Looking for J.Christ in Nazareth

I brought Mum and Dad back to Jerusalem with me. Not much chat on the plane as we all watched films and read books. Though I did have to do a bit of translation work between the air hostess and Mum and Dad, as they were both using their new 'noise excluding headphones' which made communication a little tricky. And I did wonder if it was a good idea for people in their later 60's to put anything over their ears which excluded even more sound. Anyway. They had a peaceful flight at least.

After a break from dwarfs, there's nothing nicer than just hanging out in a room with them and catching up. The first morning we got back, as Rashimi ate his cereal he stared into the mouth of his little rubber crocodile he's always playing with. 'Mummy, I don't want to go inside anyone'th mouth,' he said, shuddering at the look of the sharp little teeth. Life in micro. Having a 3 year old about helps you see everything differently. 'Mummy, I don't want you to die,' he continued. I wasn't sure if there was a link between the teeth and my potential departure from this life.

The dwarfs were bouncing off every flat surface when they saw us. Early mornings got earlier with the excitement of having Grandma and Grandpa in the fold. As I cranked slowly back into work mode, Mum and Dad were like our personal assistants - collecting Rashimi from school, dwarf wrangling, dwarf feeding, dwarf bathing. By the end of the first morning Dad had unblocked the drains, and fixed the un-openable front gate which had swelled with the sudden sunshine. They were in the house whenever I got back from filming and I wondered whimsically what our life would be like if we lived a little nearer them. But as Mum always says, what you lose, you gain. And at least for once in our lives we can offer both our sets of parents a change of scene unlike any other.

Last week I was filming the last of 4 films I'm making for the Eye Hospital here in Jerusalem. The final film is about a little 9 year old girl from near Ramallah in the West Bank, called Nur. Her name means 'light'. One of her eyes has a bad squint which makes the lid hang down, half closed. The other girls in her class are vile to her and call her 'maritha' - 'the sick one'. There's still a huge stigma to looking different in Arab communities. Nur won't even wear her glasses for fear of exacerbating her different-ness.

The operation was a double eye muscle surgery - one muscle in each eye. Nur arrived with her Granny at the hospital. Her Granny has not a tooth in her head, and can't walk without a stick, but she's the only one of Nur's family who has Israeli permission to travel from the West Bank into Jerusalem. As I've mentioned before, Palestinians in the West Bank have either a West Bank identification card, or an East Jerusalem one. Never both, and this limits movement and living for all.

Nur arrived in the children's ward looking really excited. Her family is very poor and she's not accustomed to being looked after. A male nurse gave her arm a stroke and deftly fashioned a bit of paper into a bunny rabbit, and a frog. Nur was delighted and spent the rest of the afternoon making the paper frog hop around the floor, and settling into her hospital bed. Her Granny sank into a chair by the bed, took off her shoes, and went straight to sleep. The journey from West Bank to Jerusalem, through checkpoints and chaging buses, is long and tiring, particularly for the elderly.

I filmed Nur's operation the following day, feeling glad of the barrier of my camera between the inverted eyeball being stitched, and my own eyes. I could concentrate on the exposure and angle which prevented squeamishness. The day after the operation, her eye was already looking much more similar to the other one. I'm praying the result is spectacular next week at the follow up appointment, both for the purposes of the film, and for Nur's life from now. I wonder how long it takes for a stigma to wear away, and for a little girl, who's just like all the rest of them inside, to be accepted by her own kind for the first time in her life.

Then we took the personal assistants on a trip to Nazareth. Mum and Dad come from different planes when it comes to Holy, so it's always interesting to travel with them both in these iconic lands. Dad's first reaction is always: 'No - that's got to be a load of todge' and Mum's shows more of a margin of disappointment when, as she put it,'The outskirts of Nazareth remind me a little of Aviemore. I think this could be the first and last visit to this place.' Living in the Holy Land, you soon get used to places no longer looking biblical. The wells, birthplaces, baptism sites and shrines, often well-covered with modern tatt and hidden behind coach loads of Asian tourists.  But for infrequent visitors, perhaps the disappointment is keener.

Still, the dwarfs have their purpose at times, and we were soon propelled into the present day. 'Who ith Jesuth?' asked Rashimi. And as Emile, the kindly guest house owner gave me laborious instructions in broken English, complete with map, about what we should see in Jesus' hometown, Rashimi came skipping out of the loo and yelled: 'Laurie's done a green poo poo!!' Dad was in the tiny cubicle with him, and J was called to go and look. I saw him and Dad looking down into the bowl, and then at each other, incredulous. 'Oh my GOD!,' they said in unison, 'That is really an emerald green! What on earth's he eaten?'

Trying to keep concentrating on the kindly instructions coming in my other ear, I had no choice but to try and ignore the commotion and keep listening to Emile.

But I managed to ask the Lozenge, who was skipping about and looking very well, what he'd eaten at school.

'Well...we did eat a bowl of gween powidge becauthe today was CRAZY Day at school!!'

