On the home front, my apartment has slowly begun to look and smell like scenes from the English Patient. A few weeks ago, the avid/obsessed tennis-player Diplomat slammed his racket in his left shin during a rather unimportant game. Apparently, the pain from the hit started to slowly increase over the past weeks. Two visits to the orthopaedist later, he is now taking large white pills every day and bought every single hot pack/shin brace contraption available on the market. Every hour or so one can find him sitting forlornly on the living-room couch or the bed, lovingly rubbing on his leg a smelly potion consisting of Icy/Hot gel, BenGay, tiger balm and healing concoctions prepared by the Pueblo tribe in New Mexico. Then he begins limping all over the apartment, with a hot /cold therapy brace on the leg, performing some odd-looking shin exercises, the smell of camphor and menthol wafting gently yet potently through the corners of the apartment. Add to that a Son in love with boo-boos, asking for a band-aid for his many imaginary ailments about once every 15 mins, and you'll get the idea.
By the looks of it, I am not going to Miami next weekend. I am rather crushed--we simply could not find a fourth person to join us, which made getting a hotel room a rather pricey affair. I can only hope that my pals visit me in DC and we try to party it up locally.