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.
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 |
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