It's not just about the stones

'It's not just about the stones, it's about the people that make the history in the place, and about the people who are making the history for the future.' This is one of the lines from the founder of the gallery I'm making the documentary about. Someone was on my side, somewhere, and I managed to finish a first cut of the film to show her before we leave here tomorrow. We sat in one of the gallery's beautiful rooms as we watched the film together - she smoking Montecristo cigarillos, I feeling the heat, as for 40 whole minutes I wondered what on earth she was thinking. Editing a documentary feels like doing a jigsaw with no pattern to follow. No one will ever know about the mille feuille stack of decisions that goes into making it - and will judge it entirely differently. But the reaction was as good as it could have been, and after I've made a few nips and tucks we hope to show it here soon.

And she's right. This country is full of extraordinary stones - from Petra to the Byzantine mosaics and hand-hewn sandstone blocks that form that basis of much of the building here, but it's really not just about them, I thought, as the Lozenge, Rashimi, J and I spent our last couple of days together in this city which has only felt like home because of these rock like humans who have taken us on as their own.

Sayyad the Egyptian janitor of the building is back from his 2 month visit to his family. He will not return hime for another 2 years. J and I were eating lasagne at the kitchen table yesterday mid-packing, when he popped up to say hello. After much encouragement he agreed to have lunch with us, and we heard about his children in Egypt and how every dinar he earns in Jordan, which can't be much more than £150 per month, goes towards their education. His own country is in relative turmoil, but even as a staunch Muslim himself, he has more faith in the military than Morsi's Muslim Brotherhood. He has been like a surrogate uncle to the dwarves over this year, and we will miss him. I noticed yesterday that for the first time, he called me by my name, not 'Madam' or 'Umm Laurence'.

The Glammy popped around to have tea and to give the dwarves a bath. She isn't happy in her new job and doesn't know what she wants to do with her life, but she was the one who laid our stepping stones here and I will never forget that.

The packers have been and gone and the flat has been peeled from the inside removing all trace of colour. We are once again surrounded by eternal, chick pea beige.

Our last day seemed to dovetail in a miraculous way under a huge blue sky with time to spend with so many quality people. We escaped the beige, and went first to the gallery to see Suha, the founder, and some friends, to say goodbye, and for J to look at the exhibition Hiwar:Conversations which forms part of the documentary. The dwarves scuttled about with their little friend, the daughter of the artistic director and soaked each other in water from the fountains around the grounds. From there we went to the Duke's for lunch. Wondering what to give a man and his wife who have adopted us as extra family this year, I got them a mini iPod and charged it full of tunes that I knew he liked after I found him shimmying around to some Koffi Olomide one evening at our flat.  He presented us with a Haitian painting which says everything that the 1,500 tracks on his new iPod say about living life, just like this little thing which he has hanging in the bathroom:

It was a happy and golden afternoon.

The dwarves ate lots of cake

and shimmied to his new tracks.

Rashimi had a 2 hour sleep and the Lozenge played in the sawdust in his yard of installations while J and I had lunch with the Duke, and chatted over mounds of makhlubeh to one of his friends, a professional Arabic calligrapher who wrote on the back of the Haitian painting for us.

We drove back home through the dusk via the same ice cream parlour where the dwarves had their tea on our first night in Amman, feeling so grateful for the discoveries of this year which back then we had no idea were in store.

There is nothing that compares to being accepted by wonderful people in a strange land.

Twilight in Middle East lite

Often, the ending of a chapter can feel like twilight. As you live those last few days and hours in a situation before a change, there is an attractive glow about things similar to the magic hour before dusk. You feel more relaxed about the moments that didn't work out; nostalgic about those that did. Our last week here has been surrounded in that golden light, and although moving house is always frenetic, there has been a cushion of calm under our caravan which is creaking into action once again after what feels like a very short year. This wonderful country has many, many odds stacking up against it, yet it has offered us as many wonderful discoveries, and provided us with equal numbers of new friends - many twice our age - but friends nonetheless. Someone once described Jordan to me as 'Middle East lite', and if it is that, then it has been a useful and gentle introduction to this region where we hope we manage stay for a few years yet.

