Polio drops

As if Syria needed any more demons in its midst, there has been a recent outbreak of polio, and over 500 children are suspected to be infected with it. Officials at Za'atari are worried the disease will come into the camp via the 300 new arrivals they receive each day from Syria, so UNICEF has just funded and implemented a mass vaccination scheme which they asked me to photograph for the New York office this week.

I left home at 7am. Having gone to bed late as always, I hoped the dwarves might wake a little later than normal but at 5.30am a small creature in blue pyjamas crept into my room whimpering: 'I want to go to Grandma and Gran Gran's houses. I want to go on the sleeper train and make blackcurrant jelly.' I think he'd had a dream about the brace of beloved Grandmothers. I explained there wasn't much I could do about it right now, but did he want to come and sit in my office while I got my camera kit together? His face lit up. My den has a metaphorical no entry sign around 1 metre up the door. The Lozenge sat on my swivel chair drawing with my coloured pens and said: 'Now I can be a weal offith worker.'

Then Rashimi awoke with a high temperature and understandably in a bad mood. I left St Grace with the duo, a thermometer and a large bottle of Calpol, hoping I'd chosen the right lenses. They stood in their usual position on the window ledge and waved me off until I rounded the corner.

We arrived at the camp where the warm wind picked up the dust and whipped it into our faces as we followed the health workers on their caravan to caravan polio vaccination trail.  Every child under 5 needed to have the drops put in their mouths, and as a caravan was vaccinated one of the team, in a dramatic black hijab, pale blue UN vest and bright red nails, set about spray painting 'OPV' in paint to match her nails on the exterior. This meant the tent or caravan had been vaccinated.

I was relieved to be behind a camera and not responsible for even one of the 500 wailing children, who were summoned, purposefully gripped and administered with a few of the drops on the tongue.

We met some lovely families as always, and a cameraman and I hung back and interviewed one family about their lives in the camp for a film he was making. Unfortunately, by hanging back, we were separated from the rest of the group and therefore from the translator, so I found myself in the position of translator which is laughable considering one Jordanian lady recently complimented me on my: 'really sweet broken Arabic'. But since the cameraman had only a few words up his sleeve, and I seemed to have at least one more sleeve-full, the rule of relativity applied. We got by and made some more friends, including a very together seeming family who had planted a vegetable garden in the dust in front of their caravan. The mother of the family was 16, pregnant with her second child, having married at 14.

The camp is so huge now, and the rows of caravans and tents so similar looking I could not have found my way back to see the family I made this film with a couple of weeks ago, but I wished I could have gone to see them as they are so nice and we developed quite a rapport in the time we spent together.  I spoke to the cameraman about the early marriage debate, since it's always the first story journalists from outside want to report. But it's really a non-story, since many girls back in Syria would have been marrying at this age anyway. The fact that girls like Manal (not her real name) in the film below, think that there are opportunities for education in a refugee camp, that they would not have had at home, is an interesting angle - but not one a news agency would want as might look like good news.

https://vimeo.com/77582844

I got back home in the late afternoon to find rather a hot and floppy Rashimi who said: 'Lie. Lap. Peppa.' And we did just that. I was rather relieved to lie down on a beanbag by that stage in the day myself. And although Peppa Pig wouldn't have been my first choice, I saw a muddy puddle for the first time in three months.

The Lozenge had his Arab dressing up day in lieu of Halloween at school, but nothing would have convinced him to put on the red and white headgear. 'I will be a doctor, and only a doctor.' So a doctor he was.

There is still a small lion teddy on the swivel chair in my office. A reminder of our early morning antics which seems like longer than a week ago.

J gets back for the weekend this evening, which cannot come quick enough. It also seems like years that he's been away.

'Ventures and getting away with it in the Chevvy

Rashimi has been expressing his feelings about J's absence in some interesting ways. The latest of which has been wearing J's pants over his head.

Then last week I found Rashimi in the bathroom lathering himself in 'keem' which turned out to be some fake tan from my cupboard. As if his nut brown legs needed any help. He put liberal quantities all over his body, and the floor, then stepped backwards and did a magnificent wipe out on the greasy floor. 'keeem!' he wailed, rubbing his leg and bottom.

