There,

Slouching through the streets,
Dirty sandals scuffing the sidewalk,
Week old stubble, perhaps two,
Stale shorts, skimming the knees,
Yesterday’s sweaty t-shirt, uncrumpled from the floor,
Screams to be washed.

Going ‘local’

Adventurous.
Perhaps.
Unique, different, unrivaled.
You may think.
Fitting in.
Definitely not.

Clones:
‘Going local’.

Darting eyes,
Meandering footsteps:
They give you away.

Bargaining over nothing:
It gives you away.

Costly camera
Clipped round your neck:
It gives you away.

White skin, red skin,
They give you away.

Clones:
Have you not noticed?
Do you think ‘they’ have not noticed?
The patronising.

Pssssst! Clones!
The ‘locals’ look better than you -
And smell sweeter too.

It’s no laughing matter. The weather is well and truly into the ’stinking hot’ phase and ACs are on all the time. Yes, yes, not environmentally friendly, but if you don’t know what it’s like, turn your central heating up to full blast for a week, keep your windows and doors closed then check the thermometre: if it says 28C or there abouts, just add on another 10C and then say ACs are unnecessary!

The problem with air conditioners is that they create water and it has to go somewhere. It is usually channeled away by a short pipe that drips onto whatever is below. The higher you are in this case, the better. Lower apartments can have balconies flooded or an alternative to chinese water torture by way of an  incessant drip, drip, drip as the water trickles on to shutters or railings. Key to maintaining a cordial relationship with fellow building dwellers is to keep them water free.

This neighbour seems to have taken things to an extreme. If you’re in any doubt about how long this pipe really is, confer with the gentleman below.

Misssy M has been writing of the trials and tribulations of being a superstar (one that shines on the air waves) film reviewer. It sent me catapulting down memory lane.

Way back when, in my student days in Cairo, going to the cinema was a bit of a treat. A dodgy television that only seemed to receive BBC World was our window on the world outside of the internet cafe. Entertainment was limited to charades, G&T, dancing, G&T, eating, G&T, card games, G&T and G&T. Occasionally there would be a movie playing at the Ramsis (Ramzeeez) Hilton Mall, which is really not as grand as it sounds. Up endless escalators to the top of the mall we’d go, riding sideways, bums against the railings, torsos twisted forever up, denying the band of merry men and teenagers following us our glutei maximi to gawp at.

There were always plenty of banners advertising the films. “Oooh, look, that should be good!” we’d cry trying not to convey the mourning of Edinburgh’s Filmhouse or Cameo we knew we all felt. Off we went to get tickets. Next we’d find that despite having twenty different movie banners advertising twenty different Hollywood ‘greats’ the cinema with two screens was playing two Arabic-language movies.

Back to bums against elevator railings.

On the odd occasion where our bums ended up on seats rather than against railings, we would get our popcorn, relax and sink into chairs and get ready for 90 mins of ‘The West’.

For about a minute. Not longer.

Eyes would start watering, the tickle in the back of the throat would induce coughing and we’d realise that the reason we cou’ldn’t see anything wasn’t because the lights were off, it was that we were in an insufficiently ventilated room with 200 faces sucking cigarettes.

Made of strong stuff, and deep-pockets-short-arms student syndrome, we would stay and tough it out.

It would take roughly thirty seconds after the music stopped, the screen lit up and the curtains opened: dah de dah dah, dah de dah dah, dah de dah dah DAH (Nokia ringtone). Nobody answers. Dah de dah dah, dah de dah dah, dah de dah dah DAH.

“ALLO! ALLO! IZZAYEK INTA? ANA FI SINEMA. FFFIIII SSIIIINNNEEEMMMAA!” (in case you haven’t worked it out: Hello! Hello! How are you? I’m in the cinema. I’m in the cinema!). Dom Jolie and his over sized brick phone and parodied shouting would have been outclassed. “YES, YES, GOOD IDEA. I’LL COME OVER AFTER THE MOVIE AND THEN WE CAN GO FOR DINNER/JUICE/HAVE A CHAT/MEET X. THE MOVIE? OH I CAN’T REMEMBER THE NAME, OH YES, IT’S MISSION IMPOSSIBLE II. WHAT’S THAT? OH YES, IT’S JUST STARTING. TOM CRUISE IS SO GOOD THOUGH. OK THEN, I’LL SEE YOU LATER.”

