21 January: Taking the Pain

You live and learn. Or not. Indian people eat with their hands, and manage to do it gracefully. I, however, get special treatment: to avoid me spilling and slobbering all over myself, which would be unpleasant for everyone involved, I get a spoon with every meal! The food is extremely good, and extremely cheap. Sometimes it's mouth-scorchingly hot, but I have yet to come across anything quite so horrendous as Fernando's Mexican Pasta From Hell. People keep telling me that if I want plain food, I have only to ask. I take this to mean that I look pathetic, struggling on with my spoon and my runny nose, and that everyone pities me. However, I didn't come to India to eat toast, and so I soldier on. It does sometimes take me a long time to finish a meal, as I have to stop between every mouthful to breathe and wipe my nose.

The treatment continues. I think Andy McNab would be impressed with the way I take the pain, like a pro (or Iraqi prisoner)! I wonder, though, how staunch he would be in the face of tickling. (Does the SAS train its soldiers to resist tickling, Darren? Or perhaps the Regiment's soldiers are less ticklish than me; I would betray my king and country in an instant, if tickled in an Iraqi interrogation cell.) Trigger points, the bastards, tend to congregate on the border between the torso and the arms, that is, the armpits. I go into convulsions of giggles, and have to bite my lip! I infinitely prefer the pain.

I have been for another airing in Suresh's enthusiastic honking Toyota, and realised that I have been unfair: nobody believs in indicating! Or seatbelts. Luckily the Toyota is large and sturdy, and the traffic moves very slowly, thanks to everyone weaving in and out between cars, and all the dogs, cows, schoolchildren, etc, in the road. The object with the outing was to attempt to register my visa, however it turns out you need five hundred types of paper, and the crock of gold at the end of the rainbow. The battle continues.

Traffic.

Hurrah! My very first care package has arrived! A helicopter turned up, scattering bounty from the sky (or rather, a uniformed porter knocked on my door, haha). Many thanks to the anonymous philantropist who sent me "Maigret and the ghost", a delightful French mystery! Please let me know who you are so I can forward your name to the Nobel committee. (I have my suspicions, but one likes to be sure.)

I make progress, of a sort, with my Gothic. Mostly it's gibberish, but today I managed to make out a complete sentence! Needless to say, it's when Matthew starts waxing lyrical on the subject of fornication that he finally becomes lucid.

The weather is extremely pleasant, about 20-25 degrees (Celsius, of course). It turns out my Millets Value t-shirt is perfect for the climate!

Time to finish, lest I undo all the good work!

Thank you, come again!