We were shown to our family quarters and the dwarfs were delighted to see that we had to move a wardrobe from the doorway to make our rooms adjoining, and although there was no Narnia the other side, the wardrobe was a highlight in itself. Then we spent the rest of the day giggling about the mysterious cheques for Mum and Dad's holiday cottages they'd received from someone called J.Christ. Mum even went with the cheque to the bank, before the clerk questioned jokingly whether it was worth trying to cash it. Then Dad fell for it another time. We imagined getting in touch with J.Christ over email, asking if he would be bringing his father and H.Ghost with him, and surely they only needed one bed for the three of them. We could leave a jug of water with some wine glasses and see what they did with it.

I can't say I learned a whole lot more about the beginnings of the real J.Christ from the trip to Nazareth.

But the dwarfs enjoyed it. As the Lozenge and I nipped down the road early the next morning for some orange juice, he skipped beside me and said: 'Mummy, this is a lovely life, isn't it.'

'I weally don't want it to end.'

For mother's day he drew me a card with light bulbs dangling all over it.

The Lozenge with his Scotsman t-shirt in front of Palestinian graffiti-ed wall in Nazareth

Writing like a MoFo and passive communications

Sometimes the machine of life can grind on so efficiently, that when it comes to sitting down and just writing...I can't do it. I hate it. I feel the seat getting warm, and there's still nothing on the blank page. The page gives me blank look and I give it one back. Then I make a cup of green tea, and then Rashimi distracts me, which is actually just what I want. Though I know deep down, it really isn't. But then, he's my 3 year old and I think, he needs me here doing Lego stuff and digging. Wouldn't I rather be here than exchanging blank looks with my 27 inch screen? In a few years he'll be 10 and my screen will still be 27 inches. And believe me, that's big when you're only 10 inches from it.

So I found a website, and it seems I'm not the only one that gets this.

The author, Sugar, says: 'If someone died each time I checked my inbox, there would be no one left.'

Oh man. That's me.

She says: 'Writing is hard for every last one of us—straight white men included. Coal mining is harder. Do you think miners stand around all day talking about how hard it is to mine for coal? They do not. They simply dig. You need to do the same. … So write...Not like a girl. Not like a boy. Write like a motherfucker.'

So, I've begun, and that's better than not beginning at all. So she says. And Rashimi is at school for the next 4 hours.

A couple of weeks ago I left for London at 4am, on a pilgrimage to a christening of a beautiful new godson, Casper, and to meet my new niece, Daisy and hang out with my still quite new niece, Tilly. Girl time - in many senses.

It felt disloyal, creeping away in the darkness before the dwarfs darted into the daytime. But by the time I cruised out of the plane in Heathrow, with one small bag, I realised I had time to breathe and notice what was going on around me. The normal situation is hurtling around the corner into arrivals with a trolley stacked with cases, and two dwarfs perched on top; orange juice down one leg of my jeans and chocolate finger prints on my top.

The first thing I noticed was a large vending machine selling SIM cards. Each time I go back home, the UK has moved on, and I feel like an old person remembering how things used to be. But seriously, I do remember a time when you bought packets of fags from a vending machine. Now the world has moved on and communications have become our new nicotine. I don't smoke these days, but I reminisced about those days when a handbag was not complete without a ten pack of Marlboro Lights and good friendships were made on the pavement outside the office.

As I stood, gawping, I wished I could exchange the loud phone call my neighbour was having on his iPhone 6 for a plume of smoke. I think we suffer more these days from passive communications than we ever did passive smoking. People puffing out conversational toxins are more vexatious to the spirit, I honestly believe. But at least it doesn't make your hair smell.

Then I noticed that most men in the airport were carrying a handbag and wearing designer neckscarves. And then an announcement warned not to let your children ride on trolleys. Our dwarfs wouldn't travel with us if they couldn't ride on a trolley. It's the whole point of a trolley and a smooth floored airport combo, is it not? But life in the Arab world (though not so security-conscious Israel) has taken us away from a nanny state.

I remember a taxi driver in Amman telling me once, as we gaped at four children standing up out of the car sunroof as their Dad hooned their hatchback along the road, that it was really dangerous when children did that, because sand and dust could get in their eyes.  Not the first risk on the list, I thought to myself.

But in the UK, the nanny state trains us to be over cautious. Maybe that's why so many men are now in scarves.

Then I spent a glorious 4 days with friends and family. Tilly, a wide eyed one year old. I don't get the chance to watch her unfurl on a daily basis, but she's gone from a tiny bud to a beautiful flower since I last saw her. And Daisy, at just 5 weeks, a perfect parcel of peace, slumbering and sipping her way through those early weeks. And clearly adored by her brother, Fergus. He's so kind and gentle. I don't remember quite such a smooth ride when Rashimi was born. I have clear visions of the Lozenge waving a wooden spoon above Rashimi's head, while checking I was watching.

I realised on my way back that we've mislaid most of our baby kit. I have no recollection if 2 years ago, in our frantic departure from London, I dumped the whole lot outside the door of Mind in Camden, or if it's all in a suitcase somewhere. I'll have to post a message on the Jerusalem parents Facebook group asking for second hand kit.

