I went to the bakery a few days ago.

“Good morning.” I said.

“Good morning.” said the shopkeeper. Then he stared at my face for a second, frowned and said, “I prefer you without.”

Egyptian shopkeeper who I do not know very well, thinks I look better wearing contact lenses than glasses. Great – a valued and asked for opinion at 8am on a weekend morning.

When I was in Cairo the first time, I was a little, hmmm, softer around the edges than I am now. My Egyptian friends, usually male, were quite happy to tell me how much better I would look if I just lost ‘this’. ‘This’ would be said whilst grabbing a handful of my blubber. It wasn’t enough to say it once, I could rely on it being said about once a week – by each of them.

At the same time, my good friend, who was love handle free, would be told she could do with piling on a few pounds.

I have to admit, that it took me a long time to realise that this isn’t intended to be mean. A long time. In fact, it is actually a backhanded compliment: I think you are nice enough that I feel comfortable telling you how you can be perfect (in a society where physical perfection is highly sought after). The concept that someone’s weight is a personal, sensitive issue or that some of us don’t feel the need to look good for other people all the time, including when nipping out for a loaf of bread on a weekend morning, just doesn’t exist.

Nowadays, I take great delight in not getting dressed, doing my hair and putting on makeup to get the bread – sometimes. In contrast to looking ‘decent’ it is fantastic to turn up at the bakery with bed-hair, glasses and dodgy trousers, just to see the concerned look on this guy’s face!

As for the blubber, a lot of it has gone, but I still got a scrutinising look from a friend at the pool yesterday as I took off my t-shirt to reveal my bikini and less than toned belly!

How liberating it is to not care!

(Image from gigwise.com)

The metaphorical blizzard has hit and there’s no turning back. I think I’ve done fairly well this year in fact, but a little browsing on iTunes today brought me over the threshold: they have a ‘Christmas’ genre. Perhaps they always have had it, but today I spotted it. Don’t get me wrong, nobody in my house, whether living permanently or just popping in to read the gas metre is starved of Christmas music in December. It’s too catchy, too evocative, too cheery and calming. There’s Wham’s ‘Last Christmas’ alongside Harry Connick Jr. singing ‘Let it snow’ (I know, I know, it’s Cairo, but still…), next to the Pogues ‘Fairytale in New York’ and ‘Silent Night’ from Kings College, the Ronnette’s ‘I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa’, Bing Crosby & Judy Garland’s version of ‘Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer’, Chuck Berry’s ‘Run Rudolph, Run’, Burl Ive’s ‘Frosty the Snowman’ and Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want for Christmas’ – plus another 4.5 hours more of music (it was more, but I decided to delete dupilcate songs last year). I don’t even like Mariah Carey. I really don’t, but give me a Christmas song and well, I can’t really help myself.

About a week ago my cousin’s cousin (what does that make her to me) asked the question to her Facebook friends: is it too early to play Christmas music? I couldn’t decide. Now I say, “You go girl!”

I’m still containing my desire to hoist up the decorations. No Poinsettia can be purchase before 1 December. That’s my rule. But come 9am on that day, I shall be getting my Christmas Roses and (what will make do as a) Christmas tree. Then I will start the painstakingly delightful process of individually stringing stars up from a beam on the ceiling.

This year I started buying decorations in August. It’s not that I don’t have any, it’s just that I didn’t have those decorations (wooden angels that hang on the door). Yesterday I cheekily added a simple, white clay angel that holds a little candle to my stash. I guess this is the year of the angels. I’m itching to take her out of the wrapping, but no, no, I’ve been telling myself, wait a few more days, December will be here soon.

Mr S, coming from France, doesn’t share my UK/North American/German festive cravings. Candles, marzipan, chocolate, mince pies, Christmas cake, stollen (because of the marzipan), pfeffernusse, homemade truffles, cinnamon, spices and cloves. He just doesn’t understand. He didn’t even know what Christmas cake was until last year! Utterly unimaginable to me.

But I’ve started working on it. Bereft of advent calendars when he grew up, this year, aged 36 in a few weeks, will get his very first painted card with doors (not one of those chocolate ones, but one with different pictures behind every door – because what’s the point in knowing there’s the same thing behind every door?) at breakfast on 1 December. This year too, we will add mince pies (homemade by yours truly) to our December menu, and the arrival of Big Mama and Lil’ Bro should see stollen, pfeffernusse and Christmas pud pausing on his virgin taste buds.

“..There’s a happy feeling nothing in the world can buy,
When they pass around the coffee and the pumpkin pie
It’ll nearly be like a picture print by Currier and Ives
These wonderful things are the things
We remember all through our lives.” (Sleigh Ride)

And a little PS for all you bah-humbug types: sssshhh!

Our big cycling weekend is coming up and due to the neck sauna issue I’m not allowed on a bike. Having made the decision to actually do this trip given my levels of unfitness (and it took a lot of courage), being told I’m not allowed to was a bit of a downer.

I will still be going though (to sit in the supply jeep) and with any luck I’ll both remember my camera and how to use it and will bring back some great pics. Fingers crossed.

In the meantime, I thought I’d update you on the King Swing I promised to do in Canada. We went to the park in Nanaimo where the King Swing is and watched some people bungy, hoping to see someone swing. We watched for about half an hour and nobody did King Swing. The rational Mr S had figured out all the physics of it and decided that it all looked pretty boring (i KNOW – how can that beeee!!) while I was fighting a major internal battle: if I don’t do it now, I’ll regret it – yeah, but I don’t have to do it and nobody will know…

Eventually, bored, Mr S said it was time to go. We turned to leave and blow me, I realised that I’d be desperately disappointed with myself if I sissied out.

