2 March: Indian Mutiny

I've been reading Bravo Two Zero, Andy McNab’s account of a Special Forces mission that goes wrong, landing the surviving soldiers in an Iraqi prison, where they are horribly tortured. I still say that’s nothing, and McNab should try some myotherapy with Jeshma. Then we’ll talk about torture. However, I am now having more myofascial release therapy than trigger point therapy, and that is, believe it or not, quite pleasant.

My trigger points are more or less gone now, which means that, theoretically, I should be free of pain. I’m evidently not, however, which makes me, to use the medical term, a bloody freak. The current theory is that my nerves are still irritated, causing pain. I am therefore having something called nerve desensitization, which is every bit as unpleasant as it sounds, and not necessarily much less painful than trigger point therapy, though at least painful in a different way, which is refreshing. (On the other hand, when I arrived, my neck muscles were in constant spasm (that means that the muscles were permanently tense, not that I was in any way spastic, Declan and Fernando); almost unbelievably tense. All the therapists asked if I had frequent headaches, and were astonished to learn that I don’t.)

I have finally got hold of a phone that works with my Indian SIM card! I went to the village and bought the cheapest phone I could find from a very dodgy man. Anyone with an urgent need to tell me how fabulous I am can now do so. I haven’t yet figured out how to top up money on the damn thing, though, so if I don’t respond that’s probably why. On a side note, as a blue-eyed Scandiwegian one sticks out a hell of a lot more in Bangalore than in York or London. Some people in the village stare to such an extent that I find it necessary to keep my giant sunglasses on at all times and pretend to myself that I am a very sweaty film star. Saying that, if I don’t manage to rehabilitate my way out of RSI hell, the only career option available to me may be that of invincible rock goddess.  I say again: anyone want to start a band? Though I lack musical ability, I look good in a leather jacket, and can probably be trained to play a tambourine or other simple instrument.

Thanks to Manjula I’m also increasingly flexible, i. e. I have moved on from the frozen mammoth stage to the next level; defrosted mammoth. Manjula is on holiday this week, so I’m trying to do the yoga poses and relaxation by myself, but it’s not the same without her telling me the colours of the chakras. However, any holiday time the staff here get is richly deserved. They work incredibly long hours, six, sometimes seven days a week. I wish I could say that I’ll never complain about work hours again, but we all know that’s not gonna happen.

The tv loyally continues to supply awful films for my enjoyment. Apparently the Indian nation is obsessed with Sylvester Stallone films, as one or other of these seem to be on most nights. There are probably little Indian grannies getting their camouflage paint on and waving large knives around in excitement.

I showed the Tiny Friendly Ladies some of my pictures from Facebook. They responded enthusiastically to the ones of Becca looking mad as a spanner, and of Line with a fetching ginger moustache. They also seemed to find it hysterically amusing that I’ve been taking pictures of the cows outside through my window.

View from my window: A baby calf and its mother, licking her own arse.

Now I’m going to lie down on the floor.

Thank you, come again!