Maybe we might even find the original Moses basket.

Of Gods and Men, but don't forget about nature

A Bedouin prayer, answered

J and I watched the beautiful French film, Of Gods and Men again last week. It struck just as much as the first time we saw it, though the aftertaste was perhaps more chilling this time.

Based around the true story of an order of Trappist monks living in Algeria, the film focuses on the monks' work in a local Arab community and their excruciating decision about whether to stay, or leave, as the inevitable threat from Islamist extremists looms closer.

They stay. And one night, they are taken from their remote monastery and murdered in the snow covered fields by the Islamists.

These events happened 20 years ago, and it's hard not to feel that since then the situation has got a whole lot worse.

One subtitle quotes a phrase from Blaise Pascal: “Men never commit evil so fully and joyfully as when they do it for religious convictions.”

Here in Jerusalem we are reminded of this daily, not only when we watch films such as these.

Israeli extremists set fire to a Greek Orthodox seminary in Jerusalem this week. A mosque near Bethlehem was torched by a similar group a few days earlier.

I was speaking to a live wire of a man from the UN Relief and Works Agency, which provides education, social services and healthcare to Palestinians living in the West Bank and Gaza. He said he's certain there will be another war in Gaza this summer.

Banksy's just been to Gaza. Have a look at some of his work there.
www.banksy.co.uk

I wonder what the Gazans make of it.

Netanyahu has finally made the famed, uninvited visit to Washington, angering Obama by going straight to Congress. He railed about the threat of Iran - just as everyone knew he would.

But what does this mean for your average Palestinian?

Not much, really. They're more concerned about Palestinian Authority workers not being paid due to Israel's withholding of tax revenues, meaning that workers in all public services are working for almost nothing or not working at all. Think hospitals, police...

The local security infrastructure is a much closer concern for your average Palestinian man or woman. Iran feels a long way away.

Against this backdrop, I was lucky enough to spend a day in the patch of land between Jerusalem and the Dead Sea with a Bedouin expert, interviewing some Bedouin families for a possible story.

It's a tough life for the Bedouin people in Palestine. All clans have suffered multiple displacements and for the most part, they exist in temporary constructions trying to rear sheep and goats, with the constant threat of demolition or eviction orders. One of the areas on particularly shaky ground is the one I visited yesterday. The Israeli ministry of housing is hungrily waiting for the opportunity to build  more settlements on these lands, meaning the Bedouin would be forced into what have been described as 'urban sink holes' threatening their culture and way of life.

But, as for all subsistence communities, not only Gods, and Men, but the climactic conditions, play a large part in their state of mind - albeit as temporary and precarious as the rickety dwellings.

As Abu Ra'ed, Abu Mohammad and Abu Suleiman explained to me, this spring has been the best in years. The rain and snow have enabled the usually lunar landscape to transform itself into swathes of grass and wildflowers. The clans have saved so much money by not having to give expensive fodder to their animals, and both livestock and Bedouin are literally, rolling in clover.

They are living in the moment. Bedouin style.

The joy was infectious.

Sausages and true friends

I didn't think we were in need of a break. But when we stepped out of Prague terminal 3 snuffling and snorting like 4 truffle pigs, thanks to the cyclical coughs and colds we've been harbouring for the past month, I felt my shoulders relaxing as I sank into the familiarity of Europe. Not home, crucially, but a few steps closer. Then, as though sniffing out some of our own kind, we found ourselves gazing at the mottled and dusty array of sausages, salamis, frankfurters and hams in the pork Deli, tactfully placed right next to the end of the tunnel which spits out daily arrivals from Israel.

Perhaps we did need that break after all....50 metres squared, stuffed with P O R K. And women wearing clothes I too once wore, like mini skirts. And one even had blue hair. The worst bit about being an ex-pat is you never meld into your host country, and then you cease to fit in back home too. Though actually, being with-child in Jerusalem - which has to be the reproduction capital of the world - I will soon look much more like every other Haredi Orthodox or Arab woman on the pavement.

But anyway, the array of pork products put us completely off course and we ended up snuffling and shuffling our way up to the opposite end of the airport from the baggage reclaim. The dwarfs whined about aching legs, but after no slack from us, the Lozenge solved the problem by putting Rashimi in an airport child's buggy which enabled R to rest and L to forget they were actually having to w-a-l-k. (Never call it a walk. Or you'll have a dwarf revolt on your hands.)

They're excited about the baby-to-be, and the Lozenge sometimes likes to practise on the horrified 'I'm-NOT-a-baby! Rashimi, hence his delight about pushing him in a buggy. They've announced that when it's born, they want to call it: 'Bunny Floppy Ears'.

And then we arrived in an area supposedly the equivalent of Hackney in Prague, at a grey, flat-faced building, hiding a stack of beautiful parquet floored and tall windowed apartments. Our friends now live in one of them. We fell into their arms. True, true, dear friends. A bit like the pork deli, a rare thing in Jerusalem. Not that the people aren't nice here. We just don't have the history quite yet.

