It turns out that being placed into psychological care in Ho Chi Minh City is not as bad as one would think. The view is nice, my sliver of light from the crack in the ceiling provides countless hours of intelligent debate with the rabbit that lives in the clouds. He is a staunch supporter of the Whig party, but I think they are a bunch of puff-haired goose-pipers who don't know a carriage from a corset and so we have a fine tiff about that when the time is proper for talks amongst gentlemen after the ladies have taken their nooday rests. I also debate endlessly with my doorman, or door "guard" as some may prefer to title the chap, about the proper title of the capital of Vietnam. I make a pure aesthetic argument that the old name Saigon simply sounds better than Ho Chi Minh City, but the doorman can't get my point of view, and so we always end in stalemate. The other day when the debate came up I suggested that they might as well call it Poop Chi Minh City, and he beat me soundly with his rifle butt. A rather aggressive debate tactic but one that I will take back with me to the polo club the next time Jonesy decides to bring up real estate!
My therapist thinks I will be out anytime soon.
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