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.
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.
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