Porter Syndrome – May They All Go To Where The Sun Don’t Shine

I’ve been back in SH for a couple of hours only and I managed to lose my cool already. “Porter syndrome”, I call it. My suitcase weighed 30 kg for holy cow’s sake. Of course he had to, skinny little grizzly, I mean he had the almighty authority to waive me out of the taxi (I was dazed so crawled) and order me out to then walk to the building, for reasons yet to remain a mystery. His eyes suggested that there’d be no alternative, I had to obey like a humble lamb, without even thinking of the word, or concept of, injustice.

I was still coming off the tons of Famous Grouse I gulped to let go of my fear of heights and turbulence, plus the 17-hour flight and shock of a bad movie on it, so gimme a friggin’ break. Now, having sobered up completely and finally finding myself on ground both physically and mentally, I’m feeling slightly awkward for having overreacted a little: in front of the parents and kids who were just arriving for the start of the school term, I was offering a series of uncontrolled, uncensored, not-so-womanly screaming of English expressions off the 4-letter word palette. Oops!

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