The Glammy is doing a bit of a hand over with St Grace, since her departure date is looming closer. She will stay for Rashimi's 2nd birthday in mid-November and will leave after that. I'm still in denial. But Grace is doing some great work so far. After the fake tan incident, she arrived and Rashimi yelled: 'Build house!' (he has no volume control), and within ten minutes he was nestling in a den designed by Grace made from the sofa, some cushions and a rush mat for a roof. Having built her own house in Colombo, Sri Lanka, she's a dab hand and Rashimi was delighted.

I left them to it and went to help a Syrian artist friend, by filming one of his latest projects for him. It was quite an emotional experience, and reiterated yet again, the importance of the role of artists in these troubled times, helping us to look at the events in another way, often simplifying them so we bystanders are able to see through the complexities.

The Lozenge and I had a luxurious escape to the Dead Sea with 2 beloved visitors from the UK, one small one grown up, and the four of us swam and chatted and laughed from dawn til dusk in the warmth - looking over the oily waters towards the lights of Jerusalem on the other shore. It felt bizarre knowing that J was there on the other side. I wished we could have sent up a little smoke signal.

We left Rashimi in Amman, which initially I felt a little guilty about, as we packed a small bag each and he scuttled around saying: 'dedd. seeee. dedd. seeeee. 'Venture! 'Venutre!' But it was not going to be a holiday for anyone with a kamikaze nearly 2 year old, complete with built in loud speaker, and as it turned out, his own adventures were probably more adventurous. A Sri Lankan party with St Grace where he made lots of friends and ate bowlfuls of chilli rice which he loved so much, he now has a personal month's supply in the fridge. Then he exchanged the chilli rice for falafels and hummus (another Rashimi favourite) and the Glammy whisked him off to Arab paradise in her flat with hundreds of female relations and young cousins. He was very pleased to see us when we got back, but I wished he had more vocabulary to tell us his version of his 2 nights with our amazing raven haired ladies who have become as staunch as family over the last 9 months.

I've been stopped twice by the police this week in the red Chevvy. I'm surprised it doesn't happen more often considering we're about the only thing on wheels this colour in the whole country. The first time, they'd spotted me with phone to ear. I was chatting to J and managed to explain my devotion for this country in Arabic and that I knew I'd been naughty. The policeman who whose head would have reached only my waist, even in heels (him), gave me a broad grin and waved me off with no fine.

Then the Lozenge and I were hauled off the road after dropping the beloved friends at the airport to return to gale force Britain. The Lozenge was in the front seat, which they told me was 'mamnou': forbidden. They asked me what I was doing here, and didn't appear to speak much English, so I did my best in Arabic, with plenty of extras. Then they tried to move the Lozenge into the back. The Lozenge revealed a bottom lip to rival most, and promptly burst into tears. Whereupon one of the officers opened the back door, took the Lozenge in his arms, gave him an enormous kiss on the cheek, popped him back onto the front seat and fastened his belt. 'You have a beautiful son,' they said. 'Look after him'. And waved us off, again with no fine.

Dr Lozenge

J has gone back to Al Najah University in Nablus on the West Bank, to continue his intense Arabic studies, so the boys and I are on our own once more, feeling the absence of the auntie and uncle somewhat, not to mention J.

Our merry morning routine has begun again, trying to get the dwarves to find a balance between a 5.30 and a 7.30am wake up. Too early and we're all half baked by the time the diminutive school bus arrives, too late and the little orange cube on wheels is beeping impatiently on the road outside, while I try and shoehorn the Lozenge's feet into shoes which he doesn't want to wear after 6 months in Crocs, and manually force reluctant arms and legs into school uniform. Meanwhile Rashimi normally makes an escape and we find him half way down the stairwell in nothing but a nappy, on his way to greet the bus himself. But the weather is cooler now, and disco dressing and all this caper is not so fever inducing as it was in 40 degrees.

I have mountains of work. All  exciting stuff, but the mountains loom higher in the mornings when my mind becomes a flip chart, whisking between pages full of ideas, questions and things I need to just knuckle down to. When auntie R and uncle H were staying we were giggling about my den which is a positive pastiche of motivational slogans on coloured pieces of card. So necessary are they in my lone-woman freelance life, that I often find myself vocally spitting out new ones, which they of course picked up on while we ate a halloumi panini on their last day here. It's all about creating a life in which you can thrive not just survive. I'll never live that one down.

