THE HILLSTATION

It was surprisingly foggy when I stepped out this morning. My cup of coffee sat uneasy in my stomach; finishing the evening last night with a double bagger of tea and chocolates may not have been the brilliant idea I had then thought it was. But I needed something to rectify my mouth, as I had smoked a bowl of Brown No. 4 from the light-filled age before new management took over Samuel Gawith.

It had been surprisingly good. And of course all of that, combined with Amlodipine Besylate, pulled a number on my subconscious while I slept. One moves to the higher elevations during the rainy season to avoid the malaria, typhoid, cholera, tourists, and general pestilence down in the low lands.

Yes, you'll have to put up with the wives and children of officials, all speaking bad Malay and swilling fruity alcoholic drinks, but that is a small price to pay; those Besuki cheroots taste delightful in the cool mornings, and the dipterocarps look lovely at this hour.

It's time for another cup of coffee and a bath.

Of course, now that my apartment mate has left for the day, her bedroom door is firmly closed, there are open windows, I'm freezing my spongy parts, and I have lit up another pipe. Something from a colourful tin, described as an archtype. Virginias and Oriental leaf, in a pressed brick. Very gratifying. Tea later, then people watching, perhaps curry for lunch.


Resolve to stay mostly away from social media. I need to get things done, and I do not need the irritation of goodwill organizations using the recent photos of starving limbless orphans in a nasty part of the world to blackmail money out of me. I'm sure they will do well, like bandits. It's the giving season, and the yuppies and graduates of anti-Semitic higher education will be overly generous, though most of their donations will go to overhead, office rent, lawsuits, and funding the propaganda war. And cocktails: fruity alcoholic drinks

That's probably close to ninety percent.

My my, this pipe tastes good.

Hobbit-like.



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