We awoke to a cool breeze, slightly deflated balloons dangling, and other sticky remnants of the birthday tea. Then J and I stepped into the car and drove to Jordan for a couple of days work, for once - together. The men at Jordanian customs looked at J and said: 'Oh! She's your wife?!' We drove up the winding road to Amman past jingling trucks loaded with tomatoes, and dusty lorries roaring in low gears uphill, sagging under the weight of sand coloured rocks. We listened to The Eagles trying not to spill our paper cups of scalding, muddy 'Qahueh Arabiye'.
We did our respective bits of work, then went to collect some books written by a friend, which have just been translated into Arabic. It's extremely difficult for an Arab to deliver anything from Jordan to Palestine and vice versa, so we were happy to be able to help. And it was a good excuse to see our friend Mohammad, an elderly, charming Palestinian who is Emeritus professor of English literature at Jordan University. His English is almost Edwardian, it's so classic. He's unmarried with no children, so I always try to keep domestic details at bay. Though kindly, he always asks after the dwarves.
He was telling us some interesting vignettes, so I whipped out my notebook to jot them down, only to realise my notebook had been hijacked by the little people, and there was barely a free page. I had to scribble in between sketches of dragons, dinosaurs and aliens.
Mohammad didn't seem to notice.
Then we clanked back to Jerusalem, the car loaded with pork and Pimms.
A working trip to Jordan reminded me how much you can fit into a day when the domestic creeper is not interlacing your every minute. To get the dwarves to do anything at the moment, there has to be a game involved. To get Rashimi out of his cot it's a case of: Me" 'Little piiiig, little piiiig, let me come iiiiiin.' Rashimi: 'No, no, no, by the hairth on my tiiiinny tinnn tinnn!' After about 20 minutes we have managed to insert a toothbrush through clenched teeth; another 20 and we've put on a pair of pants. ('No, I don't want my Fwiday pantth, I want my Monday oneth!') We've had to resort back to disco dressing where we dance to music and put on an item of clothing when the music stops. And it's nearing 45 degrees most days.
Though Rashimi is holding out for some rain.
We did our respective bits of work, then went to collect some books written by a friend, which have just been translated into Arabic. It's extremely difficult for an Arab to deliver anything from Jordan to Palestine and vice versa, so we were happy to be able to help. And it was a good excuse to see our friend Mohammad, an elderly, charming Palestinian who is Emeritus professor of English literature at Jordan University. His English is almost Edwardian, it's so classic. He's unmarried with no children, so I always try to keep domestic details at bay. Though kindly, he always asks after the dwarves.
He was telling us some interesting vignettes, so I whipped out my notebook to jot them down, only to realise my notebook had been hijacked by the little people, and there was barely a free page. I had to scribble in between sketches of dragons, dinosaurs and aliens.
Mohammad didn't seem to notice.
Then we clanked back to Jerusalem, the car loaded with pork and Pimms.
A working trip to Jordan reminded me how much you can fit into a day when the domestic creeper is not interlacing your every minute. To get the dwarves to do anything at the moment, there has to be a game involved. To get Rashimi out of his cot it's a case of: Me" 'Little piiiig, little piiiig, let me come iiiiiin.' Rashimi: 'No, no, no, by the hairth on my tiiiinny tinnn tinnn!' After about 20 minutes we have managed to insert a toothbrush through clenched teeth; another 20 and we've put on a pair of pants. ('No, I don't want my Fwiday pantth, I want my Monday oneth!') We've had to resort back to disco dressing where we dance to music and put on an item of clothing when the music stops. And it's nearing 45 degrees most days.
Though Rashimi is holding out for some rain.
No comments:
Post a Comment