There are bad mornings, and then there are bad mornings. And then there are days like today when you wake up in an entirely-too- big-for-you hotel room in Lahore painfully, achingly aware that you are alone. The kind of nagging-sense-of-loneliness where you feel incomplete (somehow). Which, naturally leads to emotional distress and all sorts of mental-what-have-you's-and-what-will-be's that generally tend to distress at the best of times. Which today is not because combined with an achy-miserable pain in your abdomen one of your once-upon-a-time-shiny-manicured-nails has chosen this week to crack-and-die, which would be fine except instead of obligingly waiting for the manicurists chair to meet its doom it has chosen to break into two halves, remove itself from the finger bed on both sides while remaining securely connected to the skin in the center. To put it mildly, the damn thing hurts like a son of a bitch. You call up the hotel and naturally they are not sufficiently equipped with a nail-cutter and you mutter all sorts of curses and get out of bed and move on.
To summarize, at the point of time you have a fucked-up-head and a bitchy-whiny-stomach-pain and a broken-achy-fingernail. Oh yes, you also feel incomplete and inconsequential and more than a little unloved (but why go into that right now?)
You decide that one of the best cure-alls there is a hot bath. And you enter the entirely-too-big-and-not-well-heated-at-all bathroom and turn on the shower-head in some anticipation. Imagine your disappointment when out pops a lukewarm stream of not-so-soothing water. You stifle a curse (because ladies don't do that sort of thing, you know) and proceed to let the water run (environment be damned) and walk outside to prepare yourself for the bath. Which, in addition to shucking of garments also means removing from your carry bag certain bath-worthy essentials prominently featuring a shampoo, and a conditioner. You discover - to your agonized dismay - that this worthy accompaniment is missing. Either you did not put it in (unlikely) or some vicious demon unhappy with your recently declared intention to see all demons-extinct has kidnapped and destroyed your bath-supplies (more likely). Point it, they are not there.
To summarize, in addition to the above problems (and you will agree there are many) you been the victim of a deadly-demon-attack and you have to reconcile yourself with a rather suspicious bottle of yellow-gooey-liquid marked 'Shampoo' but which - you suspect - will probably leave you with half a head of hair. Plus, it smells funny.
But you decide to resume you usual bonhomie and cheer-of-spirit and decide to que-sera-sera this out. As you enter the bathroom once again a host of white steam floats out and the bathtub is full of what seems to be soothing-goodness. And even sans bath-salts, this seems to be a pretty good deal. So you tell the head to shutup, remind the finger that this too shall pass, explain to the abdomen that now is not a good time and tell the demons that you live to fight another day and enter the bathtub using your left leg as a suitable entry point. Now you've always had a fondness for water that was a tad-too-hot, but suddenly you realize that there is hot - and there is hot. Also, at the risk of sounding like an utter wimp, you need to get your leg the-fuck-out-of-there before the scalding shower combined with the boiling mess in the bathtub destroy your skin. Choosing strategic retreat you remove yourself from the tub vicinity, shut the shower and proceed to inspect the damages, i.e. the left leg which is cursing you like a sailor (apparently left-leg has not too many lady-like pretensions) which has by now become a rather unflattering shade of red. And it hurts.
To summarize, in addition to all the ailments written out in painful detail in the paragraphs above, you are now more than a little burned and even-more-miserable.
You move out of the bathroom altogether (clearly you are not up to the challenge just as yet) and sit down on a not-too-comfortable-chair in front of a rather large mirror, look at yourself in the eye and say 'now-what?'. And your inner-hero responds with a (rather strained) smile and tells you it's-okay and what you need to do is motivate yourself to go back in there, take that damned bath (the water should have cooled somewhat), use that gunk (be brave, be brave) and then head down to the basement-restaurant for a nice-healthy-breakfast. And a big mug of blessed coffee. And you feel suddenly better and remember that coffee has always been that-miracle-worker for you. Also, achy-abdomen might be somewhat appeased if you put food in your system. So then you do what any hotel-guest-with-a-damned-good-plan does. You call reception and confirm that this plan will, in actual fact, work out. The manager is all polite bonhomie, but he informs you (with the kind of unfeeling-lack-of-sentiment that only hotel managers are capable of) that breakfast time was till 10am only, and while food can certainly be made available for you after that point, you will have to pay for it. You look at the watch, and it happens to be 9:56am.
To summarize, #%@*&%!!@#$;&&@&!!