I hate, absolutely hate going to the Dr. Going to the hospital sends me into a panic attack. Wish I were kidding. The only way for me to go inside a hospital for treatment of any sort is to be in the sort of pain where I don’t think properly. The sort where I would throw my passport off a balcony.

So it was, yesterday afternoon, I made a visit to the hospital. Here I am now following in the high fashion footsteps of the girl above (I seem to have more of a double chin).

After a conversation that went something like this, “I don’t like taking medication, I prefer letting my body heal itself naturally, but GIVE ME SOMETHING NOOOOWWWW!” I now also have somewhat functioning painkillers.

While the neck collar is a welcome relief, have you ever tried to tightly wrap a scarf around your neck when it’s 32C?

Image from www.vantilmedical.com.

“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.

Do you remember sitting in the classroom after swimming class? Plagued by the smell of chlorine that just won’t go away?

Nope, it’s not a line from some cheesy legal commercial inciting legal action against swimming pool maintenance workers, it’s me right now.

I definitely wouldn’t mention it had I been swimming, primarily not to annoy those of you suffering in colder climes, but that is unfortunately not the cause. It’s my shower. Sometimes it is worse that others, and it’s something I’ve always noticed here. Today, however, unless my sense of smell has grown to Pinocchio-like proportions, it is the worst for a very long time.

My stomach churning is only half the story. Having followed my normal morning ablutions, the mixture of the chlorine and the soap and shampoo seems to have induced a spell of finger skin peeling.

I may have to take my carbon bootprint (further) off the scale and start washing my hands with bottled water…

The image is of the Maadi Club Pool..also heavily chlorinated at times and rarely frequented by me for that and other reasons.

I had arranged to be picked up from the mall/shopping centre at Door 1. This isn’t any old shopping centre, it’s huge and still expanding. The distance between alternative doors is great. So, I get to Door 1 to find a throng of people arguing with security who are not letting them out. There seems to be no reason for not letting people out, just that that’s the decision. The argument gets heated and one little wifey pushes her way through, only for another security guard to jump out to block her way.

Now, out on the road, where the car is supposed to come, are policemen who make sure that cars do not wait. People can jump in, but that’s about it. If you’re not there in time, the car gets moved on and it’s another 15-20 mins before it can get back. A total pain in the arse.

So, realising that I don’t have much time left now, I run down to Door 2. I get outside and then find that for some reason you have to do a very large circle in order to get to the pavement outside Door 1, and I definitely don’t have time for that. So, leaping into action, I secure my purchases under my arm and run to the barrier (in red on map) and jump over it. At this point security from Door 2 come outside and start shouting at me. Undeterred, I continue my jaunt.

I’ve drawn a map to help explain this because it is so nonsensical that you’ll get lost otherwise (as did I).

(click image to enlarge)

After leaping over the second barrier, the cries of “Madame! Madame! Madame! Madame!” coming from Door 2 security begin to come a little closer. Not to be stopped mid-flight I pick up speed and mount the third barrier.

By now, security from Door 2 has attracted the attention of security from Door 1 who rushes to the last barrier in my way. “Don’t let her get through! Stop her! Stop her! Madame! Madame stop! You can’t go that way! Stop! Don’t let her get through!” is resounding through the forecourt.

Obviously realising that the mad foreign woman is not to be messed with today, security from Door 1 indicates that I can continue over this barrier (luckily there was a hole that I can get through instead – I’m not that athletic). “No! No! No! She can’t do that! Madame! Madame! Come back! Come BACK!” poor Door 2 security is still shouting.

To no avail however, because I get to the car just before the policeman moves it on.

Security from Door 1 was right: I am not to be messed with today. An argument at 7.30 am with the internet company (delightful details in another post) didn’t put me in the mood to deal with stupid systems.

At the end of last Ramadan, during the Eid festivities, Mr S and I headed off to Dahab for a spot of diving and windsurfing. Our first hotel double booked us and we were stuck for a place to stay. We eventually found a room at a place called Divers’ Urge. Very nice on the surface. After I refused to pay a price for diving that included kit rental because I have my own full kit, we were essentially thrown out and ended up in a bit of a dive for a night (but it did have brilliant views). Health and safety was an obvious priority as they had protected all the fire extinguisher with black binliners.

Guests were informed of the ‘house rules’ on the back of the room doors:

The next night we stayed at a much nicer place, with even better views.

Only trouble was, we were mildly electrocuted in the shower….

I’m supposed to make a doctor’s appointment this evening. Another one. During my whole school career I barely had a day off sick. When everyone else in my house was at deaths’ door, I was still chirpily getting up and carrying on without so much as a sniffle.

All that changed once I came to Egypt. Within three weeks I had a stomach bug that ended up with me semi conscious in a taxi in the steamiest month of the year heading to a highly recommended doctor (one of a series) that insisted I strip so he could do a breast exam, before prescribing antibiotics.