And talking of history, it's really not my strong point, but after plates of shining orange frankfurters, buttery potatoes and beer (there I was thinking we'd have a far-from-falafel-detox while we were away...) we wandered up to their nearby park which looks out over the city and looked at the blue misty perspective, punctuated by Gothic spires and rows of coloured houses, each one with a different facade from its neighbour.

The city seems to have all the majesty of Vienna, but with little rebellious and individual-natured twists. The population seems to be un-mixed, with the exception of Vietnamese who fulfil the same role as Pakistanis in London when it comes to small grocery shops.

And despite the Gothic churches, the atmosphere felt gloriously far from the sombre aura of humans under the weight of scrupulously observed religion. Not a headscarf or a side-lock in sight. And you know what, it was magic.

I wondered how long it takes for you to start being influenced by your surroundings to the extent that you change, as I gawped at arty snaps of semi naked women on the walls of one restaurant loo and tried not to feel shocked.

From cafe to restaurant we wandered - 4 adults, 4 children - sipping on molten chocolate in cafes, scampering through parks whose robust, well designed playgrounds made our little local Arab ones look rather vintage and flaky

The Jerusalem version

and trying to avoid the doggy-doo-doo littering the pavements. Here in Jerusalem the Israelis are the only ones with pet dogs, and generally they do the dog poo in the bag thing. And Arabs don't do dogs. So in a country with vast amounts of disturbing detritus on the ground, the one thing you don't get is d.d.d. So of course, we 4, were always the ones to tread right in it.

There was unfortunately a four day whine-a-thon from the youngest member of our pack. Rashimi, it appears is more comfortable in the Southern Med being carted about in a 4 x 4. Walking the cold streets in a Parka jacket was not his idea of fun. And he wasn't afraid to let us know. What with Bunny Floppy Ears on board, I can't really carry him at the mo, so poor J had a permanent Rashimi badge or stole as he wielded him, whining and crying, along path, after road, after forest lane. The truffle pig virus, may also have had something to do with it. But you never know where virus ends and petulance begins with dwarfs.

Interesting being in a country whose blight was formerly communism. As I speed walked ahead to avoid hearing the wailing of Rashimi, I wondered if the 'reds under the bed' could honestly have seemed as threatening as this crISIS the world is struggling to contend with today. Did the Cold War feel as dramatic as this frenzied, wicked sandstorm whipped up by the Islamic State nutcases? Hard to believe it was as bad. But then read about the Stazi and the pogroms, and the same kernels of all encompassing evil are there.

Gloriously there was some synchronicity between my book about Ibn Battutah, the medieval Tangerine explorer and the Gothic Cathedrals we looked at. While Ibn Battutah was on his epic mission from Tangiers to Mecca which took him 29 years, the spires at St Barbara's Cathedral near Prague, were being carved, and frescoes still wet on her very walls.

The Black Death was also a link to my understanding of the time. While, in 1348 at the time of the Great Plague in Damascus, Ibn Battutah witnessed "all conditions of men assembling in the Omayyad Mosque until it overflowed with them. They spent the night there in prayers, liturgies and supplications. After the dawn prayer, they all went out together, barefoot, carrying Qur'ans...." Not that this supplication worked, as the very same plague swept through the Europe, including what is now the Czech Republic. And we visited, in the town of Kutna Hora, an Ossuary, whose interior is decorated entirely with skulls and bones of victims of the very same plague and others thereafter. In the middle of the church there is a huge chandelier made entirely from the grey remains - dripping with femurs and dainty little hand bones, with piles of crania. The dwarfs were f a s c i n a t e d. As I stared at the skull mountain in the middle, I wondered why we worry about anything in this life, if this is the outcome for each of us.

Back in Jerusalem, cloaked with warm, spring air, the Mediterranean dwarf sprang back to life, and our lives continued as before, with perhaps some pork-infused energy and the feeling of having been in a friendship-spa. The dwarf duo and I visited the Mount of Olives, where wild flowers covered the ground,

and the Lozenge picked 'thalad' for his imaginary friends Lotta and Squeak the Rabbit and took handfuls of green things home to make a potion. Which he did, with the hand blender and a huge dose of food colouring which he and Rashimi spilt all over the floor, dying the white cupboards a watery green colour.

'salad' picking on the Mount of Olives

They ran about in the shabby playground and I watched young Arab girls swinging on the monkey bars in their jeans while their Mums, decked from head to toe in headscarf and long, acrylic 'manteau' coat, watched from the picnic table. The transition from monkey bars to motherhood seemed rather close to me as I sat watching them all.

Our break also meant that I did some soul searching about small annoyances about having St Grace always, always in the house. Particularly because even though she does work, she's also very good at resting.

Cantankerous is not a word that should be used to describe old men. It should be used to describe pregnant women. And in a few months, there will be an emphasis on the 'tank'. And she's not my only victim. After chasing news editors to try and get one of them to commission a story, woe betide the ones who are still keeping me waiting...I will keep on at them until they answer; until I am the size of a semi-detached; until I get someone to take one of my ideas.

