I was in the pub. Drinking.
Could have been Stella.
The evening of my last day here in Kwatar. I fell from my stool onto a party of Japanese drinkers.
They were terribly good about it.
Insisted on mopping me down. Helped me remove shards of glass from my arse. Combed the sushi out of my hair.
I lay prone on their table voluntarily redundant, and the heavens spun about me. But I smiled and thanked the Good Lord for all the special measures.
Thank you, Lord.