Bouncing on top of, and pulling all the feathers out of, our cushion of calm, have been the effervescent dwarves. I read a great idiom this week. 'When you have one son you become a parent, and when you have two sons you become a referee.' There have been innumberable moments this week where St Grace and I have needed our blue UN peacekeeping berets as the Lozenge and Rashimi lock horns. Like a disfunctional couple they fluctuate between giggling and rolling around on the floor entangled in each other to fighting shaggy head to shaggy head. I think many times a day, that I'm not qualified for this role. It was not one I signed up for. And worse, there are two types of what feels like red noise which continue all day: the decibels of Sheikh Rashimi and the unrelenting banter from the Lozenge: Whenarewegoingtothenewhouthe, Mummy?Whenarewegoingtothenewhouthe,Mummy? Mummy?MummyMummyMUMMYMUUUUMMMMY!!!WashimiithnotanithebrotherWashimiithweeeallynotanithebrother.Idon'tlikeWashimianymore.CanIhavethomemilk.Iwantmilk.No,Iwantjooth.Mummy,Iwantjooth.Mummy,Mummy,Mummy,MUMMMMYYYY!Canwemakeapinatalikeyousaidwecouldlastnight.Orifwedon'tmakeapinatacanwemakeacake.Ifwanttomakeanowangecake.Mummy.Iwantomakeanowangecake.Mummy.Mummy.MUMMY.MuMMMMMMEEEEEEEEE!'

Rashimi says no so much that I have rekindled the 'no song' which emerged when the Lozenge was also 2.2 years old. It involves singing no,no,no,no,no,no,no,no,no to the tune of Beethoven's 5th Symphony, until you get a smirk. But this week it has not been working, though I have started to hide a smile first, when I say let's brush our teeth, and he replies:'NO! I'm bizzy.' Or, in answer to a suggestion to go into the kitchen/bedroom/into the car,  Rashimi replies: 'NO! Not goin' there. Goin' Jooslem.'

If only either of the dwarves understood the significance those two words, 'Goin' Jooslem' have for billions of people on the planet. 

January birdsong

You know you're getting older when the card is more important than the present, and you start to notice birds. The sky has been an eternal blue for the last few weeks, and every morning at 6.30am the birds are in full song. You wouldn't know it was January. The Duke is worried about the lack of rain. Normally his cows are eating their way through shoots of new grass now, but he is having to feed them to keep them going through this January drought.

On this day, January 24th, one year ago, J, the dwarves and I arrived in Amman and began our lives here. After such a short time we barely know anything different. It has become home, yet in 7 days will cease to be so. We've been visiting many of our usual haunts for the last time. The Bird Garden where we spent many a happy hour looking at the crazy chickens, feeding the rabbit with a limp carrot or digging in the litter infested sand. We are greeted by many families when we go there now - mostly by Jordanian children who always recognise the Lozenge and Rashimi; the supermarket, where this morning, Rashimi went around kissing all the head scarfed, well made up ladies at the check out which earned him a swiss roll; and the Children's Museum which has become like a second home and will be sorely missed.

We've had some fun evenings with Jordanian friends, who will also be much missed. Many of them are Palestinian originally. In some ways I feel a little awkward going to make a home in their country where so many of them cannot or would not ever live. One friend admitted to me the other day, in relation to the Israel-Palestine situation: 'It's our fault. Not theirs. If we had stuck together and brought out some good leaders, we wouldn't be in this mess.' And another friend suggested that living there would be a lot less polarised, and more tolerant than we could ever imagine looking from this side.

Having been feverishly working on the documentary in my den trying to get a first edit together to show before we leave, my computer has been feeling the pace. After a few hours each day, half the screen turns blue, purple and green and I'm forced to switch off and let it recover for a few hours before beginning again. It's like going for a run with someone who's rather unfit, and waiting for them to catch up. In some respects it's probably good as it stops me tripping over myself and going too fast. Unfortunately, due to similar treatment from impatient dwarf digits, the ipad has also turned up its toes. The dwarves and technology are a fatal combination, and often when my back is turned, they break into my den…

Oh no. An edit assistant.

