Admittedly I’m in a grumpy mood today: I always am after a bad night’s sleep.

But, but BUT, I wasn’t last week when I went shopping and I was superbly pissed off then too.

I walked into La Senza at our local hypermarket/shopping centre. It was about 9.30am and there were seven guys in their twenties, two of whom were clearly behind the tills, the rest were just hanging out, chatting with the two female floor assistants. Of the guys there, four were clearly watching me as I perused the lingerie. One of the girls came to follow me around and smooth out anything I even breathed on.

I hate that. I don’t care if they do it when I’ve left the shop, but following me and straightening every, single hanger while I’m there, like I’m ruining their display of hanging garments, which is there so that people like me come and look and then, presumably, buy, drives me nuts. Team it with some sexually repressed spectators and, La Senza, there’s not a hope in hell of me getting out my credit card.

So, I left the shop last week without buying. Not before quick glance at the two guys who were still watching me, then the two cashiers, then the guys sitting around the changing rooms with the other floor assistant and saying, in Arabic, loud enough for them to hear, “So, this is where all the guys come to hang out?” and walking out.

Today I went in just to see if it was different. Instead of seven, there were five guys.

I just don’t get it. It’s lingerie. It’s a conservative society. Women are covered up to protect their modesty, and so as not to titillate men, but lingerie stores have men working the tills? I know that there are bra stalls in markets and women pick their bras in full view of everybody, not just the male stall holder, but this is (for Egypt) an upmarket, expensive store.

It’s not just La Senza. A few shops away is Women’s Secret. They have a female floor assistant with a man on the till. The same with Nike Woman. Is it that Egyptian women cannot count and so cannot be trusted with tills? Nope. Perhaps it’s the patriarchial society. I don’t know. I don’t CARE! I don’t want some guy folding my bras, checking out if I might need another size (what the hell does he know about how bras fit?!) by asking and taking a quick ‘glance’.

Egyptian women are smart. They are also really nice and friendly. I would have probably bought something in all three stores today had there not been men checking out what I was going to be wearing for Mr S (and him alone). Egyptian men are also smart, but there are plenty of other retail ‘experiences’ that talented men can work at, there is no reason for them to be pawing my panties!

Knees, terribly sexy.

“Shorts? In Cairo?” my friend remarked with raised eyebrows.

“Oh, yes. Definitely, but only in the Hood and only in certain parts.”

It hit 35C yesterday – extremely unusual for this time of year, and more than that, after a few days of warm weather, no sand storms have hit. Perhaps there’s a real biggie on the way. Hopefully not. In the meantime, however, it’s kind of like summer.

The recent temperature hike has taken a lot of people by surprise. One result is that the cinemas haven’t turned on their refrigeration systems yet, aka A/C, so you can actually enjoy warm weather outside, then sit in the cinema and not catch a cold. Heaven.

After my little foray into the coffee bars and cinema of the Hood wearing shorts (just slightly above the knee – risqué) I felt superbly summery. Humming a happy little tune this morning I washed the summer stickiness off my skin and stepped out of the shower. I had just reached for my towel when I heard a cough. It wasn’t Mr S.
Then I heard a clattering and realised the cough came from outside. Being sufficiently high up that nobody could be near my window I had a moment of confusion.

In my happiness I had totally forgotten that scaffolding (of a sort) has been erected outside my bathroom window. I had no idea if Mr Cough had seen me in the buff, but I was sufficiently concerned that he shouldn’t see anything else (not least for fear that it become a regular occurrence for him and his buddies) that I was then stuck up against the wall holding a towel length-ways over my front waiting for a moment to sidle up to the door and slip out.

Suddenly the shorts seemed like very conservative attire.

Poor old Beejo has been feeling pretty neglected. Stuck in the corner, tyres beginning to deflate and big soft handle bars looking expectantly at me with puppy dog eyes every time I enter the room. Unfortunately, due to a strange, persistent and painful knee problem (that only occurs when I’m cycling uphill), Beejo’s sorry state is somewhat justified.

Today, while chatting with friends, I got a call from my physio.
“Hello.” he said.
“Hello.” I replied.
“You have an appointment now.”
“No, my appointment is not for another hour.” I said confidently. Unfortunately too confidently, as I was wrong.
“If you can come over immediately, there will be enough time because my next client is always late.”
“I’m on my way.”