But it turns out, that sadly St Grace is suffering from absent-but-overbearing-husband-syndrome. It seems he has an informant here in Jerusalem who tells him what she's up to. Sometimes even making up lies about what she does. He doesn't want her to go anywhere on her day off. When she explains that he can do what he likes in Jordan and she would like him to trust her enough to go out with some girlfriends on her days off to relax, his reply is: 'But you are a woman. And I am a man.' How many bone-headed, (I can vouch, after the visit to that Ossuary, that this is what they are) fearful males are there on the planet, of every religion, trying to limit life for women full of curiosity and potential? We worry for her - because it must be a suffocating and enervating source of unhappiness for her. And it does cast a pall around the house too. Plus it means she never goes anywhere.

Living in the same house, she and I could hardly have more different existences.

Mine, despite the bin that never shuts right outside my office door because Rashimi has tampered with it; and my desk door that falls off in my hand each time as the Lozenge has unscrewed the hinges; the food colouring staining the floor from the potion spillages; the fact my hands are so raspy I scratch myself with my own skin; my mind is a flip chart and a hive of muddled ideas and intentions and brainwaves and little moments of career-despair and then the odd light bulb moment; and our bed is surrounded by Playmobil and Lego vehicles and  I get bread stick crumbs (left by a nonchalantly snacking dwarfs) on my cheek when I go to bed at night. I'll soon be the size of a small dorm-o-bile and I'm risking the mirth, or worse: indifference, of really busy news editors as I try and campaign for my little video stories to go a bit further than an NGO webpage. But, I'm free! And the man I live with is ready to brainstorm aforementioned little ideas whether it be 6.30am or pm. I get a cuddle when things aren't going right, and a cheer when things are. How did I get so lucky? It has at least, helped me be less cantankerous to St G as we talk through her situation over a quick cup of tea before I begin work at 7.45 am.

And perhaps a recent smile may have been thanks to Sri Lanka's recent victory over England in the cricket.

And maybe it's not just me who's influenced by the heavy hand of convention and religion in this city: after a sunny weekend, and our first picnic (on March 1st, no less) J was watching the boys as they played in another park. The Lozenge came running up, panting to tell him: 'Daddy, Washimi has just been talking to some girls he's never even met before!'

We should continue to get out of here for some European infusions.

It's clearly not just about the pork.

Saved by Ibn Battutah

This week has provided some glorious escape routes from reality. The first in the form of a beautiful book: 'Travels with a Tangerine' about the Arab explorer, Ibn Battutah, who generously donated his name to a place now very dear and familiar to us, and who was perhaps the greatest and boldest explorer of his time. Travelling three times the distance of Marco Polo, Ibn Battutah, or IB, as he's known in the book, set out from his native Tangier in 1325 on the pilgrimage to Mecca, returning 29 years later. The Yemen based author and Arabist, Tim Mackintosh Smith, clearly becomes obsessed by IB's adventures, and begins a similar journey himself, as he explains, 'in the footnotes of Ibn Battutah,' basing his travel plan on whatever he can find written about it from the time, and since then.

I'm becoming as obsessed myself. Not least because of the tantalising descriptions of the untainted Orient of the day - when Cairo was a burgeoning metropolis of half a million people (the population of the city is now 22 million), when travel was difficult, because the act of travelling was difficult, not because of swathes of land being governed by the likes of Islamic State. There are more details about near death experiences from boils on the bottom or over consumption of the delicacy 'fissikh' fermented fish, than there are about human-on-human atrocity.

So in this sense, it's incredibly refreshing, and reminds me a little of our first dreams about coming to live in this region. The mystery and exoticism of spices in dusty markets and minarets in silhouette to a setting tangerine sun. Perhaps it's only when delving into the lives of people, either living or dead, that a place really comes to life. And maybe we'll never find such magic in an inanimate relic, as we do in a life lived. As the author quotes the poet, Rumi:

"When we are dead, seek for our resting place
Not in the earth, but in the hearts of men."

So each time I get a spare minute from dwarf, domestic or work life, I plunge myself into a grapefruit oil bath with the audacious Tangerine, and am transported. Away from the images of 21 Coptic Christians lined up on a winter beach waiting to die; away from khaki clad Israeli soldiers in tanks they call cars; away from the voices of desperate Western leaders promising to stamp out extremism.

It's perhaps another bit of detritus from all this violence and bad news, and being based in one of the so-called holiest places on earth, that people living here can forget to have fun. We've met some fantastic people since arriving here a year ago. Israelis, Palestinians and internationals from all over the world. And for the first time in our lives we're living in a proper party house. It being the saccharine and revolting Valentine's day last weekend, J and I threw a party in order for people to come and forget the gloom of politics, and ignore the pink pulsating hearts. We hired speakers and lights and I made a playlist which admittedly was aimed at those who were born circa 1975, but it was appreciated. Everyone had a designated costume and in the end we were about 60 people from Austin Powers and Lady Penelpe to Bjorn Borg and Marie Freidriksson Roxette. People brought food and drink. Lola Flores and Antonio Banderas from Matador arrived with warm tortilla, carefully carved Spanish cheese and a bottle of sherry. Edward Scissorhands and Winona never left the dance floor. It was a riot.