J and I have been desperately sad this week, after the Taverne du Liban, the Lebanese restaurant in Kabul, was destroyed in a Taliban attack and the owner, Kamal, killed along with many others. It was one of the few places we could to go for dinner during our 2 years in Afghanistan. Kamal created such a relaxed atmosphere and was the heart and soul of the place - always laughing and joking and offering double helpings of chocolate cake to take away. It was a haven for so many people in the city - day and night. And was supposedly one of the securest. His is another footprint in the dust. He will be remembered by thousands who knew and loved him.

One week til we leave and the Lozenge is eternally gearing up. Yesterday morning he scribbled a 'letter' of little squiggles in felt tip pen and dictated as he wrote:

"Dear new houthe. We can't wait to thee you thoon on the 55th day of January. From Friday afternoon. In ten days. All my teddies and imaginawy fwiendth are coming. And so is Grathe. And God. And Noah. Washimi and I are excited to see you. To the next mission. Love from me."

Careers in high politics, and sawdust and glue

J and I re-watched the cultural critic, academic and writer, Edward Said's last interview over three nights this week. It's nearly 3 hours long, and although just a one-on-one interview with no other visuals than the two people talking - is completely engaging. It goes to show how if the content is gripping, you really don't need fancy images to keep your attention - just like good radio which still has to be the best, and least cheat-able medium.

It's about 10 years since we last watched the film, yet everything he says seems even more current now. In the way that he seems to predict the Arab Spring, and the fact that, blessed with a huge brain and after a lifetime of intellectual study, Said seems only to add rational and carefully considered observations to the Palestine dialogue, rather than angry ones. Because he was interviewed only a year before his death, from leukaemia, from which he suffered for the last decade of his life, there is also an intriguing contrast between his drawn and sallow complexion and this vital spark that seems to come from deep within his eyes and soul - unhindered by the disease. Perhaps even spurred on by it.

Edward Said was born in 1935, and tragically died a decade ago.

This week I had the privilege of interviewing two other Palestinians from around this vintage.

The first was Abdul, a soldier/activist/artist, born in 1933, in Dawaymeh, near Hebron on the West Bank, who has lived between Lebanon, Syria and Jordan since 1948.

One of the drivers from the gallery escorted me up the hill, which overlooks the Citadel, to his house. Abdul emerged, in a black wooly hat, tracksuit bottoms and thick glasses and welcomed me in. His place is perched among a stack of brown box-shaped houses that cover the whole of the hill. It's the kind of mud house you see all over the world. The type that never survives a landslide or earthquake, yet when viewed from afar, or from up close, has a certain appeal - at least to look at. This one was no different, and he has fashioned his studio, office and living quarters from three little box houses on the slope in his walled compound, slung with washing lines and vines.

Abdul started making art when he was 37, when he was still working for the Jordanian air force as an electrical engineer. His work is all made entirely from sawdust and glue, and although he hasn't been able to work for the past year due to ill health, he has produced an enormous amount of painted reliefs of the Palestinian struggle and much else, during the 45 years he has worked. One of his main muses has been the Palestinian woman, and the role she has played in the cultural survival of his homeland. 'She is earth, she is everything. Without her, the man is nothing,' he said. And looking around at the painted curves of bodies and breasts crammed into the tiny rooms, I could see he had created much to prove this point. Were it not for a rather unruly, elderly pair of hands, I might have stayed in his company a little longer. But as I made for the exit after a couple of hours, I forgave him for the fact that perhaps, having not been able to work for the past year, he had a severe case of itchy hands. And despite this, his collection was an impressive feat for an untrained artist: all of it created out of material he knew he'd be able to find anywhere. 'When I wanted to start creating my art, he said, I had a flashback to my youth when I watched a furniture restorer fill holes with sawdust and glue. I knew I'd be able to find sawdust and glue anywhere - even in refugee camps - so I'd found my material. For me, my art has been my gun.'

