Coffeegate

Considering we don't have our own garden, the boys aren't too bad at entertaining themselves. And the Lozenge's latest favourite activity has been his 'forest camp' on the balcony. Plus I managed to pick up some second hand Playmobil toys a Greek woman was selling from her palatial residence in the expat district. So there has been plenty to get on with when the Glammy is taking her well-earned three day break.

But lately, the weekends have been feeling a bit long, with rising temperatures and either one of the dwarves not in the mood for whichever of the small selection of things to do within the city. When they're inside, they maraud through the flat, leaving a trail blaze of carnage behind their black feet and sticky hands, and corpses of teddy bears floating face down in the turtle tank. Most days it looks like we've just been burgled. Rarely does a day go by when I don't slip on a train or embed a bit of lego in the bottom of my foot; and cooking is near impossible if I'm alone with both boys in the flat. Rashimi is normally to be found either feverishly fighting with the Lozenge, hanging off my t-shirt, gripped to my leg under a pot of something boiling, or climbing from a stool onto the unit and sauntering towards me with a whisk or the bread knife in his hand. The constant talking and squeaking and wailing all weekend reminds me what an effective form of torture noise can be, next to sleep deprivation. And sometimes I realise it's only my four full, intense days of work, that keep me on an even keel. 

Fridays are the trickiest as Sayyad has a day off which means no key to the grassy patch downstairs. So we decided to go on a trip to a village on the outskirts of Amman, called Fuhais. It's a Christian enclave, and apparently has a good restaurant. The Lozenge had been up since 5.30 so by the time we hit the road, decibel levels were already competing with the muezzin heralding the third prayer of the day. 

With tourism in Jordan, as you read the guide book, you have to try not to let your imagination use European standards - particularly in towns and cities. Because although this region is full of fascinating remains, they are normally built upon and surrounded by, an awful lot of tat, yet I never remember that when we embark on an outing. So we parked up the chevy, tumbled out of its red, furnace-like insides, and wandered down a sweltering steep slope, with a soundtrack of moaning and whining, and found a church that seemed worth a look before lunch. As we walked in, we were warmly greeted by a bunch of men drinking Arabic coffee with cardamom out of tiny plastic cups. They offered us a coffee which J and I took. The Lozenge walked right in front of one of the men, who tripped and spilt his cup of coffee on top of the Lozenge's thick thatch of hair. Fortunately, it wasn't hot enough to do any serious damage. But never has there been a greater humiliation or annoyance in his 3 and half years on the planet. Hair soaked and sticky, and shirt covered in thick, black, syrupy coffee, the Lozenge opened his mouth, turned the colour of cochineal, and howled at the volume the church might never have known, after a century of worship within its walls. The little man was incandescent with rage. The men looked a bit surprised as we staggered out of the door we'd come in through 3 minutes earlier. The din continued for at least another 20 minutes, when the howling dulled to a whimper, and J and I made the executive decision to forget lunch in the restaurant and head home. Within 5 minutes the Lozenge was sleep, infusing the car with a heavy scent of cardamom.

We regrouped in the flat, with its two feet of spare floor space from the morning's marauding, and put both exhausted dwarves in bed where they slept off the morning's trauma for 3 hours. 

When the Lozenge woke up at 3pm, he ate an enormous cheese sandwich and said: 'That wath not a good day. Now my hot hair hath gone. But I don't want to go to that plathe ever, never again.'