Poor Taras; life is hard for the twenty-three year old. His best mate seems to be settling into domesticity; he can’t seem to say the right thing to his girlfriend and his Bukovinan Mother dominates him. A frank and lighthearted read about the angst and heartache of youth.
His head felt heavier than a bowling ball, its balance on the frail, stawilike support of his neck too precarious for thinking. Action was effort enough: he'd puzzle this out later, when he felt stronger. Concentrating on each movement, he strapped himself into his darkest suit, discarding the tie he'd worn yesterday in favour of one not blighted by a mysterious amoeba stain. Automatically, he reached for the little white lens case, and then stopped. Scraping contacts across his shrunken corneas was out of the question; this would have to be a steel-rimmed day.