Memories of hospital. Slapstick on sun lounger. 

The other guests have commented on how I looked better today. Good news, then. Then again, I'm not being intravenously fed 200ml of antibiotics, bum injection of antibiotics, oral antibiotics - and the rest, today. So I'm bound to look perkier. Even so, I'm still a veritable rattling medicine chest. Have an impressive bag of drugs and antacids to deal with side-effects of other drugs.

Antiobiotics aren't great usually. They do mess up one's system. However, contracting pneumonia in India, and having to spend time in a hospital in India - one just wants all the hard drugs one can get - simply so one can get the hell out. Pronto, like. More on the actual hospital experience at a later date.

I chuckle to myself as it very vaguely reminds me of the 18th century version of Newgate Prison. Now, that is the dark side of my imagination working ... but one has nothing in Indian hospitals - except the bed, bottom sheet and a pillow, and ensuite bathroom complete with huge patches of black mould.

Ha, it's nice to use "one" sometimes. Let's get back to how I normally speak, using the second person singular ...

You have to buy everything. All drugs. All food. And once you've been admitted - you can't just saunter out to get your bits 'n' bobs. Not like my ex-lover does sometimes. Wheeling out his intravenous drugs to go downstairs of a leading London hospital for a ciggie. Oh, ciggies. Those were the days ... The pulmonologist told me shortly before I was released from hospital that I must NEVER smoke. That word 'never'. Don't much like it. Just like its opposite: Always. What on earth is 'always' all about in terms of our mortal lives? 

Back to memories of hospital.

Family and friends bring you everything. Crockery, cutlery (if you're a tourist), toiletries, towel, cuddly toy. You have to pay for every tiny syringe and hypodermic. You are charged for electricity and water.

There are water curfews, and even the sign that tells you when water is available is telling porkies. At 6.45am I wanted to wash. The sign on the bathroom door clearly informs you - in Malayalam, the official language of Kerala - that there is water between 6 - 8am. I go to the Nurses' station to ask about water. A young male porter in a brown uniform is sent with me to my room. Oh, goody - he's going to make my taps works. I look behind me. He's still standing outside my room. Me confused. He says 'bucket'. It dawns on me that he's going to have to fetch water, and bring it to my room.

There is also no hot water to bathe in - even if you've opted for a private room - like I did. Great if you have a fever, no? Means it's best not to wash at all. Thankfully, I didn't have a flippin' fever anymore. So at 6.45am, I took a very cold bucket of water and jug wash down. Like you do in India. That bucket of water I had to ask for. 

Same thing with application of intravenous antibiotics the night before. A nurse shows up and gives me a micro-shot of antibiotics. She said: 10 minutes. Itchy. No itch. OK. She draws a circle in my left lower arm with blue biro. This is to indicate where she's injected me with a test shot. 10 mins turns out to be 2 hours later.

For crying out loud, India. What is it with time-keeping? If the promise of money isn't involved ... we go into never-never time. I have to keep asking the nurses about the injection. I just want to fall asleep. Thank The Lord, third time lucky. The injection I was expecting turns out to be an intravenous 200ml bag of antibiotics that drip feeds into my veins. It seems to take an age. Ha, no wonder they needed to do an allergy test first. Still, I was relieved. I knew that soon, I would be able to turn the florescent strip light off and get some shut-eye finally.

Grim? Nah, not really. I was so out of it from ultra-high doses of antibiotics and infection that I just lay there obediently and conked out by 10pm. Fan-bloody-tastic, if you ask me. Fan? Yes, that reminds me. Room with air-conditioning costs more. Just as well I can't stand a/c. Dries up my tubes.

Do remember that I am a tourist insured up to the hilt. I can afford the medical bills and the luxury of a private room. I am also in one of Kannur's leading hospitals. To us Westerners these leading hospitals would look like badly rundown office blocks. How on earth do piss-poor Indians afford medical attention? Do they die instead?

See, that's why Mascot Beach Resort are so amazing. I didn't need to have a cuddly toy. I had my own round-the-clock hotel staff fetching me what I needed from the shops or my room at the hotel, and translating on my behalf. Brain almost doesn't compute. So kind. I would've been seriously up shit creek if they hotel had just left me there festering.

Talk about pulling out all the stops yet again. It was young Karthick's night off when I was in hospital. He had been ordered by Mr Jithu (pronounced Jitoo) to accompany me in my room, or stand/sit outside. I mean - all night long! I said "no need, please". I was only going to fall asleep. Karthick (pronounced Kartick) wouldn't have minded if I had asked him to stay. Not in the slightest. In fact, he looked as happy as Larry to be at the hospital with me. That's just what some Indians are like. Bloody amazing. A bit like a genie from The Arabian Tales. You're wish is my command. Come to think of it - I'm on the coast of the Arabian Sea. How perfect is that?

I had a hilarious slapstick moment on my sun lounger today. After phaffing around with the brown ticking mattress, sun tan lotion, water and other necessities. After a few moments, everything was in place and conveniently at hand around my little sun/shade station. I happily plonked myself on to the lounger. Sadly, I'd misjudged the centre of the lounger and sat more towards one end. I back-catapulted myself onto the cement Tellytubby-coloured wall, hitting my head on a pointy bit. Gaargh, I think I semi-growled. Then I laughed, trying not to hurt my right lung. I have this funny, slight sibilant rhonchi these days. It's kind of cute. I looked across to the other side of the pool where the only other hotel guest was sunbathing. The Scandanavian-looking young girl still had her earphones firmly plugged in, and was now on her front reading some book.

Thank, Ganesh for that, I thought. Still wheezing out some laughs, I wished someone had been there to film it. Funny as fuck it was.

p.s. I was going to insert Bill Haley's Shake, Rattle and Roll - but Youtube link wouldn't work. Apt musical insert as I feel I sometimes have to;
SHAKE myself a little to believe I am in India, looking at this insanely beautiful coastline, and the bonkersness of Indian-ness.
RATTLE as I mentioned rattling like a medicine cabinet.
And ROLL, as I did a comedy back-somersault and rolled off my sun lounger.

p.p.s. Sorry to spell that out to those of you who are clued-up. I'm mainly speaking to myself as I can be a bit of a retard sometimes ... ha.

p.p.s. More about my own dictionary. I know that the word 'retard', particularly in education is completely taboo these days. I think that who or whatever decides what is politically correct one day, and was is not the next, are taking away our right to Freedom of Speech. It's an infringement of my civil liberty to express myself, if you like. Who is going to tell me that 'retard' is wrong? It was perfectly acceptable in the 1970s when I grew up. Ritardando in classical music terminology means to gradually become slower. Retardation, I hazard a guess, would still be used to describe some scientific processes. So why the shocked face?

I say, Retard, Ritardando, and retardation.

All together now in unison: Retard, Ritardando, Retardation.