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.”

In the days BMS (pre Mr S), I used to work for an NGO in Cairo. It was an interesting time and a beneficial project. I had been toying with doing a masters in development as I found a career that would enable me to ‘give something back’ appealing.

My particular task was not so appealing. It was one of those things that looks simple, but in actual fact was fairly complicated and required a great deal of patience for the technical side that in the end nobody would notice, unless corners were cut and then there would be complaints. My immediate boss knew exactly the nature of The Beast (as we called it), as did my department. At the time that was all I cared about because they were the only people who actually understood what I was doing.

When the final, final deadline came (the first one was 12 days after I started, pushed back every two months or so for others to be involved - for two years), not enough time had been left for me to completely finalise the work. So, being a bit of a perfectionist (well, then, not now!) I worked 13 days for free. The Beast still wasn’t 100% finalised, so I emailed all the Relevant People and explained the situation, including the 13 days. Anyway, it was more than decent and totally workable.

About six months after my final day there (final due to reduced funding) I started hearing that comments were being made by the Relevant People about how I worked for two years when the job should have only taken about a month. Then comments about how I worked for two years and didn’t even finish The Beast. Then comments about how I basically was fleecing them for two years.

Of course, not being there to explain that the additional ‘deadlines’ they set, all given because of the extra involvement they authorised, meant that this book of rumours kind of stuck to my name. Although I was partly upset about it, I also didn’t care because I had no intention of working for that group again. By this time I had well and truly decided that there were better ways of me ‘giving back’.

I also knew that sticky beaks wouldn’t be able to stay away from The Beast and that at some point in the future my position would become essential again. Knowing the Relevant People, it would also be at the last minute.

That day came this week: I was asked if I would come back to work with The Beast again, it was urgent and essentially I was the only one who knew how to do it.

I don’t think there has ever been a “No” spoken before that was as rotund and oozing with glee as mine was that day.

When I was 13 I went to school in Austria for two months during the Summer term. It was great. Coming from Scotland, the only thing I cared about was that I saw the sun almost every day, which essentially meant I was on holiday (despite the homework).

I was staying in a lovely old four-storey house, just down the road from the Mirabell Gardens and Palace in Salzburg. This meant nothing to me before I arrived (and not very much either when I was there as I didn’t watch much TV), but it was where Maria and the children sang “Do-Re-Me” in The Sound of Music. Very picturesque and a little touristy.

I am guessing that at one time, way back when, the house I was staying in faced fields. Then, one day, probably in the seventies, along came a town planner and decided the fields would make an excellent location for a whopping great big block of flats.

The result, twenty years later, was a distinct lack of ‘respectability’ on the opposite side of the street. This had less to do with economics and more to do with the presence of two sex shops in the giant blocks (one which blatantly offered more than toys for sale). Now, sunshine was most definitely a great change from the grey skies of Scotland, however, living opposite two sex shops, proved fantastic entertainment for a 13 year old girl who was particularly sheltered back in her homeland.

My friends and I used to gather at my window and yell things to the men who would try to sneak into the dodgier of the two shops. Subject to particular attention were the ones who entered carrying toilet roll (no idea why and don’t want to know). After yelling, or wolf-whistling, we would immediately duck down under the window, giggling, and then raise our heads slowly to catch sight of the confused patron.

And so it was this afternoon, that leaning over our balcony railing, I saw Mr S arrive home. I blew out a long wolf whistle. Unfortunately he didn’t hear. The four workmen on the street apparently have better hearing and spun around, looking at each other to see where it came from.

I, worried I’d be spotted, ran inside giggling, giddy with the idea I had just stumbled upon a way of playing with the workmen who have been annoying me so much for the past 18 months.

And thinking of Austrian sex shops.

I sit down to work in the morning and it takes a good 40 mins before I even open my files. First there’s email to check and (if sender is lucky) for me to answer immediately.

Then there are the newspapers. Now, when I was in the UK, I wouldn’t spend that much time reading the papers. I watched the news like a hound and/or listened to Radio Four and followed up stories I was interested in online. Here it’s different. Firstly, BBC World is great, but nobody can cover the world’s news in depth. Secondly, with the time difference, I’m at my computer while Farming Today is on, so no use really. So, then I turn to the papers. It started with the Guardian, but then I realised the Telegraph has a good expat section in. Then came the Times, to act as a moderator. Then, in the name of research for work, came the Daily Mail. As rubbish as the last offering is, it does keep you on top of some of the more banal stories so you know what’s going on - and of course, it hardly takes a long time to look at pictures anyway (the Independent didn’t last long because it seems that you have to pay for all the interesting articles and it just annoyed me).

Then there is this blog.

Then there are the other blogs I read (39 in total), but I open my files in between reading the other blogs.

Then I start work.

Then the phone rings.

I start to get peckish.

Then I have an appointment I have to go to.

Then I start thinking that I should really be studying, not working at this moment.

Then I realise I’ve missed lunch, so stop to eat.

After not very long, it’s already 4pm and I’ve been at the computer since about 8am. In my previous life, I would be in the office from 8am to 4pm, so it seems a natural time to stop. In those days, however, surrounded by working colleagues, rather than an empty house and full fridge, I actually got work done between those hours.

Then I start feeling guilty. And it always starts at around 4pm. Guilty because another day has gone by, my productivity has been pretty low and all the while, Mr S has been working his slender fingers to the bone.

And it’s incredibly strange. I have always been a conscientious, nose to the grindstone, goal-oriented person. I couldn’t sit still. I couldn’t waste time. Ever. Everything had a purpose. Now, I am rather ashamed to say, I am the complete opposite. But, without the constant stress, the continuous running around, the lack of sleep from working 18 hour days at deadline times (only for the deadline to be moved back a few days the following morning and more work added), I think, if it’s not too bold, I’m a much nicer person to be around.

So as guilty as I feel about my lack of productivity, I’m not sure I want to change it.

I used to play the oboe. I spent my entire playing career believing that I wasn’t very good only to get Grade 8 distinction when all the people I believed were far better than me just scraped a pass. A nice shock and a good lesson.

After I finished my exam I played only a few times and then I lost interest. I hadn’t been driven by the exam, but finishing school and a wide world waiting for me to explore was too delicious to stay at home and practice.

Ten years on and I have just picked it up again for the first time. More than a little rusty, but managing a decent sound and at about Grade 4 in sight reading tests, I was having fun..

..Until I started worrying about disturbing the neighbours. And it was then that I realised: ‘madame’ the downstairs hatefully unfriendly neighbour was being disturbed. A little chuckle and I carried on puffing away merrily on double octave scales over and over and over and over again.

The only thing worse than listening to her scream and yell abuse at anybody who has rung her bell over the past 18 months, has to be repetitive scales that are nearly right!