But the difference between thriving and surviving is never more apparent when talking to young girls in Za'atari camp as I've been doing over the last few weeks, and have just finished editing another photo film for UNICEF about a sixteen year old who refused to let her father make her marry, and to allow her to continue her education instead. She won her battle, and with it the same one for her younger sister. When they saw the film, apart from wanting their real names changed to other ones which took me another half a day of editing, they liked it so much, that they said they wanted to show it around the camp and beyond to encourage other families to make the same decision they had - and try to break this cycle of marrying girls off so early. Although when we spoke to the father, the full financial implication of fending for even a small family, makes you understand a little better why these fathers might do it. And in these parts, you receive money for a daughter, and there are marriage brokers a dozen in the camp, wheeling and dealing with young girls' lives for a fee.

But I was relieved they liked the film because it's always the most nerve-inducing part when you have to show the subjects how you've portrayed them.

The Lozenge is busy planning his future also. This morning he turned up at the breakfast table in nothing but a doctor's coat and navy blue face mask. Through the acrylic he said: 'I'm off the Awabic Medicine centre Mummy. Do I look like a nice doctor in my coat?' Over a first slurp of coffee I agreed that if he were a doctor, I'd want to be ill all of the time (sort of).

His school sent a note about Halloween next week. Since we're in an Arab country they explained, they don't want typical Halloween costumes, but: "We would be most obliged if all children could participate and come to school dressed in Arabic costume. All staff and teachers will join in."

Judging by their surprise at the Lozenge's alternating bright pink and red nails he had last week after a solo-session with my varnish collection, perhaps he could go as a belly dancer. But either way, it'll be an easier day to dress him, whether he's the Lozenge of Arabia or Salome's sidekick.

Eid ul Adha and a visitation

The festival of Eid happened with better timing than we could have planned: in conjunction with a visit from auntie Rosie and uncle 'Aweeeeee!' as Rashimi shrieked all week to his new pin up, who for the first time wasn't female.

The first morning of the Lozenge's Eid holiday week off school got off to a tenuous start after not enough sleep. The whining had reached such a level by 8.30am that I threatened to the Lozenge, that if he didn't make a more pleasant noise, I would call the school bus and get it to come round. I agree - it was mean. But I never use empty threats, and boy did this one work. I could see J smirking, if a little shocked, back of set through the doorway.

Luckily the Glammy was working the first day of the week, and whisked the Lozenge off on a date to see: 'Cloudy, with a chance of meatballs' in the cinema while Rashimi slept, and I battled with another deadline before the arrival of the beloved auntie and uncle.

As I waited to collect them, a Jordanian woman in traditional robes ululated (like an Arab yodel really) loudly when her sons appeared in arrivals. It was such a wonderful desert sound, in stark contrast with the sparkling new airport. And I knew that in my stomach, the same sound was lurking somewhere as I waited happily for our family members to arrive. She made the joyful noise for all of us there.

And the week was as full of happiness.

Petra revisited.

Wadi Rum, and the remnants of T.E.Lawrence's presence, visited for the first time in all of our cases.

Some very friendly, and rather thirsty camels who drank mineral water out of our bottles.

And a night spent with a Bedu family, where we ate chicken cooked in the ground, drank velvety red wine (B.Y.O I hasten to add) from tiny glass tea cups under the full moon, and spoke to them about the concept of taking more than one wife. One man said: 'I think I will take a non-Arab wife next. I like the idea of having an apple after a tomato.' And about childhood spent in that awesome expanse of red desert. 'I wouldn't have changed it for the world,' said our host. 'I know every rock and every stone.'

His children are learning about the world the same way. 

Million Dollar Dress

A stylish young girl returning from school in Za'atari camp.

Miss Girl

A young Syrian refugee in Irbid, north of Amman. She followed me around until I took her picture. I can't believe I might not have.

Beauty in the eyes

In Arabic if you say something is beautiful, often someone might respond: 'Your eyes are beautiful', in the sense that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

I met these three women in an infant and child feeding centre in Za'atari camp. They didn't want to show their faces for my camera but I don't think any tenderness is lost as a result.

Unicef Ireland campaign

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10151870896703350&set=pb.81357518349.-2207520000.1381321218.&type=3&theater

My pictures used for the campaign. The little girl on the swing may never know she was the face of it...