And it always ends up with antibiotics. First you do the tests, then get the antibiotics, then you get the test results, then you get more antibiotics.

You can, of course, just go to the pharmacy (actually, you don’t need to go, they all deliver) and get the antibiotics without a prescription anyway. That saves the doctor fees, test fees and hours spent in the full waiting room for your appointment three hours ago with the doctor who has yet to turn up.

Not all doctors are like this. But enough are.

When the system works well, however, it is wonderful. Test results within days, sometimes hours, appointments in the evenings, appointments on the day you need, doctors who provide their business cards so you can call them if there is a problem, or to update them on your progress.

But it all makes you wonder. I have been told I need invasive surgery on average about once a year. I only had it once, and I genuinely needed it, and I’m still doing ok.

When the doctor treating you will benefit financially if you go under the knife, a large wall of cynism develops.

There may be many complaints about the NHS, but one thing for sure: if you don’t need surgery, there is no way the cash-strapped Service shall open you up.

We had an earthquake yesterday. Not a huge one, but a little bigger than the normal. Sometimes in the past I’ve not been sure if they were earthquakes or just the builders downstairs doing something that shook the building a lot. Other people felt yesterday’s too, so it wasn’t in fact our almost-resident-by-now builders.

I am utterly fed up of all the dust downstairs and the undressing stares every time I venture outside. As much as the builders irritate me though, I also feel equally awful about their conditions. Yesterday we came home to find the pathway totally blocked by a man cutting stone (of course moving a metre to the side would have been unthinkable, it’s workmen who have right of way, not residents). Mr S (here read Supernegotiator) tried to point out to the foreman (here read man who sits on a chair and watches the men work) that they could cut the remaining stack of stone tiles to the side, to no real avail.

The poor man cutting the stone was holding the cutter with bare hands, the stone in place with his sandaled foot with the effluent dust flaring up into his eyes and lungs, as he had no protective facial gear on. This is absolutely normal and indeed it may be argued that this man is lucky: he has a job and as stone cutter is probably paid more than the others.

Whether he’s lucky or not, it’s an uncomfortable argument.

The path is still a work in progress. Yes, there are some pillars at the left hand side. For some reason, the front of the path hasn’t been finished. Perhaps they will fancify the pavement in front too. A little worrying as the water pipes are under there… At least they’ve not put any more sand over the entrance (evidence of my previous rant is the orangy sand at the end of the path and slightly to the left where they later moved some of it to).

Pillars are of course not enough for any self respecting building in The Hood. Slightly out of sight are some tall cement frames that currently have light bulbs hanging out. Cladding is expected to be of a fanciesque design. As long as we don’t have mirrors or gold, we’ll have got off lightly.

Not so the people who will move into the apartment nearing completion: a peek in the door (what? Aren’t neighbours supposed to be nosy?) uncovered a lime green and red stripey patch on a pillar. Not purely paint samples I think, more a hint of how the paint will be creatively applied.

Perhaps that’s better than a friend’s neighbour who painted the exterior of their soon to be rented house pastel pink, lime green and pale lemon yellow.

Taste knows no limits.

Was looking (5th day in a row) at flats on Wed. and found one that was acceptable (with some alterations). Spoke to the land lady on the phone and agreed to sign the lease on Friday. It was on the 6th floor. We left the apartment, got in the lift to come back down and after about one floor it stopped. Then it started. Then it stopped. Then the lights went off. Then it started again. Then it stopped suddenly and the roof fell down, then it started again and stopped. We could hear voices outside, so we knew we’d finally reached the bottom. Was totally freaked out though. Then it started moving again and crashed at the very bottom of the lift shaft. No nice bounce, it was concrete on concrete/metal. One of the lights fell off and smashed on the floor and the four of us were stuck inside this tiny lift. By now I was half crying, half hyperventilating. I just wanted to get out of it, but the doors wouldn’t open. We had to spend what seemed like an eternity waiting for them to prize the doors open.

So, wasn’t moving into that apartment.

Was looking (5th day in a row) at flats on Wed. and found one that was acceptable (with some alterations). Spoke to the land lady on the phone and agreed to sign the lease on Friday. It was on the 6th floor. We left the apartment, got in the lift to come back down and after about one floor it stopped. Then it started. Then it stopped. Then the lights went off. Then it started again. Then it stopped suddenly and the roof fell down, then it started again and stopped. We could hear voices outside, so we knew we’d finally reached the bottom. Was totally freaked out though. Then it started moving again and crashed at the very bottom of the lift shaft. No nice bounce, it was concrete on concrete/metal. One of the lights fell off and smashed on the floor and the four of us were stuck inside this tiny lift. By now I was half crying, half hyperventilating. I just wanted to get out of it, but the doors wouldn’t open. We had to spend what seemed like an eternity waiting for them to prize the doors open.

So, wasn’t moving into that apartment.