The ever-so-British “tut’s” and exaggerated sighs were but a mere mouse breathing in a hurricane. The storm being about 15% of the other cinema-goers who were by this time smoking their way through a loud mobile phone conversation and the other 15% with ringing phones that they were looking at and thinking about answering (you can’t answer too quickly, it means you’re not busy…).

Yes, my dear astute readers, that left 70% who were not phone engaged at this time.

Like a well conducted choir, the canon continued all the way to intermission, making sure that most of the 70% got their turn. For some reason, it’s no fun to have a phone call at intermission. Well, I mean, come on, that’s the time to get more popcorn, more drinks and nip to the loo.

Lights down, curtains open and the next 45 mins of second hand smoking commences. This was the part where excersice was brought in. Squats: jumping up and down every two minutes as people meandered back in after getting a second jumbo popcorn, part of which would inevitably end up on whoever they squeezed past. Neck stretches: craning to see past the jack-in-the-boxes/mexian wave in front of you as other late comers squeezed back to their seats.

Dah de dah dah, dah de dah dah, dah de dah dah DAH.

“HELLO AHMAD. YEAH, I’M IN THE MOVIE. YEAH, YEAH, IT’S MISSION IMPOSSIBLE II. WELL SO FAR….[full story]…YOU WANT TO COME AND SEEI IT? YES YOU SHOULD IT’S REALLY GOOD. YOUR MUM’S OK NOW AFTER THE OPERATION? OH GOOD. THAT’S GOOD. YES, WE’LL BE OUT IN AN HOUR. OK MEET YOU THERE.”

The few from the 70% who hadn’t received a call or finished a packet of cigarettes before the intermission, made up for lost time afterwards. Complete with rustling sweet packets, opening cans of coke and searching for lighters.

“Not bad, not bad.” We’d force out of our gritted teeth as our bums were back against the railings on the way out and strands of smoky hair fell in our faces, “Think I want to wash my hair though.”

A little while ago Mr S’s Maman and Papa visited. Maman asked me if I liked jewellry. I hesitated, but couldn’t exactly say no! She was curious because I don’t wear much. It also turned out that she was a little unhappy with the gifts her son bought me for Christmas and my birthday. My darling Mr S is extremely practical and some concern was growing that he wasn’t being romantic enough. I was perfectly happy with my walking boots, but my protestations I’d rather clumpy boots to jewellry rang a little hollow.

“I spoke to Maman today.” Mr S told me last night as we snuggled up on the sofa. “She thinks I should get you jewellry for your birthday.”

“Oh yes?” I managed to squeeze out while working quickly on my “surprised” smile.

Quite honestly, there are some people who I might be upset with if they gave me walking boots for a gift (I’m not a walker), but from Mr S, well, I’m perfectly happy. I can’t explain it, but there it is, I really don’t mind what he gets me - or not. I cannot pretend that I wouldn’t love a good, small piece of jewellry though.

What I’m dying to find out, is what he plumps for in the end. Will the super practical side prevail, or will the threat of a gentle ear bashing from his mother, who we’ll be visiting two days after my birthday, win the day?

Bets are on.

No, this isn’t some cheap attempt at temporarily upping my viewer stats.

Summer is whacking Cairo now. Usually we wait until mid June, early July for days in the 40C range, but this year the onslaught began early May. One Summer ritual which remains constant though is the influx of Gulfies (Saudis and Emeraties) from their baking countries. Imagine, coming to Cairo mid Summer to escape the heat!

To satisfy the invasion of walking Dinars and Riyals, advertising and entertainment lucratively turns due East. Tastes are a little different to what Egyptian’s deem attractive and are immediately identifiable. Even belly dancing has its own style in the Gulf (lots of Heavy- Metal-type-long-hair circular-head-banging — sans greasy hair!).

I’ll keep sharing as long as I can. (Ooooh, don’t say I don’t spoil you!).

PS Cherry Tart - cos I’m making another as I type.

Shopping in Cairo reminds me of my high school German teacher. Her name was (and hopefully still is) Mrs Burgess. She had a daughter working for some time in Eastern Europe, so our German grammar instruction would sporadically be interspersed with stories about her daughter’s trips to the grocer’s. There were generally two paths these stories would take. Story A involved there being nothing in the shops. Story B would involve spotting something and queue all night if need be to buy it, because it would be gone tomorrow.

