Self-Portrait

The Fifth of Seven.

Eleven external, and five internal ,stitches

Yesterday the sixth, on my right shoulder, was excised. The last to be done will be the largest of all and in close proximity to it, so we must wait ten days for it to heal before cutting again. The area is one in which the skin is under tension as the arm and shoulder work. To have done both at once would increase the possibility of the stitches tearing. Mehdi doesn’t want to cut any corners.

He says he likes cutting me, because I feel no pain, and don’t bleed much. He tells me I’m a surgeon’s dream. I’m pretty sure I feel no pain because of the lignocaine. Apparently it doesn’t work for some people. It seems that no one can offer a full scientific explanation of how and why anaesthetic works.

As for the bleeding, I’m surprised, given the amount of aspirin I take.

Song for Ireland

https://youtu.be/oRdDnpkR3AQ

Amhrán d’Éirinn

Walking all the day near tall towers where falcons build their nests

Silver winged they fly, they know the call of freedom in their breasts

Soar Black Head against the sky

Between the rocks that run down to the sea

Living on your western shore, saw summer sunsets, asked for more

I stood by your Atlantic sea and sang a song for Ireland

.

Talking all the day with true friends, who try to make you stay

Telling jokes and news, singing songs to pass the night away

Watched the Galway salmon run like silver dancing darting in the sun

Living on your western shore saw summer sunsets, asked for more

I stood by your Atlantic sea and sang a song for Ireland

© 2008 ARF

Drinking all the day in old pubs where fiddlers love to play

Someone touched the bow, he played a reel, it seemed so fine and gay

Stood on Dingle beach and cast, in wild foam we found Atlantic Bass

Living on your western shore, saw summer sunsets asked for more

I stood by your Atlantic sea and sang a song for Ireland

.

Dreaming in the night, I saw a land where no man had to fight

Waking in your dawn, I saw you crying in the morning light

Lying where the Falcons fly, they twist and turn all in you e’er blue sky

Living on your western shore, saw summer sunsets asked for more

I stood by your Atlantic sea and I sang a song for Ireland

Phil Colclough

© 2008 ARF

Varanus Returns.

I made the last few hundred grams of roast rolled boneleless turkey thighs into a curry. With potato and peas. Something went wrong. It was a disaster. I can put up with most of my culinary mistakes, but this was inedible. it wasnt too much chilli. It was just gritty and bitter. I dont know what I put in too much of to make it so. I salvaged a few of the larger pieces of meat, rinsed them under the tap, and ate them. The rest of the curry I carefully deposited outside where the camp manager won’t see it. but someone special might.

Today I heard a familiar rustling sound. From the door of my caravan I peeked, careful not to disturb him. Or her.

And here (s)he is.

Varanus likes my crappy curry.