Scott of India

All told, this has been a very odd week. I was pottering around last Saturday - checking e-mails, watching movies, scratching - when the phone rang. It was my older brother, Scott, who has been working for charity in India since June. The conversation went a little like this :-

Scott - 'Are Mum or Dad there?'

Me - 'Err, Dad's out and Mum's making tea. I'll shout her.'

'....Muuuuum! It's scott.'

Me - 'She says can she just put the chicken in? I said, she says can she just put the chicken in? Hello?'

Scott - 'Err... well...'

Me - 'What's up?'

Scott - 'I've got malaria. I'm coming home.'

Me - 'Oh. Shit. Are you OK?'

Scott - 'No.'

Me - 'Oh. Here's Mum.'

So. He'd stopped taking his anti-malarials cause they made him feel sick. Big fucking mistake. We managed to fly him home Monday. On top of malaria he has gastroenteritis and a really bad haircut, so it's been a little strange around here. It's touch and go, but with a lot of care and attention his hair might be OK.

There should be some pictures of my brother below. If you can't see them, blame technology.

Scott brought me back a diary as a very late birthday present. It's made from a material that looks like leather (but, being from India, almost certainly isn't) with crazy pages made from some sort of low grade pulp full of petals. It looks like an antique, and I don't think I'll ever bring myself to write in it. It deserves Kipling, and even on a good day I'm nothing better than a Grisham. He also brought back about 60 pirate movies on VCD, each of which cost about the same as a stick of Juicy Fruit. India rules, apart from all the mosquitoes and poverty.