I cut my foot. Actually, I tried to slice-off the outer corner of my big toe. Did it on a rock . . . in the dark . . . so I never saw the weapon of mass destruction, but it must have been a mighty sharp rock. Part of the toe was dangling. This was last Monday night. The following morning Yaya insisted that it would become infected if I didn’t lop-off the dangling piece. Now Yaya’s very wise, but I’m a medically-trained, fully-equipped PCV with a PC med kit; and we know what delightful drugs and accouterments that kit includes. Pardon , I pray thee, Yaya, but I’m not lopping-off anything!

On the other hand, when has Yaya ever been mistaken?

I wasn’t looking forward to prying loose the toe-piece and cutting it . . . the dangling piece had re-adhered under the bandage during the night. Old women visiting the courtyard offered to hold me while the procedure was performed. Yeah, that’s gonna happen. Are you mad?!

Couldn’t this be a situation like the tail of a lizard? Might not the toe grow back? OK, not so much. And as Yaya had predicted, infection set-in with 20 hours. Clearly, I was mistaken; and the dangling piece had to be removed. Don’t you love these little glimpses into PC service?

I don’t believe I’ve cried as much during my entire PC service as I have this past week while my toe has healed. And, indeed, it’s healed nicely. A few weeks ago during stage Jordan gave me The West Wing – every episode, including extra footage . . . every season. OK, am I that odd? Am I the only American who had never seen a single episode of The West Wing? I’ve loved it . . . I’m through Season 4. And, I declare, in every episode there’s something that I find moving. Not sad, but very moving. Thus the tears. Or perhaps I'm mistaken.

Maybe the tears are for dear friends in times of need. . . or for my wounded toe . . . or due to the fact that my time here in Pô is slipping away so quickly that I’m both panicked and sad. Anyway, I don't think the producers of The West Wing are culpable. Perhaps it was 12 hours of Brideshead Revisited . . . always a favorite, though thoroughly depressing on so many levels. Good ol' melancholy He-Waugh.

I think this situation calls for a whole bowl of Jell-O, which I can make now that my frigo is repaired. Or maybe Jell-O and a pub-crawl. I can crawl now that my toe is repaired . . . along with my frigo. So, pub crawl, right? Do you really believe there's anything here in Pô that can be reasonably called a pub? Perhaps it's time to stop with the TV-via-laptop and get back to the business of being a PCV . . . ya think? We can only speculate.