We were travelling through the lower part of Mongolia when I got some awful food poisoning. It was bad and nasty and at one point I was sure Dani Moonstar was coming to take me away to Valhalla. But I also got over it surprisingly quickly, thanks to lemon tea, the bracing Mongolian air, and the local tendency to treat any illness with 'drink more vodka'.
So two days after I was puking my fucking guts out, while the lovely wife and the rest of the tour were off on a horse trek, I scrambled up the side of the nearest small mountain with some dry cheese, a bottle of apple vodka and my battered copy of Duck Feet: volume six of the Complete Love and Rockets, and read about Carmen and Doyle and Israel and Tony. It was a beautiful spot up there, with one of the country's few clear and empty lakes below, and I was so far away from the rest of the planet, and I had to stop reading to take in the whole thing, because I was getting a bit emotional up there.
When I saw them coming back from the trek, far below, I packed away the Love, and tumbled down the mountain with the last of the vodka swirling around in my cup, and I didn't spill a fucking drop.
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