Well the shops in Cairo are stocked. What they are stocked with though can sometimes be a little odd. There is a strange stock control system in operation that can see one shelf of every shop in Cairo choca-block with one product for a week, after which, it disappears for months. So, like in Story B, when you find something you want, grabbing it is essential. Today, after looking for tartlette cases (just because I thought they’d be good to have) and a coffee grinder for a good six months, I stumbled across both of them when I was looking for, wait for it, shelves!

Of course, there was only one coffee grinder left, so following a mad dash home in 42C to get more money, the six month search was over. Rather coincidentally, Mr S has been dropping not so subtle hints over the past couple of weeks about how he really wants a fruit tart. A French fruit tart. Since we are yet to find a fruity tart here up to the specifications of my cute, but gastronomically demanding, Frenchman’s taste buds, it involves me making said tart - entirely from scratch. No nipping out to M&S for pastry shells, chopped fruit and custard here, no siree! And I must fess up to not being the best pastry chef.

So, whether it was out of love, or excitement at finding the tartlette cases, I’m not sure, but I embarked on pastry making (in hot weather - not advised), creme patissiere making and pitting cherries…

The French taste buds are yet to pass verdict, but no matter. I’m over the moon that I managed to not burn anything, not undercook anything and get 6 out of 7 tartlettes out of the cases without breaking them!

Graves: [Miranda point her gun at Graves] So… Ms. Frost is not all she seems.
James Bond: Looks can be deceptive.
(Die Another Day)

I visited my favourite fruit and veg shop yesterday. Ahmed, the shopkeeper was serving someone else, so I waited at the side for him to finish darting between trays of oranges and courgettes. The customer was a 50-60yr old shortish man with an old touristy baseball cap on. He turned to me and asked me where I was from.

I don’t mind chatting to people, but have to admit to not enjoying chatting to men like this because they a) never stop talking, b) see no problems in asking rather personal questions (How old are you? Are you married?) and c) absolutely never take the hint oozing from my monosyllabic flat-toned responses and failure to look at them when I respond.

Such was he. He also had teeth that looked like they hadn’t been brushed in about a year, which led to the assumption that he was Egyptian because there is a special stick (miswaak) that some use to scrape their teeth clean. If you’re not a conscientious scraper, your teeth end up looking like his.

“Aah, Scotland. Cold! Very cold.”

“Hmm.”

“Aah yes, and James Bond. Sean Connery.”

“Yes.”

“Aah yes, 1965 that vas the first time I saw James Bond. He’s the only person alloved to kill, isn’t he? 007, he’s been given the right by the Queen.”

“Yes.” (not quite sure about that, but easier to agree!)

“You know, in all this time he has never been to my country.”

“Perhaps he wasn’t invited.” I said flat-toned.

“Yes, he hasn’t been to my country. The Middle East, he hasn’t been here..” At this point my interest changed. It is extremely unusual to hear an Egyptian refer to where they live as the Middle East, rather than Egypt, to the point that if you say they live in the Middle East, often there will be a correction that really, they live in Egypt and Egyptians are descendants of the Pharaohs, not the Arabs. “..He hasn’t been to my country, Israel.”

At this point my interest was definitely grabbed, unfortunately, my desire to end the conversation ramped up about 100 notches. Although there is a peace treaty, although there is foreign trade between the two countries and although there are some Israelis living in Egypt, the fact that when you drive near the Israeli embassy, not only do you have a blocked off road and mountains of gun-wielding policemen, but your mobile phone reception is cut, is an indication as to how the ‘man on the street’ really views Israel (as opposed to Russia or France, both embassies nearby with no such measures).

It was then too that the strange ‘v’ sound when he was talking clicked. It does not exist in Arabic and Egyptians find difficult to pronounce, so would never use a ‘v’ instead of a ‘w’.

“Have you been to Israel? Have you been to my country?”

“No.”

“It’s only 4 hours from Scotland, he should come. I don’t know vhy he vouldn’t come.”

Ahmed came to give the man his bill, saving me from having to answer on behalf of Mr Connery. He paid it and conversed briefly in what seemed to me like perfect Egyptian Arabic.

“Do you know that man?” my store keeper friend asked after the man had disappeared.

“No.”

A few moments of silence.

“Do you know him?” I asked.

“No, it was his first time here.”

A few more moments silence.

“Do you know where he’s from?” I asked.