Diary of a school bag

http://childrenofsyria.info/2013/10/08/journey-of-a-schoolbag-in-zaatari/

A bake off and a little party

The alarm went off at 6am. It makes a sort of rainforest noise, which is not that different from the normal daily noises that emanate from our household, the main difference being that you can at least switch the alarm off. J and I catapulted into action and by 7am I had baked 24 blueberry muffins for the Lozenge to take to school as is the custom on a birthday. May Betty Crocker be praised. I don't think anyone noticed, and a fresh blueberry here costs approximately 50p a berry so Betty's mix was better value and a lot quicker.

Rashimi had a lie in after a later night than usual. I asked him if he'd had a nice lie in when I went in and he responded with: 'Rrrrraaaaaar!' I think he'd mistaken it for a li on.

He had breakfast on his own with me which must have been rather boring as he exclaimed: 'Lo Lo. Miss. Lo Lo. Miss. Daddy. Miss. Daddy. Miss.' I didn't take it personally since it's nice when other members of the family like each other. 

Fortunately the Glammy was here by 9 and they skipped off together and allowed me to begin the real bake off (the 6am was a mere dry run) for the party that afternoon. I was fairly pleased with the results and for once the Jordanian flour didn't play up. 

The Kinks were the most perfect soundtrack to my day - the first day in 7 I'd been in the house. 'Don't forget to dance. Don't forget to smile. Don't forget to dance,' sang the Kinks. And I did smile as I remembered Mohammad the professor's comment from the day before: 'For a careerist, you're actually quite thoughtful,' as I helped him wash up the plates after our picnic.

Poor J got stuck in a bus in nose to tail traffic for two hours but he made it back by 4.15 and over the next four hours we received a steady trickle of people from 70 to 1.5 years old who have made our time here in this city meaningful and fun. Countries represented were: Jordan, Palestine, Egypt, Syria, Iran, Sri Lanka, Germany, Holland and the UK. Rashimi scuttled around after me calling: 'Chewwweeeee!' and trying to pinch them all from the top of the cake. No tantrums and no talk of presents = a success in my book. The Lozenge was still holding his helium balloons when his head hit the pillow. 

By 8.30pm the balloons had reached bed level. I think helium they use here is imitation. And the Lozenge and Rashimi had eaten so much cake that....well, you can imagine, can't you. Let's just say, the Romans would have been impressed. Though Rashimi and the Lozenge didn't begin eating again until mid day the next day. 

I Detol-ed the house the following morning and packed my camera bags for another trip to Za'atari, wishing I could have made more cakes to take with me.

A new camera assistant and a farmer in the Jordan valley

On Saturday J and I went on a working outing to interview and film Abu Ahmad, a farmer in the Jordan valley, now in his 80's, who was evicted from Bersheeba in southern Palestine during the Nakba of 1948.  We went with the wonderful professor from Jordan University, also Palestinian, who was our introduction. Although my work and J's work overlaps at times, we've never actually worked together before, and it was fun to be in the back of Mohammad's antique Mercedes with all my camera kit piled around us, winding our way down towards the Dead Sea, the temperature creeping steadily higher as we descended. And I was aware of the luxury of having a trusted person with me to help me put up my tripod, translate things into real Arabic for Abu Ahmad, ask the odd question during the interview and give me a different take on things.

We had a fascinating time talking to Abu Ahmad about his memories of Palestine in the 1930s, of his days as a young boy, working with camels and other livestock, before their eviction in 1948 and their arrival in Jordan on the back of a truck. It was here in the Jordan valley where they began life again. He's been farming ever since, in a very different way, since he has no livestock here. He was a natural raconteur and unfazed by the camera - his gaze direct and unflinching, and enormous hands and feet from a lifetime of manual labour. He cried when he told us of his longing to return home. 70 years after he left, the memories still as clear as they were when he was a young boy. 'I have visions of my home sometimes when I pray,' he said. And almost on cue, the muezzin started calling and Abu Ahmad departed to the mosque for an hour.

Mohammad had brought us all a picnic lunch of 2 roast chickens and tomatoes, basil and grapes from his garden, and after a couple more hours of taking photographs and asking questions, we returned to Amman. On our way into town I managed to convince J to jump out and do some of the Lozenge's party shopping for his 4th birthday the following day - and after 2 hours in various shops we were standing in the street with 2 backpacks of camera kit, a tripod, 4 large bags of party shopping and 12 helium balloons. It may have been at this point that my camera assistant doubted his decision to accompany me on a work trip. But we managed to coerce a taxi into taking us home and only one of the balloons popped en route. 