The dwarves were immensely helpful, both before and after: Beforehand we swept the whole garden and cleaned the dust from the recent dust storm from most surfaces.

Here they are on what looks like a fag break:

Then they helped us prepare the snacks.

Then they put on their waitors outfits and warmed up on the dancefloor.

Batman, (who was it who said: 'Know thyself'? Well this dwarf does) asked at 8.15pm, if he could go to bed. They'd had a dance off from the moment the speakers arrived. Not so Spiderman - who was to be found dangling off Rienhold Messner's carabinas and then spinning into infinity with the only other 3 year old, until 11.30pm when he finally accepted defeat and took refuge in our bed with Batman - the location furthest from the pumping sub woofer on the speakers. Reinhold Messner arrived with Gertrude Bell with a tray laden with pots of Tiramisu. We erred towards national stereotyping where possible, and in an international community - there were rich pickings.

Our lovely 87 year old landlady is fortunately stone deaf, so we had no complaints from upstairs. And the best bit about adult parties is everyone eats all the food you've made and appreciates it, no one pukes, and everyone had gone by 2.30am.

The clear up operation the next day was a family affair. I washed up, the dwarves washed the floors, and J did multiple runs to the bottle bank.

We'll be having another party soon. I'm sure Ibn Battutah would approve.

Unholy Mess

A fierce wind has been roaring all night and we woke up this morning chewing the grit, our hair standing on end from the static. But at least the dust storm reflects the mood of this region more accurately than the eternal blue skies we've grown used to.

The dust-whipping wind takes me back to two years ago, when we'd just arrived in Jordan and were trying to find our way around, being buffeted by the elements, and rolling around in the back of yellow taxis. The static hair, the gritty mouth and the eternal question - what are we doing here?

J and I are planning a party for this weekend. It's a Valentine's Avoidance party to get us, and a good clutch of new friends, out of the Saturday-night-in-a-restaurant-surrounded-by-plastic-pink-hearts horror. I've been looking forward to it, I've hired speakers and lights from Yoav a charming sounding Israeli - though sadly he has no disco ball, and everyone's bringing food. Maybe it's the weather but just today I've been hit with a strange melancholia which is making me wish we could have all our home friends to the party. The new ones are totally great, but suddenly I miss home and wish we could arrange for an Easyjet fuselage full of all those familiar characters in our script before we cruised onto a different piste.

J and I had some work in Jordan over the weekend, so we took the dwarfs with us and they went to stay with the Glammy who's returned from her trip to the US, and now is engaged to a different man altogether. From a couple of disastrous Ahmads, she's moved to a Bader. We hope that Bader is the business, or at least a never-ending carriage in the love train. It was wonderful to see her as ever. More than being a nanny now, she's a friend to the dwarfs. And when you think about it, not much further in age from them, than we are from any of our new Arab and Israeli septua and octogenarian friends.

Jordan was still pulsating with grief and feelings of vengeance over the murder of Muath Kasasbeh, the Jordanian pilot and the latest victim of Da'esh (the Arab word for ISIS).

In some ways it was an inspiration to see a country coming together in this way. I've always wondered if Jordan's problems will come from the inside, by way of dissident groups. But this universal rallying behind King Abdullah is a change in mood, and perhaps for the better. But how much more vulnerable is Jordan making itself, by joining the fight against ISIS in such determined terms?

I dropped the boys in their Jordanian second home, with the Glammy and her Mum, and I drove to meet J who was arriving from Jerusalem that afternoon. I wondered who Jordanians really are, as I watched a shepherd and his young son dressed in shell-suits, holding staffs, herd their scraggy flock past a beauty salon: 'Jolie Femme' from where two botox-ed ladies emerged - their dark Arab tresses tinted a brassy blonde.

I went back to visit the young Syrian boy, Mohammed, with my Egyptian friend, to make another short film about his return to school. He and his family had moved house and he was obviously so excited about returning to school, having supported his parents and five sisters with a tiny salary from the sweet shop where he's worked since they fled to Jordan. His face lit up in a way we've never seen it do before. But then we discovered the local educational authorities in his area won't allow him to enrol.

In defiance, we visited the minister in Ramtha, Mohammed's adopted town. The snake-like man sat smoking at his desk, dressed in a pale brown leather jacket. He didn't stand up or say hello when we entered, and wouldn't allow his eyes to meet ours. 'Nothing I can do about it,' he shrugged. There's a lot of xenophobia and intentional non-assistance in relation to Syrians in Jordan. And yet, there has been no outbreak of violence within these enforced-mixed communities. And Mohammed's family's new apartment has been entirely decked in rugs and cushions courtesy of their Jordanian neighbours. The kindness of strangers still exists. But perhaps not within the ministries.

My Egyptian friend is a determined lady, and has begun the battle to try and shoehorn him in to a classroom soon, or Mohammed's disappointment will be too much to bear.

