Lucky Strike
The day I got hit by lightning was swelteringly tropical hot, my brain slowly stewing inside my overheated skull. When it gets like this even breathing seems like such hard work. Downstairs, in the shared swimming pool, I still sweat from the heat. I share the pool with a few hundred residents, in theory at least. Less than a dozen use it regularly. I am one of them. I swim most days in a vain attempt to curb the inversion of the triangular torso of my youth. I’m fighting a losing battle against the combined effects of gravity, middle age and rich Malaysian food. When the rain comes the security guards come too. Nice chaps, all Nepali. I spent a few months in their country once and know enough words to make them smile. I argue that I am wet already and rainfall won’t make me wetter. They point fingers to the dark clouds. Fingers that make descending zigzags. Very dangerous, they say. I laugh, but get out to humour them and towel myself dry. The day of the lightening strike my ...