The dwarves went into a frenzy over Mohammad's grapes which were all dusty colours, shapes and sizes, and tasted like nectar. Rashimi now calls: 'gaaaaaaaAAAAAPEEEE!' whenever he wanders by the fridge. Mohammad also gave us an armful of branches of basil which smell like nothing you could find on a shelf in a shop anywhere in the world. A fragrant memory of a special day with two 80-something-year-old men with tales to tell.

Preserving childhood

Last week in Za'atari, one of the team who knows the place well, helped me clamber on top of one of the caravans to get wide shots of the camp which has quadrupled in size since this time last year. I squinted into the sunlight, tentatively shifting my body around to see the full white, blue and sandy brown 360 degree view. The rows and rows of dusty tents and caravans house over 120,000 people now, and while there's physical capacity for more, the struggle to provide for everyone - from water and school books to health and psychological care, becomes only more acute. And now the stifling heat of summer is over, and the bitter winter months approach.

Spending 5 days filming and taking photographs with UNICEF allowed a glimpse of what goes on behind the scenes. We saw groups of volunteers packing up rucksacks full of school kit; we met young midwives helping mothers feed their newborns; and a young Jordanian psychologist (the only one in the camp) who is helping as many children as she can, come to terms with what they've seen, heard and experienced, and enable them to grasp back what might otherwise be a stolen childhood. Behind every white canvas there is a catalogue of stories, and behind every face, a mire of confusion, frustration and pain.

But despite all this, there are inevitably always tales of hope. And we spent two of the days gathering material for a story about an inspiring young girl of 15 years old, the oldest in the family, who has courageously refused to let her father marry her off, at least until she's finished her education. She gave a very succinct interview and explained her reasons for not wanting to get married: the danger of  bearing children so early; the lack of maturity to deal with sharing life with a man; and the fact that she'd miss out on the rest of her school days. Her mother sat calmly beside her nodding, and in her own interview reaffirmed her daughter's views. Then we went back to their caravan to interview the father - a friendly man with twinkly eyes, who explained that he couldn't go against his daughter's wishes. Though for a manual labourer by trade, who's had no work for 2 years, a marriage of a daughter would have alleviated many a financial burden. Instead, his wife cleans one of the children's play zones in the camp, and the family scrapes a living with this tiny income. 

The girl's name is Anwaar which is the Arabic plural for Nur, meaning 'light'. She has a sister a few years younger, and I could see how Anwaar is indeed lighting the way for her family, as she tries to help them see sense in her decision. If they honour her choice, she'll be paving the way for her little sister too.

The following day we spent time in Irbid, north of Amman, and found two twin girls who live with their parents and three other siblings in a tiny flat on the fifth floor of a filthy apartment block. There is not one refugee family I've visited who hasn't made the best of the resources they have. Not one apartment I've seen which is disorganised or dirty, and not one place I've been where I haven't been offered food and drink. This family was no exception. The father, an engineer by trade, though also out of work, (Syrians are not allowed to get work permits in Jordan) was obviously well educated and spoke quite good English. He explained how they had fled the Ba'ba Amr district of Homs (like Fatima who I made another film about) while the town was being torn to shreds. As he sat with a twin on each knee, and his son curled up on the mattress beside them, he told us how he was worried about what his 12 year old daughter had seen in the streets of their hometown before their escape. 'People were fighting with their hands', he said, 'and she saw lots of people have their throats cut and fall into the gutter with her own eyes. My brothers and father also died in this way. I don't know how to shield her from these memories. She now has bad stomach pains, and I don't have the money to take her to the doctor.'

We gave him the money for the doctor and sat quietly in the room watching as he read an English text book to the twins, making them repeat the foreign words after his example. 'Where is your aunt?' 'My aunt is in Amman' he read from the book. 'Where is your aunt? My aunt is in Amman,' they repeated. 'Where is your uncle? My uncle is in Irbid...'Where is your cousin? My cousin is in Mafraq' and so on. 

If only these answers were as simple in real life. But he, like so many other Syrian parents, is valiantly trying to preserve the childhoods of his offspring, under threat of being lost in the waves of tragedy, like the other millions inside Syria and elsewhere in this region.

