Okay, so I am still in hospital. But I am just about normal now. There is no drip in my arm. I have no temperature. I only have two sorts of drugs to take now (as compared with five before). I am free to wander about the city if I want to. I see the people who inquire what I want to eat more than I see the doctors.
And finally I heard the news that I wanted. I am off to London on Saturday afternoon. I have to see a doctor or two there on the insistence of the insurance company in Auckland. This seems like an excess of caution to me (and the doctors in Russia are already extremely cautious), but that is okay too, I guess. My travels so far have not been scarred by an excess of caution.
At least I have a new stack of books beside my bed. And a copy of The Times.
My research suggests that travelling on to the Middle East (my next intended destination) is a very bad idea just now. That, and the fact that doctors tell me it will take about a month for my lungs to recover fully from pneumonia, plus the need to provide physical evidence of my well-being to my family back home, have meant that I have decided to go home for the summer.
It is weird to think that I could be home within a couple of weeks. From lying in a hospital bed in north-western Russia, to the capital of the British Empire, and then back to spring in Christchurch. Just like that. Isn’t the world small?