“Egypt.” I raised my eyebrows. “He’s Egyptian.” Ahmed repeated.

“How can you tell?”

“He speaks like an Egyptian.”

“Yes,” I concurred, “In Arabic he does”.

“It’s far too hot for you to be wearing that, it’s designed for cool water.” said Mr S rather wisely given that the temperature was 36C (97F) and rising and I was wearing a long sleeved thermal rash vest (you know, the sort of swimsuit-type material tops surfers wear to block the sun).

“I’m ok, anyway, I want to keep the sun off me.”

This was in the car.

Once we got to the beach, I found a nice shady spot and stayed in it all day. I popped into the water once, with the rashie, and then headed back to the shade where the rashie came off again.

We left the beach, again, me wearing the thermal rashie (ok, it was a bit hot, but I was not wanting to get the sun), secure in the knowledge that unlike the three British girls on the beach who had, with their once rather beautiful porcelain skin, been crisping in the direct sun, all day, I would not be the colour of a lobster. It may have even been me who said under my breath to Mr S, “Yeah, but since when has bright red been an attractive skin colour?” when we overheard one declaring, “We need to get some colour before we go back” as she tugged her bikini bottoms further up her behind.

As the seatbelt clicked into place, searing pain spread through my thigh. In a rather ungraceful (even more so than wearing the definitely unflattering rashie) move I unclicked, jumped out the car and pulled my trousers down (don’t worry, nobody was around - being in Egypt for this long gives you a bit of a sixth sense for workmen loitering behind bushes near the beach etc) and my thigh was glowing. Then I felt heat from my décolletage and shoulders.

Two days later and I am still bathing in oodles of aftersun, moving awkwardly and not leaving the house so I can escape the torture that is wearing ladies’ undergarments on scorched skin.

The only explanation for my metamorphosis into an energy efficient heating source (Come and get it! Come and get it! Eco heat! Limited time offer! Open to highest bidder (must cover costs of skin cancer later).) is that the shade was in fact pseudo shade. The umbrella above me was made of slatted wood rather than one solid piece. The small gaps in between meant that sun was actually on me, and I didn’t realise.

Sorry, must dash. The last inch of aftersun has been soaked up, off to slather on some more.

“Jean-Paul asked me whether he should call me madame or mademoiselle.”

“What did you say?”

“Mademoiselle, of course, I haven’t been fully claimed* yet.”

“No-o-o.” (with nervous laughter)

“Ye-e-e-s.” (smiling sweetly)

“But, uh, no, uh, you can be called madame once you reach a certain age.”

“Well, perhaps, but whatever that certain age is, it’s certainly not 28. I’m a mademoiselle.”

It doesn’t matter where we go, the fact that Mr S has not made this Grouse into his spouse always comes up. “Is your husband here?” or “Are you over here with your husband?” are frequently asked. There are two avenues. First just answer ‘yes’ and forget about it. This inevitably happens during drinks/aperitif only to be followed by an awkward moment during dinner when someone else asks, “So, Mr S, when are you going to make an honest woman of Grouse?”.** The second option is responding, “My partner? Yes, he’s here.” Raised eyebrows and a quizzical look follow as thoughts sweep behind the eyes, “Here on holiday? No, I’m sure she lives here. Gay? No, surely not. Engaged? No, she would have said fiance. Why is she here in Egypt with someone when they won’t commit to each other? Strange.”

I don’t mind at all that the issue is raised by friends and strangers..it means I don’t have to do it!

Someone I know is having an affair. It’s serious. It’s with a colleague. He wanted my opinion, so bearing in mind cultural differences, and what I knew of the situation, I gave it.

In response to a point he had made about the “other woman” liking his wife and that she would have liked to be friends with his wife, I pointed out that if that were true, she would have done so when she had the opportunity (long before the affair started - and then, perhaps, it might not have begun).

I certainly don’t know everything there is to know about Egyptian culture, but I do try to remember the pieces of the jigsaw I discover. After all this time, it is unusual for me to hear something about it that I have never come across before. A gem came in response to my observation: the “other woman” colleague could never have become friends with his wife.

Apparently, it is socially unacceptable for a colleague of the same sex as your spouse to become friends with your spouse.

Why?

Because it would ignite suspicions that your colleague has amorous intentions towards you and wants to get closer to you via your spouse.

I have no idea if this is the same in any other country/culture, but it baffles me.

And certainly did not work in this case.