Cue a major rush, not least because if I didn’t find my shorts, I would have been treated in my underwear – not something I relished. Shorts located I rushed out, got in the elevator and headed down. All this in about 30 secs. It was at exactly that moment that I realised Beejo could be a saviour at this point, so I headed back up.

Purring along the streets, Beejo was happy to be out, enjoying one of the nicest days of the year so far.

It wasn’t until we passed the first policeman (of about twenty on the route) that I remembered that I wasn’t wearing the best ensemble for cycling. A female cycling is an uncommon-enough sight in Egypt, even the Hood, but blonde hair blowing in the wind kind of helps attract a little more attention. Then there was the matter of footwear: flip flops. The only people who wear them out in Egypt are people who can’t afford proper shoes: strange on a foreigner. Coincidentally the only people who cycle anywhere are delivery boys, and it was a pretty odd picture. Add to that a striking green t-shirt with a massive V-neck and I suddenly found myself sitting pretty erect, fingertips barely touching the handle bars and pedaling as fast as possible.

“Oo’a! Oo’a! Oo’a! El agnabeya!” (Watch out, watch out, there’s a foreigner coming behind you!) yelled one man walking down the street to another in front of me.

As luck would have it, part of the road en route is being dug up, so in addition to the policemen, there were about ten workmen, never mind the 15 bowabs sitting relaxing mid-afternoon.

Cries of “Ya mozza!” (hey chick) and “Eh el halewa di!” (what is this beauty – rather literal, can’t remember what people say in countries where workmen have been banned from making comments) were accompanied by a cacophony of wolf-whistles.

Had I not been in such a rush, I would have minded, however, it was kind of my fault anyway (well, I was ‘teasing’ them..*). Anyway, on the flip side, at least I brightened up some people’s day, even if it was only to give them something to laugh at!

*That cliched argument of ’she was dressed like a tart so she deserved it’ hasn’t been disputed here yet.

At the risk of this blog being renamed Egyptian Lingerie, I have to share a few more delights. First up we have an interesting specimen. Lingerie goes through fashions here like everywhere else, picking up on lifestyle trends. A great number of women have become veiled here in the past six years. Along with that often goes wearing baggy, long robes, in Egypt called galabeyas. There are many variations on the theme, some short, worn with baggy trousers, some with fluted sleeves and almost all with sequins or embroidery and it seems to be catching on in the bedroom:

Orange was the colour to be seen in last year in day wear and seems bedroom-wear is following suit this year. One of the delights of the sexy little number on the left is the extra sheer section in the top. B-e-a-u-tiful. This getup is so synthetic that walking in it may cause sparks, of the flammable variety.

Lime green has, to my eyes, had an odd following over the past few years. Some way or another it always makes an appearance. Gaudy by day, gaudy by night it’s here this year. The number below is belly dance-esque. The black scarf in the mannequin’s hand is used to tie around the hips. I think the suggestion of this marketing device is that you can be sexy like a belly dancer in this négligé.

This too is a take on a belly dance theme, although a step more removed. I can’t imagine what the designer was thinking. It reminds me a little of those plastic shiny wigs that were around in the 80’s in a vague mullet style. No idea why.

As always, the best is for last. I think this should be called OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!

Shoes are always an issue when I shop in the UK for clothes to wear here. Having a bit of a shoe fetish doesn’t help. The problem is that shoes get ruined here in no time at all. First there’s the dust. My cute mint green, kitten-heeled, suede sandals managed to get dirty innersoles from wearing them once. Not that I was trekking around in them. Nope. My wearage consisted of walking across a road, into a car, and then getting out of the car, crossing a pavement and going inside the Four Seasons (definitely NOT a source of said dirt).

All Cairene sandal-wearers will attest to that moment where you begin to feel dirt crunching under your toes as the moment of lost hope: never again will those brand new, squeaky clean shoes look the same. And it doesn’t matter where you walk, the Cairo dust will prevail. Somehow. Even at home, inside, with all the windows closed, in a matter of half an hour, clean tootsies begin to pick up dust from a newly washed floor.

Next comes style, which is in part affected by the dust issue. Hot weather means summer styles. Mules, flip flops, closed toe, open toe, heels (and then how high?). The summer options seem endless. But they fool. Of primary importance when choosing the style is not the actual style, but what it can do for you. Hot weather makes feet “glow”. At this point, the desire to stay fashionable begins to hit dusk. Feet slipping around on synthetic innersoles is not that comfortable. Add in partial (or full, if you’re unlucky) swelling because of the heat and it’s now full blown night without even a moon. There is only one solution: Birkenstocks and forget fashion. Well, fashion can come in later, but for everyday, one lone pair of Birks that will get disgustingly dirty is the only way forward. And they are sort of fashionable.

