Poetic Justice

Readers who are easily sickened are advised to look away now. That includes you, Mum, because you will worry.
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Ever since I put up that April Fools' post something like this has been bound to happen. I also feel I should apologise to Dan for mocking his paranoia about the whole flies/eggs/amputations thing.

So let's start about a week ago. I dropped the pingpong table on my foot. It bled a lot. I used the usually-effective traveller solution of Savlon and Micropore. Unfortunately the Savlon reacted with whatever fungi was living on the adjacent toe, which had a domino effect leaving my toes weeping pus and frequently sticking together. I believe that this is known as "Insectopia"; the flies were loving it. I was pretty paranoid about this to the extent of employing an orphan as a foot flyguard (anyone who thinks that I'm not self-indulgent enough to spend my time in an orphanage whinging that my feet feel like they're eating a Madras, is clearly overestimating my altruism).

Unfortunately (/ ironically you can choose the adverb whether you want this to be a comedy or a tragedy) this meant I neglected my head.

I cut myself shaving a few days back, it was a tiny nick so I didn't really think about it. Then, two days ago, a big, hard, bony lump appeared on the back of my head: most people would probably start worrying at this point; I didn't. I pointed it out to Casey as an "isn't it weird what happens to your body in the Tropics" anecdote.

I woke up in the middle of the night in a lot of pain with a big thick tender line leading from my new lump to the shaving cut, which now looked positively Pinatubu. That's when I went to the hospital.

Nou speaks enough English to explain my symptoms to the Doctor and to tell me what the Doctor said to do (which is to take more drugs than a touring funk band, I'm not kidding. Ten pills a day!) but she couldn't explain what was wrong with me. This is probably a good thing as it means I can tell you that I've got a nest of worms mutating in my brain whilst telling myself that it's pretty much nothing. In reality it's probably somewhere between the two.

Twenty-four hours in now. Head has stopped hurting. Foot has stopped leaking. Now all I've got to do is try and sort out this Russian Visa...