Later this week, I interviewed a 91 year old, born in Jerusalem, now a resident of Amman. I was faintly nervous and roped J into preparing some questions with me since his extensive and impressive career includes: Chief newscaster of the Palestine Broadcasting Service; Jordanian Minister of Foreign Relations; Jordanian Ambassador to Egypt, Italy, Austria and and Switzerland; Political advisor to King Hussein of Jordan; President of the UN Security Council and Permanent Representative to the United Nations. Gulp.

I arrived at his apartement block with all my camera and sound kit and went up in the lift to the sixth floor. The door opened to a cosily scruffy apartment with interesting books, rugs and furniture, with plate glass windows looking out east to the very edge of the city. Hazem sprung from his chair and shook me warmly by the hand, introducing his wife and son to me who were sitting with him. Had I seen him on the street I'd have believed he was 75, at the most. 'Last time I was interviewed, it was by the BBC and it took a crew of 10. Now look at what technology has enabled!' he marvelled, looking at my small pile of kit.

In perfect English with only a slight accent, he began his tale and what a tale it was. He spoke about his schooling at Victoria College in Alexandria and The American University in Beirut. He would have gone to Cambridge had World War Two not broken out the week he was due to start. He told me about his first job in Jerusalem with the Palestine Broadcasting Service and how he narrowly escaped death as he fled with a colleague from Jerusalem to Ramallah in 1948, when both the car ahead and behind, were shot at and the drivers killed.

Not only has his own life been notable, he happens to come from a family that in the 7th century were nominated as the guardians of the key to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. It was thought that if a Muslim family held the key, it would prevent clashes among rival Christian sects for control of the church. The system must have worked, and his family still holds the key - a symbol of tolerance, which has given his family a substantial role in Christian activities in Jerusalem.

After 2 hours, his wife came back into the room with lentil soup, bread and beetroot drizzled with olive oil, on a tray. She is a mere 84, and still a beautiful woman with warm blue eyes and a graceful stature. She apologised that her maid was away, although admitted she liked the house being entirely her domain once more.

They chatted a bit between themselves, Hazem having to raise his voice a little bit for his wife who is hard of hearing. The love between them still visible, the sense of humour and positive spirit one apparent reason for their spiritual and physical survival.

'I swim twice a week, and I have always been an optimist,' Hazem chuckled. 'That's probably why I'm still alive.'

War time cupboard planning, and January narcissi

J has been teasing me that I'm in war time mode. Such is the strategic fridge and cupboard emptying and careful partial refilling until we leave, exactly 2 weeks tomorrow. Living here in a country where there's no recycling, J and I fear and loathe, even more, the idea of waste. We were explaining the concept of landfill to  the Lozenge one morning who looked suitably horrified, and suggested we should just keep all our rubbish instead.

Having predicted a tense few weeks, I've been pleasantly surprised. There have been many calm moments between the Lozenge's equally strategic packing moments, where I get to watch the dwarves sitting happily at the kitchen table stamping shapes out of playdoh, chatting and singing to themselves. This morning there was a particularly spectacular duet - with Rashimi on a monotone twinkle twinkle little star, and the Lozenge accompanying with a shrill old Macdonald.

I had an Arabic class with my wonderful tutor. He's about 25, and is one of those people with the gift for teaching. He doesn't say a word to me in English for the whole class, and after he's repeated a sentence I don't understand a few times in a different way, he somehow always manages to make me understand. He arrives at 5.30pm and I'm exhausted. He leaves at 7pm and I'm full of beans. I'm sad to be losing him. Rashimi still speaks quite a few Arabic words in his daily negotiations, such as: 'Ana! Ana! Ana! do it.' (I, I, I do it), or Saha! when someone sneezes. We miss the Glammy's continuous Arabic chat, as well as so many other things.

They have both slept until 8am most mornings this week, allowing J and I to relive our pre-dwarf mornings and spend an hour with each other at the same kitchen table before it gets covered in porridge and jam.

