"Ow," I mutter as I fiddle in the dark with the lock on my hut’s door.
I have walked back from a bar where I’ve watched No Country For Old Men, and I felt some affinity as Llewelyn Moss drags his battered body across the Mexican border whilst Chigurh stitches his various wounds in a bathroom*.
My body voices wealth of complaints, a male voice choir of nags. A third degree burn on my ankle weeps – a result of an ill-advised dalliance with a petrol soaked flaming length of rope – whilst the remaining flesh around it, by the end of a day walking on it, is inflamed and swollen. Burnt shoulders – a difficult to avoid hazard of five hours of snorkelling – have resulted in rather unpleasant sweat blisters, which gross me out, and nips from territorial Trigger Fish provoked whilst diving pepper my body, which whilst not leaving any long term damage nor being especially painful at the time certainly hurt my feelings.
Oh, and I have been bitten by lots of flies. Oh, and scratched by coral. Oh, and stung by microscopic jellyfish (I assume).
I lock my door and whimper. Tomorrow I will be strong.
*Oh, Spoiler alert! That’s what I’m supposed to say** right?
** Oh… before I say the spoiler, not down here. I get it now.