Mystery solved: an auxiliary pump was indeed installed in the basement of my building, so that accounts for my water reappearing last week. I would’ve been just as happy to learn that Kang and Kodos had been toying with me and decided to let the water run from now on, so long as I had water. Of course, it would’ve been nice had my landlord 1) told me that they had installed the pump, 2) told me that it was “not good,” as I later learned, to leave the pump switched on when water wasn’t running, and 3) told me where to turn the pump on and off. Baby steps, baby steps.
When I arrived to run in my second hash last Saturday, I discovered that the organizers found out about my blog post about my first run. Damn teh Google! Now that I know that I’m being watched, I’m not sure how I’ll respond.
Anyway, the hash last week was a complete fiasco. It was too short, the weather was too cold, the village children spoke fluent English . . .
No, wait, that’s not right. The hash went swimmingly. No hash in the history of hashing, from 1930’s Malaya to the present day, has ever proceeded with such aplomb, such élan, such esprit de corps, such je ne sais quoi, such voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir. My knowledge of French cannot express the waves of goodness and well-being that washed over me before, during, and after last week’s hash. My only fear in going to the hash next week is whether my corporeal self can handle the transcendence that is sure to follow.
Developing . . .