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.

“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.

Back in the oven. I’m not kidding. Two weeks of sun shining on our extensive stone floor has left it emitting heat. If it was snowy outside, I’d be happy to arrive to underfloor heating, but when it’s 37C outside, it’s really not such a welcome feature.

I’ve been a bit shocked to see just how green the grass in the gardens around here is. It is exactly the same green as the grass in an area of France that had rain every day for about two months with not much sun outside the rainy spells. This is one of Egypt’s hottest summers for years. Someone come and make desert gardens fashionable. Please.

As the weather topped 40C residents of The Hood decided to stay inside and look longingly at their terrace today. Seems that an evening breeze brings heat the following day.

Since moving to The Hood, insteadi has to admit to becoming something of a weakling. Temperatures that previously meant huge permagrins plastered across my face now send me scrabbling for the AC remote (cue lots of smug smiles from all my former colleagues who had to suffer when I got too cold from the AC and turned it off). Not very environmentally friendly, but hey, if multinationals can move their operations to Egypt to take advantage of electricity subsidies and lower environmental standards than Europe, then a few AC’s to keep me sane aren’t going to make that much of a difference.

It seems that the temperature has affected me in other ways too (or perhaps it’s just the expat air of The Hood): my layer of desensitised-to-comments-on-the-street-skin has been eroded. I am now in the unenviable position of understanding what is being said AND not having thick enough skin to be able to ignore what I hear (while also being a bit betty).

Solutions? Get out there and build up a new protection against leery comments, or, stay in the cool AC’d apartment and wait, in true expat fashion, for a car to take me where I want to go.

Ever aware of my carbon footprint, it seems that developing a thick skin will somewhat reduce the environmental damage my existence creates…well, as long as I remember to turn the AC off before going out!

Nostrils inhaling dirty heat. Stifling, fantastic. Muscles relaxed, hearts soft. Minds wander beeped back by horns. Cars creep, exhausts pump. Hearts beat. Tarmac expands. Beads form on foreheads, rivers run down backs. Minds wander. Darting people dodge vehicles. Policemen wave traffic, advertisements gleam from above. Windows down, windows up. Gesticulations with mobile phones. Fake Nancy winks, plastic Amr poses. Buses chug. Hearts pump.

Nostrils inhaling dirty heat. Stifling, fantastic. Muscles relaxed, hearts soft. Minds wander beeped back by horns. Cars creep, exhausts pump. Hearts beat. Tarmac expands. Beads form on foreheads, rivers run down backs. Minds wander. Darting people dodge vehicles. Policemen wave traffic, advertisements gleam from above. Windows down, windows up. Gesticulations with mobile phones. Fake Nancy winks, plastic Amr poses. Buses chug. Hearts pump.

Brown furniture aged by dust and sweat. Fans droning outside drown the car horns. Plastic crystals dangle from the shiny brass chandelier inside. Three people sitting in a dimly lit room. Two from the same country, the other a different continent and culture. Two the same age, one six years younger. Two eating a food from one culture now monopolized by another and delivered by a third, one not. One comment and borders smoothed by friendship are ascended as the three unite in their memories of a band…from a third country.

Brown furniture aged by dust and sweat. Fans droning outside drown the car horns. Plastic crystals dangle from the shiny brass chandelier inside. Three people sitting in a dimly lit room. Two from the same country, the other a different continent and culture. Two the same age, one six years younger. Two eating a food from one culture now monopolized by another and delivered by a third, one not. One comment and borders smoothed by friendship are ascended as the three unite in their memories of a band…from a third country.