Fashion is of primary importance to the Egyptian shopper. With their toes on the pulse, shops stock everything the would be buyer could want. Sandals are increasingly popular in recent years with the return and rise of the religious rag trade. Savvy sandal wearers, with their shortened trousers or long abeyas wear socks to cover their modesty and attempt to keep their feet clean. Socks with toes provide the perfect solution.

Accompanying this conservative renaissance comes a desire to stand out. It is this that the local shoe market caters for perfectly. So, without further ado, here are a selection to whet your appetite (oh yes, contain yourself).

First up (brawn before beauty) are some for the men:

Smart summer style is easy for men: brown or black.

Gucci sandals Egyptian styleeee.

As if the sandals weren’t good enough, a kiddy sand rake seems to be a stylish prop for Gucci.

Now for the beeeauuutiiiifullll laydees.

Not really my style.

Neither are these (click on image to get full glory)

Gucci is a favourite amongst Downtown Cairo fashionistas.

Teacosy designs make a statement in sweltering Cairo

And last, but of course not lease, my absolute favs: steel capped stilettos!

Full make up and jewellery was my first introduction to a gym here. It wasn’t even the best gym in Cairo. Women obsessed with the owner/aerobics instructor’s behind would fight to get centre front row in order to have the best view – I wish I was kidding. One woman, and remember we’re in a conservative country, actually came to an aerobics class wearing hot pants, tan tights, white pop socks and black trainers. Oh, and large hoop earings.

The hierarchy amongst the women was strong and competition fierce. One, Dina, had her spot and NOBODY would go in the front row on the far left (not even me in a bad mood). I never found out exactly what would happen if someone did, but didn’t want to!

Pre class chats would invariably be about what they ate that day “I had a giiii-norrrrr-mousssss piece of cho-co-late cake”, “Really? You’re lucky you can eat that and keep your figure. I had brrrro-cco-li”.

After a few months of mutual sweating, I found out that these women would come to aerobics classes every morning too. Some of them lived an hour drive away. Not that they drove, that’s what drivers are for, but still, four hours a day in the car just to get to the gym??? Buy a workout video.

I did actually buy a workout video once. Some MTV hiphop workout that was pretty fun in all honesty. Amazingly, about two months later the gym started hiphop classes. First class and I thought something was familiar. Seems the instructor had watched the same video as I had and forgotten to modify it! I got a few dirty looks from make-up clad laydees because I could do the routine with no effort, while they were looking uncool figuring out the difference between their ass and their elbows. Decided to keep my dirty secret to myself and let them suffer!

After recovering from my embarrassment yesterday, I returned to the shop today to get a catalogue. Unfortunately, there were no spares. So, after asking, I whipped out my camera and took some shots of it just for you. Lucky, lucky you.

And this on the bottom right is what the lucky bride will be getting.

“Bring something that an Egyptian bride would have on her wedding night” read the instructions. Something tells me she has no idea what this means, but who am I to be a party pooper.

So, yesterday saw my first foray into the realms of Egyptian lingerie. I have of course, seen it from the street, but as it more resembles attire for a prostitute than a bride, I’ve done a pretty good job at steering clear.

A bit of a feathered g-string and crotchless panty virgin, I mustered my best do or die attitude and entered the shop. Divided in half, I stopped first at the half selling fabric and casually chose some cotton for a dress before crossing to the dark side (it really was dark). An unmarried (no ring) veiled girl in her late teens (definitely a virgin with no boyfriend – ever) smiled at me. I pointed to the most awful ensemble and asked if she had more like it. Luckily for me she had some catalogues.

Weddings are big business in this part of the world. Not only do bride and groom have to move into dwellings for the first time together, the dwellings have to be fully furnished and preferably fully paid for. Social etiquette determine who pays for what, but that’s for another blog.

As the bride becomes a “woman” purely due to the loss of her hymen (assuming it wasn’t sown up before, again, another blog) great emphasis is placed on the wedding night and sex. All teenage girls wait with trepidation for the day they can buy their trousseau of lacy lingerie.

