We celebrated J's birthday on the balcony this week with 2 cakes - one carrot made by me, and one chocolate made by the Glammy and the dwarves. The guests were ourselves, the Glammy, the Glammy's friend, and our Sri Lankan cleaner (aka. St Grace, Saving Grace or Amazing Grace - she is each and every one of these). The Lozenge wasn't that impressed by the turn out. 'Where are all the other people?' J had asked for one of those novels which has English on one page and a translation in Arabic on the other, but the only such book I could find in the Books Cafe was a Qura'n. So I bought him one. It's no bad thing to have one on the shelf, since for the last 6 years of our lives we've worked only in Islamic countries. And it's looking like the next 6 are heading that way too - and we've never read it. So it's perched next to the bible we were given on our wedding day by Robin Barbour, who did our address. 'Here are the lively oracles of God,' he wrote inside. Meanwhile the Glammy is wrestling with what to do about ramadan during her holiday in the US. I suggested Allah might not mind if she relocated her ramadan fast for a time when she's not supposed to be having fun with her sister in Philadelphia.
I may have an informal role as the Duke's ghost writer, and have just spent another interesting few hours at his house helping him write a couple of pages he's been asked to contribute for a book on one of the art galleries here. We sat in his study talking, and I typed as he spoke about patronage and the crucial role of culture.
He helped me find a cab when I left after a lunch around his table with his nephew, a fruit and vegetable farmer who sells to most of the larger hotels here, and a gang of young students who turned up. His house is situated in a district called Joffe, above the Roman amphitheatre, in one of the poorest parts of town, yet his doors are still wide open. He gave me another huge tray of courgette flowers, cucumbers and glistening red and green peppers, and as he helped me hail a cab he said: 'By spending time in this sad, arid region, you grow up much more quickly than you would if you stayed somewhere like Paris or Copenhagen. In just 5 months, think of who you've met and who you've talked to.'
I can almost feel the indent that each person we've met here has made on our psyches. By knowing them, we can start to understand how they battle with life in this brittle and complicated place, busily sowing their own little patch which might one day become verdant, if conditions allow. There's a reason why people talk so much about 'Inshall'ah' in these parts. So little is certain.
I may have an informal role as the Duke's ghost writer, and have just spent another interesting few hours at his house helping him write a couple of pages he's been asked to contribute for a book on one of the art galleries here. We sat in his study talking, and I typed as he spoke about patronage and the crucial role of culture.
He helped me find a cab when I left after a lunch around his table with his nephew, a fruit and vegetable farmer who sells to most of the larger hotels here, and a gang of young students who turned up. His house is situated in a district called Joffe, above the Roman amphitheatre, in one of the poorest parts of town, yet his doors are still wide open. He gave me another huge tray of courgette flowers, cucumbers and glistening red and green peppers, and as he helped me hail a cab he said: 'By spending time in this sad, arid region, you grow up much more quickly than you would if you stayed somewhere like Paris or Copenhagen. In just 5 months, think of who you've met and who you've talked to.'
I can almost feel the indent that each person we've met here has made on our psyches. By knowing them, we can start to understand how they battle with life in this brittle and complicated place, busily sowing their own little patch which might one day become verdant, if conditions allow. There's a reason why people talk so much about 'Inshall'ah' in these parts. So little is certain.
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