Others and one's own

After a short-lived lull at breakfast together on Monday the week turned into one of those ones where you wonder how you managed to plan as much for 7 days without thinking it might be an impossibility. I spent four days taking photographs and filming in Za'atari camp and a town north of Amman called Irbid which has one of the largest populations of Syrian refugees of all the host communities in Jordan. I left home every morning at 7.30am, returning at 7pm, and headed straight to my computer to transfer all the files, edit and send to Unicef. St Grace, the Glammy and J, between them shared all the moments and jobs I would normally be doing.

Stepping out into the cool morning air with a huge backpack of camera kit and tripod felt freeing on the one hand, although a wrench leaving the dwarves and our little morning rituals behind. Every morning without fail, Rashimi and St Grace were in situ at the window, waving at me from our 2nd floor window until I rounded the corner and set off in search of a taxi.

Over the three days I worked with a fantastic team from Ireland, who were as dedicated, thoughtful and professional as anyone I've worked with. We threw ourselves at it, and with any luck will have gathered the material for a hard hitting campaign in Ireland that will raise lots of money for the likes of the hundreds of men, women and children who we interviewed, filmed and photographed over the week.

Every evening I returned covered in dust to a bundle of boy energy, with a few minutes to bundle them into bed with a story, my mind still rolling over the hundreds of faces and thousands of words that filtered into my mind like a flick-book. Each night I lay in a stew wondering if I was being irresponsible taking on this much, while knowing that I couldn't help but get amongst it, being here, right now. But the balance of being useful to one's own and useful to others, is as ever precarious and uncomfortable.

Here are some of the others.

Spoonfuls of honey

The final weekend before J returned to us seemed like an eternity but we stuffed it full of as many adventures as we could. One of these was to visit a little souk in the old town where there's a man who sells honey comb. The dwarves love it, mostly because there are some stunt bees at work in a glass fronted comb, like a bee-equivalent of a fish tank, and even more mostly because the rotund and homely stall owner gives them tiny plastic spoonfuls of honey to taste. So after about 6 of those each, they careered up and down the alley veering dangerously close to Jordanian ceramics displays until we reached the end of the road. Then we were given some samples of equally sweet guava and banana smoothies. Rashimi has been nicknamed 'tetta' by the Glammy, which means 'Grandma' in colloquial Arabic. This is because he always wants to find a place to sit down and have a drink and a biscuit at any available opportunity. He shrieks: 'Sit 'eeeeeere! Sit 'eeeeere!' until we sit and produce a snack. But the drink is often a bit too cold, and the biscuit a little too crunchy, for his sensitive teeth. So tetta the Lozenge and I sat on little stools in the market and watched the world go by.

We headed back home along the busy main road that dissects Amman, and from the back of the car I heard wails of 'COC! COC!' from Rashimi. He'd opened the electric window and lobbed one of his Crocs onto the dual carriageway. There's not much you can say to a nearly 2 year old when they get unruly. It doesn't mean much to Rashimi that a pair of Crocs in his size here in Amman costs £65, if you can even find them. But we had a little chat when we got back home and I asked him what had happened. 'Window.' 'Woad,' he said, with a knowing look.

Sunday dawned, which is the equivalent of a Monday in the UK, and I spent the day filming in the gallery where I'm making the documentary. It was very hot but I was collected and dropped in a sleek Mercedes, and often turned around to find a little glass of mint tea or water perched on a wall on a tray near to where I was filming, delivered silently by one of the loyal staff there. It's a different experience from filming in Za'atari camp. But there is so much to the place, and so much to get to know and understand, that I find myself in wonder and slight awe at the prospect of doing it justice with a film.

The Mercedes dropped me home and I crashed back to earth as I climbed back into the red hot Chevy and paced it to the Lozenge's school where I wanted to meet his teachers. I walked in the tiny green gate and heard peals of familiar laughter coming from the pre-tennis class with 'Coach Mohammed'. There was the Lozenge wielding a plastic racket and swiping it in vain at a huge inflatable ball. I watched surreptitiously from behind the wall as he and the six others formed a queue, the Lozenge at the back, sniffing the hair of the boy in front in a feral fashion. Then they all filed out, and I saw his little friend Alejandra from Spain being met by her mother too. I asked him if he wanted to ask Alejandra to play one day and he said yes, he would, but added: 'Mummy that ith not her name. Her proper name is Aleeee-han-drop, okay?'

J arrived at about 1am on Monday morning and I felt the atmosphere in the house warm up, as it always does when all 4 of us are here in this city, just getting on with doing our thing independently and together.