Damn. Turns out the last English patient here was extremely charming and vivacious, and spent all her time learning all the local languages and teaching the staff to dance salsa on the roof. I even overheard the Tiny Friendly Ladies speaking fondly of her, and they don't even speak an Indo-European language (thanks for that information, Fil)! I now feel extremely introverted and eccentric by comparison.
I suspect there is a malicious cannibalistic sect at work, as it is becoming increasingly obvious that I am being fattened up like a pig. The nice housekeeper has taken to making me enormous bowls of fruit salad with ice cream, and the other day I was served a pudding resembling risgrynsgrรถt but made with some kind of noodles, and a cubic metre or so of sugar. However, help is at hand - even though I'm not supposed to go outside due to the rabid dogs, the discovery that there is a treadmill in the children's therapy room keeps me sane! Also, yoga starts today - hurrah! I may not be doomed to become obese, toothless (tea without sugar is but a distant dream) and covered in warts, and have to go and live in Hackney. (Actually, the buttons on my North Face trousers have stopped popping, which means that all is well.)
Actually, so far my health seems fine. The nurse who changes my sheets every morning also, for some reason, checks my pulse and blood pressure which apparently, despite my paranoid thoughts about Amelie in the film, remain normal, and each morning we conclude that I live to see another day.
My hair which, when I left, was a purplish grey colour (Karin, don't read this; it will pain you) due to a mishap with a box of L'Oreal colour, has turned an unpleasdant yellowish tinge. I guess I got what I deserved. I try to get some sun exposure on the roof, in order to turn it into an attractive sunbleached blonde.
There is a library! With computers! And books on Alexander technique, shoulder surgery and relaxation! There is also some ficiton left by former patients. Half of them are in Dutch (that would be from the head of the Dutch RSI organisation whose blog from the clinic I attempted, unsuccessfully, to read), and the rest are the complete Twilight series. If things get desperate, that's what I'll be reading, unless I come to my senses and throw myself off the roof first. All the desks in the library have footrests (or fotubaurda, as we say in Gothic), encouraging an ergonomically correct posture.
Thanks to Suresh and the enthusiastic honking Toyota, I have slain the monster of bureaucracy and successfully registered my visa! Since we had to wait around while the officials twiddled their thumbs and mislaid documents, Suresh and I had lunch. He selected the food and I paid, an arrangement which I suspect he found ideal. On the way home we drove past a truly appalling block of luxury flats, called "Prestige Notting Hill". It appears one of Britain's gifts to the Empire is a building style which can only be described as neo-mock-Tudor. I'll send pictures as soon as I've stopped retching. The prize for Spectacular Sight of the Day, however, goes to two big bulls, horns locked in battle, in the middle of the road (not that anyone raises an eyebrow). Apart from the smell of sewage from the river, and the pollution, the air really is filled with spices, which is pleasing.
The treatment is slowly having effect. I realised with a shock this morning, after my myotherapy session, that the tingling pain in my right hand was reduced. It's very strange, as I don't remember what it's like to not be in pain. I can also move my arms easier, and even clasp my hands behind my back without discomfort. (The last patient, the vivacious charming one, couldn't move her right arm at all, or drink or eat unaided, when she arrived, but skipped out of the clinic, symptom-free, four months later).
Thank you, come again!
I suspect there is a malicious cannibalistic sect at work, as it is becoming increasingly obvious that I am being fattened up like a pig. The nice housekeeper has taken to making me enormous bowls of fruit salad with ice cream, and the other day I was served a pudding resembling risgrynsgrรถt but made with some kind of noodles, and a cubic metre or so of sugar. However, help is at hand - even though I'm not supposed to go outside due to the rabid dogs, the discovery that there is a treadmill in the children's therapy room keeps me sane! Also, yoga starts today - hurrah! I may not be doomed to become obese, toothless (tea without sugar is but a distant dream) and covered in warts, and have to go and live in Hackney. (Actually, the buttons on my North Face trousers have stopped popping, which means that all is well.)
Actually, so far my health seems fine. The nurse who changes my sheets every morning also, for some reason, checks my pulse and blood pressure which apparently, despite my paranoid thoughts about Amelie in the film, remain normal, and each morning we conclude that I live to see another day.
My hair which, when I left, was a purplish grey colour (Karin, don't read this; it will pain you) due to a mishap with a box of L'Oreal colour, has turned an unpleasdant yellowish tinge. I guess I got what I deserved. I try to get some sun exposure on the roof, in order to turn it into an attractive sunbleached blonde.
There is a library! With computers! And books on Alexander technique, shoulder surgery and relaxation! There is also some ficiton left by former patients. Half of them are in Dutch (that would be from the head of the Dutch RSI organisation whose blog from the clinic I attempted, unsuccessfully, to read), and the rest are the complete Twilight series. If things get desperate, that's what I'll be reading, unless I come to my senses and throw myself off the roof first. All the desks in the library have footrests (or fotubaurda, as we say in Gothic), encouraging an ergonomically correct posture.
Thanks to Suresh and the enthusiastic honking Toyota, I have slain the monster of bureaucracy and successfully registered my visa! Since we had to wait around while the officials twiddled their thumbs and mislaid documents, Suresh and I had lunch. He selected the food and I paid, an arrangement which I suspect he found ideal. On the way home we drove past a truly appalling block of luxury flats, called "Prestige Notting Hill". It appears one of Britain's gifts to the Empire is a building style which can only be described as neo-mock-Tudor. I'll send pictures as soon as I've stopped retching. The prize for Spectacular Sight of the Day, however, goes to two big bulls, horns locked in battle, in the middle of the road (not that anyone raises an eyebrow). Apart from the smell of sewage from the river, and the pollution, the air really is filled with spices, which is pleasing.
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| "Come, friendly bombs..." |
The treatment is slowly having effect. I realised with a shock this morning, after my myotherapy session, that the tingling pain in my right hand was reduced. It's very strange, as I don't remember what it's like to not be in pain. I can also move my arms easier, and even clasp my hands behind my back without discomfort. (The last patient, the vivacious charming one, couldn't move her right arm at all, or drink or eat unaided, when she arrived, but skipped out of the clinic, symptom-free, four months later).
Thank you, come again!
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