In between times, I've been editing away in my little den - marvelling at the latest editing software, but trying to make myself slow down and take regular breaks so I do it all properly. It's strangely compulsive. Occasionally the situation is taken out of my hands, such as 2 afternoons ago when there was an abrupt power cut and both my hard drives and computer went blink, blink, capOW! (And this is even before the dwarves come bounding in making everything do the same on a normal afternoon). But it gave me 2 hours to go off and make a bit of a dent in the freezer stash by making bolognese sauce for the dwarves' tea, which they almost ate in candle light before everything pinged back on again. I raced to my computer to see how much material I'd lost. Miraculously, nothing.

I've been out and about filming and interviewing for 3 days this week too. I had spotted that Wednesday was going to be a good'n and I was not wrong. The cool blue sky reached the length and breadth of Amman. I started my day at the Citadel getting some general shots of the city, and spent the rest of the day at the gallery filming from 11am until 7pm. Everything seemed to be shining, and happy to be out - from the January oranges and lemons to the little clumps of narcissi, only about 4 months ahead of the ones in Scotland. I finished the day on a roof opposite the gallery, overlooking the East of the city in the darkness, with a full moon above my head.

St Anthony

The Lozenge has had his last day at school and I'm a bit concerned about surviving the next three weeks, because he can't stop packing.

And every day the stash gets bigger…

On Tuesday evening we were making cheese biscuits for his last day of school's 'sharing' party. But we couldn't find the butter. I looked in the fridge, wondering to myself how we could have gone through 5 pats since the weekend. Then I started to think uncharitable thoughts about St Grace's storage habits.

A few minutes later, the Lozenge came skipping through in nothing but his stripy y-fronts. 'Mummy, here'th the butter,' he chirped, handing me the 5 pats of slightly squishy butter. 'I put them in my wolling thootcathe for when we go to the new houthe.' Next to the butter in the rolling suitcase were a few pairs of my socks, the whisk and the remote control for the television I'd been combing the house for the night before.

On Thursday St Grace took the dwarves into her church near the centre of town to light some candles.

And I think it's the moment to build a shrine to St Anthony in the flat, before I lose my mind, as well.

Ant colonies and carbonised lentils

J gave me a beautiful pair of earrings for Christmas, designed by a Jordanian jeweller friend of ours. The Arabic calligraphy reads: 'Tawakalt ala AIlah: I put my faith in the hands of God.'

On Christmas day, Queen Rania of Jordan posted a photograph on her Facebook page of a Muslim religious leader here in Jordan, offering Christmas wishes and shaking the hand of a priest in central Amman, standing in front of a giant tree. Next to the photo she wrote: 'This is Jordan, and God willing, this is how it always will be. Merry Christmas.'

In a recent issue of Prospect, the former Bishop of Rochester, Michael Nazir-Ali, warns about the status of Christians in this region, and increasing persecution. Before the beginning of Islam in the 7th Century, nearly all of the Arab world, including North Africa, was Christian, with the great Christian cities including Damascus, Alexandria, Edessa and Constantinople. And after Islam the region's three main religions were as they are today - Jewish, Muslim and Christian. But the creation of the state of Israel in 1948, as well as the 1967 and 1973 wars, meant that many Jewish communities moved from other parts of the region to settle in Israel, leaving Christians as one of the only minorities in countries such as Egypt, Iraq and Syria. And since the increase of fundamentalist Islam (which began in the 1950s), it is chilling to read of attacks on churches in Egypt and their forcible conversion into mosques, as well as the murder of clergy in Iraq and Syria; not to mention the 'fitna' (division) between Sunni and Shia which seems to know no limits, and means that cities like Falluja are once more in the headlines, intrinsically linked to events in Syria, through the same merciless fault lines.

At our new year's eve party I had an interesting conversation with an Egyptian and a Brit about the need for leaders in this region, particularly in regard to Palestine. With the death of Mandela still fresh in the news, we cited him as an example. 'There is no hope for Palestine,' said the Egyptian. 'It's far too late for change, and what would an Arab Mandela be able to achieve after all this strife?'  The Brit disagreed. 'Who would have thought', he said, 'that Mandela would have achieved as much as he did, so late on in the apartheid struggle, and so late on in his life? No one ever imagined change was possible, and look what happened.'

