Apologies for the two month wait for this - we’ve been rather busy. Since we last wrote, F and Z have been to visit, as have my parents. Much fun was had. The whole of Syria laughed at my mum’s hair. My Dad had a particularly good time – he had to dispose of the bodies of four kittens murdered by a marauding tom cat (or at least he’s our top suspect) in our front garden and then spend a full night getting up every two hours to protect the mother-cat and remaining kitten from the still-marauding tom. The next day, after enlisting Mum’s help, he constructed a kitten-escape route AND a kitten catcher! Much to everyone’s relief, particularly tired-Dad, the kitten survived its ordeal and is now happily integrated into the feral cat family that we hate living in the garage next door. We all went to Palmyra, where we saw history’s campest Roman centurions and F and Z pretended not to notice that my Mum was wearing fingerless fishnet gloves (‘I want keep my hands covered – they might get sunburnt’).
I then disappeared to London for a month, leaving Mr A to fend for himself - read a month of take-aways and hangovers. Confirmation, if needed, is provided by a waiter in every takeaway restaurant knowing him by name, and asking why he hasn’t been visiting so much in the past two weeks (i.e. since my return). Sterling stuff - doing his bit for wealth distribution amongst the waiters of Damascus. Meanwhile, there was a referendum to decide whether the Syrian President, Bashar al-Assad, should rule for another seven years. Cue a lunatic month of parties, demonstrations, banners and posters whilst everyone makes clear their affection for the great man (e.g. huge banners on the side of roads – ‘we, the Indian restaurant workers of Damascus, love you Mr President’). The combined cost of all these banners and lights probably equals the GDP of a small African country. In a shock result he won and now can happily govern until 2014 with his First Lady (who’s from Acton!) by his side. Mr A also spent a weekend in Beirut – shopping in Virgin Megastore, eating croissants in Café Paul and avoiding being blown up.
In London, I took my exam (passing by the skin of her teeth), spent a lot of time at home feeling like I was still 18, drank a lot, went to France, wrote a very boring thesis and complained about how expensive London was. Mr A popped over and we snuck in a cheeky riverside lunch in London where we sat next to TWELVE pregnant ladies having the poshest pre-natal discussions ever: ‘I just can’t wait until I can eat everything again – I’ve so missed foie gras’.
Two weeks later, Mr A ‘popped’ over again for D and E’s wedding and drove us there in Damascus-style…. There’s a very small gap in which a car could, possibly, turn right just in front of that huge lorry hurtling towards us – yes, Mr A nips through. But he did get us there in one piece, and enjoyed being there, and didn’t mind too much when one guest sang necrophilia-themed songs as we all went home.
Now we are both back in Damascus, and I’m struggling to remember any Arabic. Mr A continues to witter away to anyone who will listen. We went to our first Queen’s Birthday Party at the Ambassador’s Residence. NO ferrero rocher. But I did meet an 86 year old British lady who got married in Damascus in 1949 and has lived here ever since. She took us on a tour of the old town with a running commentary – ‘this [18th century courtyard house] is where my office was when I was secretary to the President, and he asked me to summarise a controversial novel, and I said I will but not until you release that Canadian prisoner’. She’s my new best friend. Meanwhile, we’re preparing to go to Egypt on Sunday. A little mosque-visiting in Cairo and scuba diving in Sharm el Sheikh should prepare us for another three months of hardcore Arabic study. No, really, we’re very busy. Tomorrow, we’re going to the wedding of our Arabic teachers sister. Mr A is worried – her son has taken to calling him ‘Mama’ in company. What is the appropriate response to a one-year old thinking you look like a Lebanese hjiab-ed woman?
Sadly, due to the heat, the tortoises have been somewhat subdued of late, so no more filth just yet. But since I’ve been suspecting that Lady could be Randy and Andy’s mum, I’m not sure it’s such a bad thing. We’ve been loading them up with cucumber in the hope that they won’t die whilst we’re away. Fingers crossed.
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