Hair of werewolf

Ever since Friday afternoon, I've been in a state of gastroenteric distress; one which has reappeared at regular intervals since leaving Mumbai. If I had to guess -- which I will; I have a phobia about doctors -- I'd say it's giardia that gets subdued without getting cured.

It was pretty bad on Friday night. I silently squirmed with my own cruciatus curse while my tablemates bantered. I've been pretty sluggish all weekend -- not that it really mattered, with my reading agenda -- but slowly recuperated, until tonight, when events prompted me to ponder whether it would be better to visit a doctor or an exorcist.

Intrigued by the latter path, I found one of the two bottles of feni we brought back. It's weird to be drinking it without the cultural context: it tastes illicit, and not, I think just because it's a lot more disgusting with lemon-lime seltzer than it was with lemon Limca (anyone know where to find that here?). But if it's India that's making me sick, then, dammit, India's gonna cure me. Maybe it's the last twenty-four hours I've spent reading Potter, but feni really is remarkable stuff. Just half a glass, and I can already feel it coiled around my coccyx, preparing for a battle that's gonna make Hogwarts look like a walk in the Shire.

Should be an interesting night.