meal. While we cooked, the drinks got stronger. Finally we all sat down on the floor surrounded by Thai food, it became a big feast. “Seonai, what IS that sauce,” I enquired quite perplexed. I had never tasted anything like that before. Hysterical with laughter, both her and Mat almost choked on their dinner. That strange tasting sauce hungrily poured on my food was a splash of orange juice heavily topped with potent brew of home-made vodka from the China man’s shop down the road. I’d spooned the stiff drink served in a low cup all over my curry. She was still laughing years later all the way over in Brighton. We planned a fact-finding trip to Thailand’s far south. With little information and few reporters going there we wanted to see for ourselves the insurgent situation in the Muslim provinces. We’d ride on a motorcycle with sidecar attached. We’d hide under burqas, disguising white skin and cameras. That adventure never happened. Our visa trips always came too soon, needing to head for Myanmar or Penang to get us new stamps. Then she fell ill. The last few months I spent with Seonai was intense, slightly terrifying. She had been admitted to the infectious disease ward at Phuket’s public hospital. She’d collapsed on Koh Yao Noi with a blocked artery after many months of illness and misdiagnosis at the clinic. The ward was over full with about fifty sick women plus family carers, some from Seonai’s island. Many coughed with TB. Seonai was hacking bad. It was not a good place to spend time. Several weeks later it was decided to get her home to England. She knew she had to go if there was to be any chance of survival but was not happy at all about leaving her spiritual home in the tropics. I didn’t blame her for being stubborn but it was hard work making it happen. There was a team involved – a few of us in Thailand, her brother whom Seonai had not seen in quite a few years and others, some were strangers to us both at the time, in other parts of the world. The last time I saw her was at Phuket international airport in July 2006. We’d been sat at Hungry Jack’s passing the time, feeding Ziyo up on western junk food, trying to be upbeat and happy, not to shed sad tears. The radio was playing soppy songs, real stab in the heart kinds of songs. Why do they play that kind of music in airports? I remember commenting to Seonai that all airports should have a comfy crying room where loved ones can say goodbye in private - with a foot massage and a nice glass of wine. “This is not goodbye my dear,” she said. “I never say goodbye”. ---------------------------------------------------------- Seonai’s last message to me, 17 June 2009: “Love u too dear ... Planning my funeral dear. Not easy but makes me feel in control. Cremation with monks chanting, then small party – no black, natural flowers, snacks, a few choice mates and loads of wine!! XXX”