I've nearly finished Sarah Bakewell's book about Montaigne, and I'm reading it slowly so as not to finish it too soon. I will feel a loss without it to hand. But Montaigne saw such similar struggles - this time within Christian factions, between Protestants and Catholics. Brutal massacres and civil strife punctuated his lifetime, such as the St Bartholomew massacres in 1572, when over 10,000 people in France were slaughtered in just a week. 'There is no hostility that exceeds Christian hostility', Montaigne wrote. And rather than joining the ranks of extremists of the day, and believing that the apocalypse was coming, and that this was the will of God, he chose to follow the Stoic model: a person who behaves morally, moderates his emotions, exercises good judgement and knows how to live. While the extremists prepared for the apocalypse, Montaigne's camp preferred to think ahead to a time when the 'troubles' would be history, and to plan the building of this future world.

According to a recent Channel 4 documentary there are plenty of people in Iraq, Syria and beyond, who believe that this Sunni: Shia fitna is the beginning of the end. But who are the current day Stoics who encourage us to plan and build for when everything sooner or later calms down, which it must. But perhaps not in our lifetime.

Would we abandon our children during tempestuous teenage years just because we may not live to see what they become in their 50s? Like Montaigne, we should believe things will pass, and strive for better planning afterwards. 'Those living in the present assume things are worse than they are, because they cannot escape their local perspective.' When feeling swamped by a situation, he recommends imagining your world from a different angle or scale - as a commotion in an ant colony seen from high, high above.

On Tuesday I am interviewing a 91 year old man here in Amman, who belongs to the oldest Muslim family in Jerusalem, who in the 7th Century were nominated as guardians of the key to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre to avoid clashes between rival Christian sects for control over the church.

Last Tuesday I watched a film about the Palestinian village of Safad that lost its entire population of some 12,000 Arab inhabitants after Jewish paramilitaries took control in 1948. Before the film began I got chatting to an archaeologist, who works with her husband (also an archaeologist) between Jordan and Israel. She knows Jerusalem, Israel and the West Bank extremely well, and takes part in digs there for four months every summer. I asked her how she dealt with the civil problems there and she replied: 'I think the best bit about our kind of work is that we're pre-historians, so often we're dealing with things that we find that are from before man existed. Last year we discovered some carbonised lentils that we now know are pre-human. I have to say, that was pretty exciting.'

I get the feeling that Montaigne would have put those carbonised lentils in the same bracket as the ant colony.

Early 2014 musings

It may be a small salute to our over indulgence and 3 weeks of wall-to-wall fun, that at 7.30 this morning, the Lozenge and I watched the small orange posterior of the school bus rounding the corner of our road and out of sight….without the Lozenge aboard. 'Oh,' said he. '****,' said I. And up the stairs we went to drag the slumbering Rashimi out of his cot, and back down into the car to drive through the dense morning traffic to school. We drew up outside and the Lozenge explained: 'Washimi, this is my thcool, were I learn important thingth.' And he skipped in to his class, hanging his coat on his hook between Badr's and Hashem's, and two down from 'Brian's' (who is in fact a little Jordanian boy called Rayanne).

Rashimi and I drove back home, crossing the white metal bridge over Wadi Abdoun which divides our hill from the school's. We both looked east over to the older part of town where the sun was just beginning to emerge from behind the minarets and houses on the horizon, and I felt extreme gratitude to the Lozenge's little institution painted blue, red and yellow, with butterflies and snowmen on the windows, run by a handful of smiling Jordanian ladies. Who would have imagined that in a culture so new, and a city so far from the one where he was born, that he would find such a cosy cocoon? His last day there is this Wednesday and the wrench, for me at least, will be sizeable. For the Lozenge, I think the bigger hurdle will be tomorrow when we have to dismantle the neon and tungsten flashing Christmas tree. But thankfully J will be back from Jerusalem by then, as the diplomacy required will be as much as he has used in his career to date.

Since early December, we've had flats full of family. We rented the one below too for people to sleep in and to escape Rashimi's daytime decibels which, for all the new vocabulary, don't seem to be any more under control, and perfectly exhausting for anyone not used to spending more than 12 hours on the trot with a 2.2 year old.

