Week #3 in a cast and confined to quarters, I try to pace restlessly but instead am forced to hobble around in a manner most undignified. I stand on the balcony making up back-stories for everyone in the surrounding high-rises, but none are particularly interesting. The cat eyes me with barely disguised pity and harangues me incessantly for attention and food. I suspect the palm trees in the garden are cheating on each other. Much more of this and I shall surely lose my mind.
On the plus side we had some of the region's leading power couples over on Saturday for Michelle's belated birthday do, in which I learnt how to use the BBQ and dispensed passionfruit caipirinhas from our makeshift bar, followed by heavy napping on Sunday. And yesterday afternoon I went back to the ankle doctor, who assured me there is light at the end of the tunnel.
I've gone and made two rather downbeat compilations, and today's phrase - "water that the little bird doesn't drink" - is a handy euphemism for cachaça, aka the devil's mouthwash (another good one is "pão liquido", or "liquid bread", to refer to beer). May it serve you well.
'Til the next time,
No comments:
Post a Comment