Everything I pick up to read, there's something about this dreaded Islamic State. In some ways I wish all news agencies could have a pact to stop reporting anything about them. The media attention is just what they crave. And as for anyone who actually watches those murderous videos...it's macabre and playing into their hands.

Are we still as ghoulish as ever, deep down?

I read today in the papers that the man who led Saddam Hussein to the gallows is selling the rope, and the current bid for it is $7 million. Israelis, Kuwaitis and Iranians are vying for the cord.

In some ways it was also the umbilical cord to all this madness and horror we're witnessing today.

The darkness is tangible in so many areas. Two contrasting articles I read recently struck another sort of chord - both in the Spectator. One by Paul Collier who claims that the young men turning to terror or 'war tourists' as he calls them, have nothing to do with religion. That there's a significant minority of young men around the world who are hormonally disposed to violence. And that what we are living now is a culture of violence, which is not necessarily related to religion.

The second article is by a British Muslim, Qanta Ahmed, who claims that Islamism and all its horror, is absolutely everything to do with Islam, and it's up to moderate Muslims to stand up to it. Interestingly, he quotes Egypt's President, Abdel Fattah al-Sisi (who although stamping down on Islamism, is behind as much violence himself). But his speech at Cario's Al Azhar University called for the rescue of Islam from 'ideology', saying: 'You Imams, are responsible before Allah. The entire world, I say it again, the entire world is waiting for your next move because the Islamic world is being torn, it is being destroyed, it is being lost. And it is being lost by our own hands.'

And often it feels like it's no longer just specifically the Islamic world. It affects each one of us from the depths of Nigeria to the streets of Birmingham.

And not just Islam. A friend just sent me a recent bit of prose from Matthew Parris in the Times. We all need to take responsibility.

Unholy mess
It’s 46 years since I’ve been to Jerusalem but the Christian quarter of the old city has hardly changed. People find it moving but it moves me only to despair.
How I longed for the open hillside, the grass, the cave, the wind, the stones and the silence. Now everything feels interior and crushing: Christian churches bicker over the demarcation of property, and pilgrims queue to light candles in dingy corners, kiss inanimate objects and weep with emotions induced by silver, gilt, glass, paint and carved wood.
Why was I not surprised to learn that, though the population of the Armenian quarter is falling all the time as Armenians queue for their Canadian visas, and though the Armenian Catholic church is pitched against the Armenian Orthodox church, the latter is now itself riven by an internal schism?
Bring in the bulldozers and sweep it all away. Were I not an atheist I might experience an anger that was divine. Amid all this nonsense about relics and holy places, this twisted icon worship and delusion, and the Jews at their Wailing Wall, and the Muslims grovelling in prayer, I can almost see the Jesus I was brought up to believe in, see him gazing sadly at the grotesquerie, and hear him lament, with TS Eliot:
That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.'

Sorry for my mood. Let's hope it's the wild and dusty wind which will blow over by tomorrow.

The dwarfs remain unaffected, it seems.

Their latest creations are a Mummy and a Daddy Robot from cereal packets. Pleased to see that gender roles are alive and well in this household. Although, I may be wearing a pinny, at least Daddy isn't wielding a gun. There may be some hope...

Swedishness and a Teddy Bears' Picnic

While looking through the nostaligia infused book: 'This is London' one evening with the dwarfs, Rashimi asked: 'Mummy why hath that politheman not got a gun?' Littered within the solid torrent of questions there sometimes comes an astute one. All policemen in Israel carry enormous guns. So it led to a lengthy discussion about the merits of 'twuncheonth' and the pitfalls of guns. The teachers in the nursery remarked: 'He asks very good questions,' that day's number being: 'What do whinotherotheth eat?' I was reasonably surprised that both teachers had to consult a book in the library to discover the answer. 'Gwath.' I'm quite pleased they won't be seeing him through secondary school.Though they are cosy and loving and this is all that matters at this stage.

It being a new year, albeit that the damp squib of February is already in motion, the dwarfs have been inadvertently roped into my focus on self improvement. You are unfortunately at the mercy of your mother until quite a late stage in life I realised. (No offence, Mum. Just...do you remember that wardrobe....? But it's okay - I've recovered...). While I haven't made them join me on the treadmill (which, incredibly, looks out onto Jerusalem Old City with a stunning view of the golden Dome of the Rock, and where I can listen to two whole podcasts with no interruption) the dwarfs in our life have been roped into Arabic classes on Monday evenings with two sweet children whose first language is Catalan. J and my wonderful teacher comes to our house and does play focused Arabic tuition with them. The Lozenge is a little bit reluctant as he loves nothing more than his own plan, and not one of mine, but gets into the swing eventually. And I noticed that since the weekly linguistic-injection, he and Rashimi have no problem calling: 'AFWAAAAN!' (excuse me) and 'MA'ASALAMEEEEEH' (Goodbye) on our local shopping street as they weave on their scooters between headscarved shoppers. What they need to learn how to say now is: 'Hold onto your headscarves laydeeeeeez, and watch your heels - we're coming THROOOOUUGH!!!.' Even the owners of the warmest and most expansive of child-loving bosoms can turn to me with a knitted, perfectly plucked brow, at times, as if to warn me that latest fly-by was just a little too close to the mock Louboutins for her liking.

