Old classics are inexplicably hard to come by, the particulars of which, I find on occasions, a joyous romp; literature seems seldom visited by modern culture; craftsmanship of words, the brevity in detail, and such. More-so - and one could agree - to which modern man, the size, knit, and the shortcoming's of a show girls undergarments, is suffice an exclamation. I'm sorry to say - and to the bereavement of some one hundred baht - James Joyce has eluded me. Nevertheless, ones brief encounter with William Shakespeare's, The Twelfth Night, has done tampered with my Chastity. The-morrow will conclude with a trip to Canterbury Tales, a bookshop; a noble establishment, where one might find a full English breakfast for ninety Baht, and more copies of Wilbur Smith's, Power of the Sword, than should be afforded by a place of reading.