Sometimes real life turns out to be more far fetched than a Venezuelan soap opera. What I perceived would be a simple house-call yesterday has had me embroiled in a still-on-going saga. Can’t go into details, but yesterday we had allegations of abduction, deceit, love and lust, elopement, driving around the countryside collecting pieces of conflicting storylines, people who apparently know nothing and then suddenly manage to provide a raft of details, two different police departments and the San Francisco family court. Today’s revelations if anything have contributed another layer of mud to the waters, and I really have no idea how all this is going to play out.
We were also dealt an unexpected, and unrelated, subplot today in the form of a sick ex-pat a couple of hundred kilometres away, on whose behalf we were trying to make important decisions by remote control, and for whom we had no insurance details. Why we had no insurance details will form but one part of the follow up after all this is over. In the meantime Martin was dispatched to deal with the subplot in person. Here at least everything now appears to be stupendously under control and progressing as hoped, leaving me free to
save the day flounder in the shifting mud of the Venezuelan soap opera.