Oh boy is this week boring or what? Our offices are at the corner of Silom and Rama 4, and it’s been nearly a year since we’ve heard the sound of gunshots, or opened our windows to the smell of burning tires in the morning. We kind of miss having the managing editor out of our hair: he’d sit on the window sill tweeting every second of the protest: “ROCKETS SHOT! HELICOPTER DOWN!” Then, five minutes later: “Correction: taxi back fired, no helicopters hit. Crisis averted.”Khun Somali’s behavior (she’s a slightly older woman from accounting) was a tad embarrassing but it made for great gossip. She’d take those two-hour lunch breaks to nam jai the young soldiers, and we’re pretty sure we saw her attempt to spoon feed them more than once. She also had her picture taken with every single one—that funny face they’re all making in the pictures, that’s her squeezing their asses.Not that things weren’t as fun on the red shirt side of the road. We’d occasionally venture across the barricade for a free lunch, some cheap flip flops and a B500 handout. Just kidding, we’d send the interns instead. (We’re lifestyle writers, don’t get us mixed up with real reporters like Dan Rivers or S.P. Somtow.) The interns loved it. They’d come back singing “Seua Deng Deng Deng” and pumping their fists in the air. We hear they’re now living happily in the mountains, somewhere near the Burmese border. Chulalongkorn hasn’t sent us any new ones since.And then we got to make a few issues of BK from the comfort of our homes. And guess what: (a) You’re much more productive at home than at the office. (b) The fridge is closer to your desk. (c) It’s a lot less embarrassing passing out drunk at your desk when no one is watching.Ah, good times. We can still taste the Mama noodles we ate that May, for every meal. And that June. And half of July too. (Yeah, we raided three 7-Elevens to be on the safe side.) It was hell, but it was also a time when everyone thought a better world was possible: a world where everyone gets to live in a Sansiri condo, eat at Greyhound once a week and drive a Honda Jazz; a world where politicians are honest; a world where you could actually make a difference. One year later, we can still taste the Mama and smell the rubber, but we’ve lost the hope. Was it all worth it? Like one bereaved father told us, it may take more than one year—and an election—to find out.