Early June and a rather miserable Phuang presented with conjunctivitis (pink eye). Ali chloramphenicol eye drops and they were duly sourced and initiated. However, a mere day into their application and Phuang reappeared bearing a small dish of a greyish creamy liquid that had been proposed as a supplementary (traditional) remedy. What was it? Breast milk. OK, I am aware from whence milk originates it was human milk. And there is no shortage of there always being a newborn or two in the vicinity. The idea was to peel a length of turmeric root, excavate one end to form a bowl, add the milk and then float the receptacle in hot water until the human exudate acquired a temperature of optimal potency for purpose. We were both skeptical and Ali somewhat reticent to be the one administering said fluid to her eye. Some quick checks and, a lack of associated horror stories received, Ali did agree to apply the infused concoction. Someone else would have given the drops regardless and probably with far more enthusiasm, and less finesse. The result? Her eye was back to normal after several days, as youd expect, with chloramphenicol.
Several evenings later we were amidst a lesson on adverbs of frequency when a motorbike careered passed and onto the adjacent bridge, the, rather evidently, broken bridge. The rider threw the bike just shy of the absence of planks and fortunately neither he nor the machine plunged into the river below. We all rushed to his aid. Had he not been aware of its condition? Ah, it was our itinerant friend and hed simply been – drunkenly - going too fast to break in time to turn into Sipasert, his destination. The palm of his hand bore a flap of flesh and his head a decent gash to the temple, but there were no broken bones nor signs of a concussion or internal injuries. Nevertheless, the wounds were way beyond Alis depleted first aid supplies and we had him whisked off for a bunch of stiches. An hour later, just as the kids were fluent with always, often, sometimes, rarely and never, in he sauntered: bandaged but hardly shaken, let alone traumatized. The bike wasnt quite as resilient.
and frustratingly - not the EMA) and in so doing we noticed a set of scales. Wed not weighed ourselves in well over a year; nor, for that matter, had we viewed ourselves in anything other than a barely illuminated, mirror – we generally have to inform each other when our nasal hairs are running amok. In all honesty we were quite shocked. Some quick maths revealed Alis BMI to be in the red, whilst mine was only just within the limit of normalcy: Id lost more than 10 percent of my typical body weight; Ali hadnt, proportionately, lost as much but she had less she could afford to lose. Breakfast eggs were upped from two to three each, bread baking increased to twice a week (abundance = increased consumption) and to evening meals doubled. Jeez.
New Zealand, deservedly, won the World Test Championship; whilst in July England surprised most and waltzed into the final of the European Football Championships. The last time wed made an International football final I was two months old and it was a very different (and Britain): Zimbabwe was colonial Rhodesia; wed just abolished the death penalty; homosexuality
was still illegal; Action man had recently arrived in British stores, no doubt primarily Woolworths; the Beatles were more popular than Jesus; the first hovercraft service was nipping across the channel; Buster Edwards, the moors murderers and Ronnie Kray were all on trial; the ATM was invented and the first British credit card (Barclaycard) released; Hillman Hunters and Ford Cortinas began rolling off production lines; and, thankfully, Pickles (the dog) found the stolen Jules Rimet Trophy in time for us to win it.
Care of Martins homemade giant screen, a projector and Czech televisions streaming services we watched all of Englands matches including the final, most at the ungodly, by then drunken, hour of 3 a.m.
