In Which More Men Figure It Out

I gave up this morning and let Room Boy Ganesh call the doctor. Cheeky bastard couldn't resist this gem, could he? "Oh, I wish madam had let me call doctor yesterday." Okay, Ganesh, enough.

The very nice doctor declared me to be suffering from a tonsil infection, told me to take my Cipro (what a prepared traveler am I!) and gargle saltwater, and I should be feeling fine soon. Let's hope so. (Oh, and the cost of my house call? Rs 400. A little less than ten dollars. Less than my co-pay to see my normal doctor, for whom I usually wait about, oh, two hours to see.)

I think getting high on antihistamines prevented me from writing about the other excitement around these parts: my palm-reading. Basically, I am now looking forward to 29 like nobody's business. The palm reader said that after 29, I will find the man with whom I will spend the rest of my life (about time), I will get married to him, I will have children, and oh yeah, something about huge amounts of professional success and financial well-being. Then he said, in ominous tones, "If you get married before 29, it will not work out." I didn't want to disappoint him by explaining that the chances of me getting married in the next fourteen months were slim to none, but hey.