I had a bad day today over the clinic I want to build when a bunch of people, including to my utter dismay my wife, who says she is going to leave me in the morning and is now sleeping under a mosquito net in the jango, said I could not do this so I got mad and punched someone and bust, so I am told and ironically by the same Doctor who will inherit the donated facility currently under dispute, two Metacarpals and a Proximal Phalange belonging to me and an Upper Nasal Cartilage belonging to someone else. All I know is I can’t even hold a cup of tea let alone type properly and it bloody hurts; my right hand is as big as a football and Marcia is so pissed with me she is sleeping in the yard. But you should see the other guy. 53 in May and I can still lay them out. One day someone will kill me. Probably an exasperated Marcia but I hope I will hang on until at least 93 before being shot by a jealous husband.
This clinic business is getting very political. The police came, after all I am a foreigner who just snotted some Angolan official so hardly an unexpected turn of events so I said. ‘All I want to do is donate a clinic!’ and they took one look at Marcia and said, ‘Oh, it’s a domestic’ and fucked off again. Good lads, the police, but then I do feed them breakfast every morning and the community were right behind me.
I will build this blasted clinic.