The festivities went with a swing, it has to be said. The only minor hitch being my continuous memory lapse about Arab timings, meaning that our New Year's Eve party, which we'd invited everyone to attend from 8pm, began in real time at 11pm, when the final handful of friends trickled in. Uncle Duncle's cocktails, plus Prosecco, wine and everything else we bided our time with until everyone was there, and we could begin dinner, meant that even J's uncle Frank (AUNTEEEE FWANKEEEEE to Rashimi) admitted to having to lean on the door to steady himself as we greeted people. Thankfully, out of Gran Gran's food parcels, we had created a large array of smoked salmon hors d'ouvres which enabled me to remain vaguely aux oeuvres until about 3.30am on Jan 1st when we crashed into bed.

The Dead Sea beckoned on the first day of 2014, where we headed, dwarves and beloved and divine dwarf cousin in tow, to recuperate for a couple of nights. Although my memory lapse continued, and I wondered how I'd imagined that sharing a family room with Dwarf Decibel and Dwarf Demon was ever going to be a relaxing affair. But a change is as good as a…even with some pests. The only damage was the clothes brush from the wardrobe which the Lozenge insisted on carrying about with him for the whole two days including into the pool; and to poor J's Barclay card. But the views were sensational as always.

A more sobering thought in this new year, is that the level of the Dead Sea gets lower by 1 metre a year, and the River Jordan, now a mere trickle into the sea, is mostly sewage coming out of Jerusalem and West Bank settlements. Friends of the Earth say at this rate, by 2050, the sea will be a puddle the size of a couple of football pitches. And who would want to float in that given the other bit of info? But a deal to pipe water from the Red Sea has just been signed by Israeli, Jordanian and Palestinian ministers. So please let's hope it works and the sea isn't forced to live up to its name.

By last night, the Lozenge, Rashimi and I could do nothing but spend the evening in front of 'Thomas Jewwy'(Tom and Jerry in Rashimi's world) working our way through the tin of Harrods London biscuits via the Duke's wife Basma, via a Jordanian prince. They were a little stale but the shapes of Beefeaters, taxis and double deckers made up for it, at least for the boys. And it was definitely a better option for me than wondering whether to freeze left over stew or disguise it for the dwarves, or work through swathes of washing and emails.

The flat felt very empty after the last gang left, but the Lozenge is onto his next thread of the story, which is counting the days till we go to the 'new houthe'.

The problem with this game, is it makes me feel sick. I've had almost a month working out with the cooker with my little computer gathering dust, and now the pressure is on, and I'm contemplating how to edit the documentary about the gallery at least to a rough cut before we leave; film lots more footage; and squeeze in a couple of interviews with Jordanian Palestinians for the other series. ('How many dayth ith it Mummy? And can we take Tabouleh the tortoise even though she is hide-r-nating?' '25 days to go. And 24 by this time tomorrow'). The other issue is that the Lozenge has turned back into the packing dwarf again, just a year on from his last stint, meaning I can never find anything I need as it's invariably been stashed into one of his multiple suitcases.

Starting to use the editing software and look through all the files I've filmed and interviews I've done over the last few months feels a bit like looking down at a slope of powder snow having just worked out how to do up a ski boot. And the Lozenge will be on holiday from Thursday until the day we leave. And this is without considering boxes and packing, when the cards on our fridge saying: 'Bon Voyage' were only given to us a year ago as we set out for Jordan. I do have one phone-a-friend option in the form of a brilliant Jordanian editor who slaloms effortlessly around his edit suite, as I'm still snapping my heel into my proverbial ski. But I definitely don't know him well enough to tell him I'm jealous of his hairdo, and find it hard to call him all day long with…situations. But he does at least exist, and is at least in Amman. And is at least not a dwarf. Though he does have one of his own.

I'm not quite sure how I got myself into this situation, but having always left the packing til the last minute during boarding school years, this is perhaps the eternal throwback. And definitely the worst thing you can do when packing is have to unpack to get something you need out again. Right? And I can't pack the computer either.

Let's just hope the Lozenge doesn't.

Dwarf Decibel sporting a Chairman Mao pyjama and my new Nike Airs