As I watched the dwarfs' retreating back views I marvelled to myself that this place is really is their home. The headscarfs and the dodgy paving, the smoky smell of shwarma and shisha. All that still seems so foreign to me, is their normality.

The Lozenge's teachers have drawn J and I aside and told us that he zones in and out in class, which had been worrying me, until we had a fun dinner out with a Swedish couple who nearly choked on their chickpeas when we told them our worry: 'He's only 5! In Sweden we don't even start teaching them til 7, and we'd all be in the sandpit together all day at this stage - as we get so much time off to be parents.' And they laughed it off, whilst showing us this brilliant video - which totally conjures up the wonder of their land. And why an international community at times, is just so refreshing. One day we must try and get posted to Stockholm. And for once in my life, I could pass as a local.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8_asVWhfZYg

And the best bit, is this couple love the video and say Swedes really are just like this. And one thing to note - that is the real Prime Minister in the vid.

All I can say is they are refreshing to be around. And I shall be hoisting a Swedish flag above our front door very soon - even with my supreme hatred for flags.

The other thing that struck me, is that I have, late in life, realised that perhaps I'm allergic to authority. And just the thought that some boring teacher could be trying to make the Lozenge step in line and be like everyone else, makes me want to metaphorically raise a finger to much of educational establishment. For an entire 5.3333 years, I have never heard the Lozenge say: 'I'm bored.' And I've never seen him 'zone out' at home. But fortunately I'm married to a diplomat and have spent 8.3333 years learning from him, so I kept my mouth shut in our meeting, and thought all these things instead.

As the Lozenge once retorted when I asked him not to ask Grandma: 'Where is my present?' the moment she arrived to stay with us, he replied: 'Okay, I won't say it. But Mummy, I can still think it, can't I.'

J has been away this week, and the dwarves and I have been having cosy times at 6am drinking hot chocolate in bed, followed by disco dressing (this morning to the Cure's: You're so wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully PRETTY! - which I really, really was not at that hour, but the dwarfs threw some excellent naked dance moves. Bottoms everywhere.), followed by breakfast and then the run to school.

Through the pain of the 5.50am alarm, I remind myself that these mallowy mornings will not last forever, and one day the dwarfs will be 'diants' as Rashimi says, and will not want to lie about in bed with me sipping on a chocolat chaud, or should I say, tiede.

The afternoons, when not designated to self improvement, we've been mucking about with their friends. I overheard the Lozenge and Rashimi comparing their toy chainsaws with each other (an inspired Christmas present from auntie Rosie and uncle 'Awee). Rashimi said: 'But mine can cut down tweeth weally, weally HARDly.' And in the Lozenge's thank you letter to auntie R he dictated for me to write: 'Thank you for the chainsaw. Next Christmath please can you give me a weal one so I can cut down weal trees with it, like Gran Gran and Grandpop do.' Oh to have two grandparents with a chainsaw licence.

Today is Friday. The joy of it. And the Lozenge is having two friends over - Julien (or according to Rashimi: JulieAnn), and 'Vewa from Thweden' without their parents. Rashimi remarked: 'Well Vewa can be my fwiend, and JulieAnn can be yours Lauwie.' Rashimi has already developed an eye for a  blonde Swede. Who wouldn't? Maybe one day I really can visit Stockholm!

The Lozenge has requested a teddy bears' picnic followed by a treasure hunt when they come round. I've been given instructions that I'm not allowed anything to do with the picnic - they will do it all themselves. And while they do that, I can go out and hide the 'tweathure'.

This is why I am freelance. The one thing I do not need, is another boss in my life.

The simplicity of the afternoon plan gave me this poignant feeling when I realised that in maybe only a year, a teddy bear's picnic will probably not be the Lozenge's top-number-one-exciting-plan.

So I'm letting him go WILD.

The teddy bears are the ones strewn to one side, without any cakes. This is 5 year old hospitality.

(Postscript: The TBP went like a storm. The only problem was that at 1.30pm I realised that I was alone in the house with 4 children 5 and under for the next 4 hours. And the TBP had taken all of 4 minutes. How did I get myself roped into this one? I wondered. And like all good Skandi children, 'JulieAnn' and 'Vewa' removed their shoes every time they came into the house. And every five minutes they ran out of the house and needed to put them on again. And none of them could do them up for themselves. So for the first three hours of the extravaganza, I was on my hands and knees doing up complicated shoe laces, patting down velcro, ramming sticky-socked heels down into the New Balance size 9's and trying to zip up pink Chinese boots without snagging them. 'I don't care about the mud!' 'KEEP ON YOUR SHOES at ALL TIMES!' I yodelled.)

By 9pm I was to be found sound asleep under the furled pages of my book. J returned to us safely, with a mere 2 child-ed weekend stretching ahead of us, under some gentle rays of February sun.

Oh yes, and we have another diminutive candidate for our family ranks who, all being well, will join us in early August.