I was surprised this morning by the appearance of the maid at my place--not that she jumped out of closet and shrieked "Surprise" or anything, but because I was 100 percent certain that this was Friday rather than Saturday. She, of course, assured me, somewhat apologetically, that I was 100 percent wrong and that this was in fact Saturday, her usual day to come for the weekly cleaning. So I had to pack up and get out of the way quickly, although I had not anticipated dragging myself out today, given the oppressive headache, nausea, and fatigue I've been suffering. But Oh well. Maybe it's good that I got forced out, rather than spend another day of contemplating how rotten I feel. I could have gone back to the communal patio in the rear of the villa, but that's kind of boring, so I've gone out for coffee instead (which, technically, I'm not supposed to have because of its irritating effects on the gastritis situation). But hell, I've never been one to deny myself of simple comforts for very long, gastritis be damned.
So, taking myself and my laptop case out to our little parking bay, I found the usual gang of boys at play. I had yelled at them last night because they were bucking up and down on my motorbike as if it were a broncing bucko. I don't mind if they sit on the bike, which seems a fairly common thing here with any parked bike, but of course I don't want them wearing out the shocks on the thing.
"Hey!" I shouted, "Jangan! Jangan main kuda dengan motor saya!" (Don't play horsey on my bike).
"Oh, sorry, sorry, Mister."
This morning, they're back on the bike, but at least they're not playing rodeo horse. So far. And I tell them again not to do so.
"Okay, okay, Mister, we not."
Just then another friend of theirs showed up on his own motorbike. Or someone's. The boy is about the size of a 7-year-old, comically dwarfed by the vehicle. I asked how old he is and he tells me he's 12.
Hard to believe. Poor boy must be undernourished.
Well, I myself am undernourished, because all I've been eating, twice a day, is a boiled egg on toast. According to my research, anything and everything else makes the gastritis worse. Then again, it doesn't seem to be getting any better with this starvation diet, despite the medicines. What's a fella to do?
So, taking myself and my laptop case out to our little parking bay, I found the usual gang of boys at play. I had yelled at them last night because they were bucking up and down on my motorbike as if it were a broncing bucko. I don't mind if they sit on the bike, which seems a fairly common thing here with any parked bike, but of course I don't want them wearing out the shocks on the thing.
"Hey!" I shouted, "Jangan! Jangan main kuda dengan motor saya!" (Don't play horsey on my bike).
"Oh, sorry, sorry, Mister."
This morning, they're back on the bike, but at least they're not playing rodeo horse. So far. And I tell them again not to do so.
"Okay, okay, Mister, we not."
Just then another friend of theirs showed up on his own motorbike. Or someone's. The boy is about the size of a 7-year-old, comically dwarfed by the vehicle. I asked how old he is and he tells me he's 12.
Hard to believe. Poor boy must be undernourished.
Well, I myself am undernourished, because all I've been eating, twice a day, is a boiled egg on toast. According to my research, anything and everything else makes the gastritis worse. Then again, it doesn't seem to be getting any better with this starvation diet, despite the medicines. What's a fella to do?
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