I mentioned in the original post that I was scared of heights. I should point out that that was a bit of an understatement: I had a problem just walking up the stairs onto the bridge we would swing off. Up I went though, cursing the sadistic nut would design a bridge 45m high that had slats you could see through underfoot.

Before we swung I was already beginning to lose it a bit. I was hanging onto my sanity as tightly as I was to the straps around me. Needless to say that after swinging 45m d-o-w-n I was a bit of a hyperventilating, shaking wreck. Later, feeling a little hoarse, I apologised to Mr S for screaming in his ear, he looked at me like I was crazy and told me I hadn’t uttered a peep! Hmmm. Then there was the sore muscle near my heart for about an hour afterwards. Double hmmm: think I was petrified!

Anyway, I did it. And I might even do it again one day – but not for a while!

King Swing

Here’s a little video of what we did. For some reason it won’t embed, so you’ve got a link instead. It doesn’t have me in it,* as I wasn’t wearing my TG feathers that day, but if you just imagine the smiles you see to be a stony nervous face next to a nonchalant Mr S, you’ll have a pretty accurate picture of what went on!

*Or anyone I know

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.

“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!

(You can tell I don’t photoshop my images because I’d have taken out that red bucket!)

For the past couple of weeks I’ve been driving Mr S mad. Instead of cuddling up next to him, baking him lemon curd cup cakes or chatting with him, I’ve been glued to my computer. This new blog is the result. It would probably take someone more skilled in the art of css about five minutes to do, but my skills lie..hmm..elsewhere.

There are still some little things that need to be tweaked and when I’m allowed back on the computer again, I’ll do them! In the meantime, take a look around, fasten your seat belts and enjoy the ride.

If you have a blog and have linked to Insteadi, it may be a good idea to change the link to here as I will eventually take Insteadi down.

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.

If you correctly guess what this is I might make you some. If you finish reading this post, you might not want to guess.

Mr S and I have fallen into a bit of a routine when it comes to meals. Generally speaking, I will prepare starters and desserts and he makes French culinary masterpieces for the main. It works well.

Or it worked well. A distinct flaw became evident last night as we (Les Parents et moi) arrived home from our little exploration of the neighbourhood. We had passed a TBK motorcycle delivery man, who, upon seeing me pointing out the bike to Les Parents, did a U-turn and stopped to give us menus. I told him that I had one already and I really liked the burger. He carried on handing us the menus. It wasn’t until he drove off that I realised I’d not been speaking Arabic. Or English. Nope, FRENCH. Why on earth could that not have happened in my French GCSE?!

So, as we took off our shoes and put our bags down, Les Parents looked at the menus we’d been handed. I suddenly heard a voice inside me screaming, “Say you want burgers! Say you want burgers!” as I realised Mr S definitely wouldn’t be here for dinner and the sad truth hit that my starter-and-dessert-making has rendered me incapable of cooking main courses.

They didn’t appear to want burgers (Mr S later told me they are not very keen on them) and seeing as it was their first night here, I felt like I should at least make an effort. Les Parents are extremely kind and polite, and even said they liked the meal. In all honesty, with no false modesty, it was a horrible meal. The pesto tasted more of garlic than pesto, the presentation was, no other word for it, sorry, crap and the bread..well, the oven is Egyptian made. Some Egyptian things are well made, some are not, and our oven falls into the second category. On this occasion, the heat of it melted the timer causing it to fail..and the bread to burn. Gordon, Delia, Nigella, Nigel, Ainslie, or anybody else who can wear a tall white hat (and command respect), I am not.

So, if you get invited to dinner chez insteadi, you might want to gently inquire about who the chef is that evening before accepting.

After an exciting, but tiring, week on a Nile Cruise, Les Parents are resting, having decided that seeing pyramids today would be too much. Phew! Gets me off the hook trying to explain things in dodgey French. I had dug out an old French guide book (well, not old incomparison to the structures I guess!) that I could pass over to them, open on the appropriate page (preparation is everything), but this is best all round.

And poor Mr S. The first time his parents come to Egypt to visit and where is he? Aberdeen where he had a two day one night meeting? Amsterdam where his KLM flight to Cairo was supposed to leave from? Nope. He’s in Paris.

“What’s he doing there then?” I hear you ask and well you may. Kindly (excuse me while I clear my throat), given that KLM had cancelled their Cairo flight yesterday, they moved him to Air France for today’s flight.

Air France is, to all those who travel on it and know it only too well, rather like TWA in that it is blessed with an name/acronym that provides rich pickings for dissatisfied travelers:
TWA (Transworld Airl.) Take the Waitress Away
TWA (Transworld Airl.) Travel Without Arrival
TWA (Transworld Airl.) Try Walking, Asshole
TWA (Transworld Airl.) Try Walking Again
TWA (Transworld Airl.) The Worst Airline
TWA (Transworld Airl.) Took Wrong Airline
TWA (Transworld Airl.) Terrorist Welcome Aboard
TWA (Transworld Airl.) Terrorists With Arms
TWA (Transworld Airl.) Teenie Weenie Airlines
TWA (Transworld Airl.) Traveling Without Air
TWA (Transworld Airl.) Tiny Wings A-flappin’
TWA (Transworld Airl.) Tight Wad Airlines
TWA (Transworld Airl.) Try Walking Across (transatlantic perspective)
TWA (Transworld Airl.) Teenie Weenie Airlines
TWA (Transworld Airl.) Twenty Wobbly Airplanes
TWA (Transworld Airl.) Twits Win Again
TWA (Transworld Airl.) That Was Awful
Air France so easily slips into (conveniently in English as well as French) Air Chance.

So, right now, having had an unscheduled and unwelcome night in Paris, Mr S is now stuck at the airport where his Air Fr..Chance plane has been delayed.