Until now, I have managed to stay out of shops catering for this market, put off by the male assistants and the nylon feathered g-strings adorning the windows (the g-strings adorn the windows, not the male assistants). All that changed, however, because Mr S and I are going to his sister’s wedding in Montpelier on Friday and just received a letter from chief bridesmaid asking guests from abroad to bring something “traditional for the wedding night” from their country of residence.

I don’t think I’ve been so embarrassed since I was a young teenager. Imagine cheap prostitute meets polyester and nylon. The more modest designs were all bellydance costumes, just see through. Nylon arm bands, nylon/polyester net boob tubes, transparent lace and net skirts and dresses with slits to the crotch, straps and more straps in a sort of bondage-meets-bellydance style. I have nothing against belly dancing, in fact it is definitely an art form, but there was no getting away from the fact that what Egyptian woman want to wear to look sexy for their husbands is almost entirely based on what belly dancers wear.

Before I go on, I should perhaps put this in some context, which is not that I am an uptight-about-sex Brit. First of all, sex is not a taboo subject in Egypt, despite being a religiously conservative country, because Islam has a more liberal approach to it than Christianity. However, women here are increasingly veiled and society as a whole, is extremely conservative. Depending on what area of town you are in, looking too sexy can mean wearing baggy trousers. Add into this that most Egyptian women are extremely overweight and these outfits, all in one size only, become more mind boggling by the second.

So, after the “modest” belly dance-esque affairs, were outfits that had the shop assistant and I staring at each other in disbelief. I’m not sure what her disbelief was exactly, as she worked there and had obviously looked through the catalogues before, perhaps she was just worried about which one I would ask her to get. Anyway. As the taste moved down hill, the amount of flesh exposed increased. My tip top favourite was a pair of sheer polyester hotpants (in a variety of colours) that had an opening at the lower part of the buttocks. Without too much detail, anal sex is deeply prohibited by the main religion here, so I am not exactly sure what this opening was supposed to be suggesting, but they were very, very classy.

In fact, I didn’t understand what most of the ensembles were supposed to be suggesting other than “Hey hubby, lucky you, you just married a virgin and now you’ve got a whore into the bargain”.

I did try to find a website with some of these selections on, as I fear my description does not do them justice, but it seems these companies do not have websites. Instead, you’ll just have to make do with random samples I caught from shop windows in the past and trust me that these are modest examples.

Beejo didn’t get its outing yesterday, as I was a bit wrecked from dancing all night at a super cool white party. Today we were back on track. At nine this morning we were back at the wadi. The plan was to go along the bottom and then take a track up to the plateau after a few km into the wadi. It was so hot, I thought I was about to collapse. Mr S (which stands for Super as in Supercyclist) told me it’s all in the mind and we should go a bit faster because there was a stray dog trotting along behind me. Had I had some energy that could be diverted away from focusing on not fainting, I would have probably said something I regretted.

After sorting out the over-heating problems (took off my cute pink bandana, no time for being cute in the desert it seems) Beejo was able to pick up some speed and I think Mr S thought my new attitude was cuter than the pink bandana had been. Still, it wasn’t getting any cooler.

We had to push the bikes up the hill to the plateau because it was too steep – for me anyway (see pic, we came from the bottom to the top) – to cycle up. Back up the top the breeze picked up and so did the speed. I managed my first, albeit unintentional, jump since I was a kid. Way too much fun. In fact, Supercyclist was a little concerned that I was going a bit too fast! Too fast?!! There’s no such thing..until I fall off. As for now, Beejo is happy, and so am I.

Definitely think that evening cycling is better though: temperature was 35C when we got back to the car.

Just a blow dry. Couldn’t be any simpler really. Started to be concerned when my hair was beginning to look like it does when I do it, which would be well, not hair exactly, rather a ball of blonde fluff. It’s great look if you want to stand in front of a light and pretend to be an angel, but not what I’d planned for this evening’s engagement party. Air-raid (or should that be hair-raid – sorry) sirens started piercing the soothing sound of blow driers when I heard, “Don’t worry, he’s a professional”.

Still, I gave him the benefit of the doubt – until he got to the front, at which point I realised that I really could do a better job of styling. It was around this point when my ‘professional’ was reassigned to someone else. I was told to wait a minute. So I did. In fact I waited four. Not a long time in the overall scheme of things, but in a hot hairdressers where hair needs to be styled before it dries, it’s kind of like quarter of a century.

So, for the second time in my life I walked out of a hairdressers with my hair half finished (or half started depending on how you look at it – and yes, I did pay for it).