The hum drum domestic life...

I thought that for this blog entry we might take a brief (written) tour of my current lodgings. Hacienda del induction is a developmental haven; a bastion of righteousness, a heroes' eyrie, a birthplace to legends. It is situated in lalmatia, right at the heart of mighty Dhaka, city of (among other things) very tasty aubergines. I don't know what they do to them over here but, well, I'll talk about it a bit more later. Our induction crib boasts all mod cons with no expense spared.

The living room is spacious (photo below) with an array of books left behind by past volunteers, that cover a wide spectrum of topics and genres. For example, looking for some light escapism, I decided the other day to reintroduce myself to a bit of Tom Clancy.



I bring this up because, on picking up his book 'The Bear and the Dragon', I chanced upon a piece of prose so spectacularly bad I felt compelled to share it with you. While discussing policy towards China, one of the lead characters says the following:

"The chicken's not so much as come home to roost as flown the coop, and it's Beijing that's left holding the bag."

I mean sweet Jesus!

Moving on to the delightful kitchen, I think a photo should suffice:



My bedchamber is a fortress against the mosquito onslaught - mosquito nets over the bed, gause wiring over the windows and a ready can of anti-bug spray nestled between the desk and the windowsill - like the walls of Troy itself. Let's just hope those pesky mossas don't learn how to build wooden horses. Lord knows I'm a sucker for wooden horses.............mmmmmmmm, wooden horses........ahem. As the old saying goes, beware blood-feeding arthropods bearing gifts.

The state of the art shower system comprises a rusty (yet trusty) fawcet which, for almost eighteen hours a day, at your command, can marshal an intermittant dribble of cold water. Not content with this, an elegant backup system is provided: a dustbin filled with water, a tupperware bowl complete and a fully functioning......jug.

That dustbin is not just the shower backup. The (thankfully western style flushing) toilet also has a use for it when the water stops. And thank the lord that it does because last week I found myself batting off a somewhat sticky wicket.

I'd been on the toilet, doing a number two, when I overheard a commotion outside and a brief exchange between two flat mates from which I quickly inferred that the water was off. It took me a few seconds to realise the full seriousness of my situation. The cistern was full, oh yes no worries about that.

But I had one shot. There could be no margin for error. It had to flush. IT HAD TO FLUSH.

It was with the trepidation of a gunslinger before the draw that I gripped the handle and then, having taken a moment to stroke perspiration from my chin, I pulled down sharply.

Like a wagging finger the offending log rode the waves and, as my doughty toilet spluttered its last, it simply sat there...mocking me.

Queue the dustbin.

Filling a cistern with a 500 ml jug was actually (for me) a reasonably decent work out. Flush with sass, I laughed out loud in triumph at the obstreperous poo as, once more, I pulled the chain.

I hadn't filled it high enough.

That was my conclusion as, forty seconds later, I found myself still staring my afternoon's hard work in the eye. This verdict was actually wrong. Turns out, it was just one of those unusually stubborn ones. For ten full minutes I (figuratively) wrestled with the intractable shit, like Ahab and the Great Whale (the obvious difference being that Moby Dick was white) before finally, on go number four, I saw the last remants away.

I'd used up half the dustbin of water and I was absolutely knackered. But my guns had by now come in for a hell of a sculpting. And you all know how much I treasure my guns.

Anyhoo, more from me soon. Mind how you go.