There are times when living in Egypt can just get too much. Everything becomes a headache, far more stressful than it usually is and expletives become common vocabulary.

The longer I’ve been here the less it happens. That, however, just leaves me with further to fall when it does.

Since Summer 2005 I have been visiting the pool of Cairo’s Grand Hyatt. There are not many places to go swimming in Cairo and even less once you remove the pools where an inch of skin will attract a gaggle of ogling male eyes. A dip didn’t come cheap, but it was worth every penny, particularly because this price also included access to the jacuzzi, steam room and sauna.

With temperatures of 38C right now, Mr S and I recently made our first appearance at the pool this year. All was going well until I asked if the steam room was working and then told, in front of another guest and in a tone that suggested I was trying to sneak in for free, that I could not use these facilities if I had only paid for the pool.

Off to get showered and leave, the same attendant managed to walk in on my shower. Apparently accidentally (it was the only one that was occupied..).

I made a complaint and tried to explain that if someone was thought to be using the spa area without paying, either talking to them ALONE or informing them at reception as they left that they would not be able to do so again without paying would probably be a better way to go. The response? Apparently it was my fault for misunderstanding four years ago what the deal was. Yep. Absolutely, totally, perfect sense.

And not very 5 star. So, most definitely the last time we go there. Which means, I have lost my escape in Cairo, my bastion of serenity. This was a devastating blow. There are so few places where you can get everything you want under one roof here, and for them not to be overcrowded too.

Next came some more water cuts.

Then, the following day when I forgot I’d left the tap on in the bathroom sink (and we actually had water). I rushed back to turn it off (from an ecological point of view) only to find that the sink had overflowed.

This was not because the sink has no overflow pipe. Oh no. It is there, or rather the hole in the sink is there, however there isn’t actually a pipe. There isn’t a pipe, because someone had the bright idea of blocking up the overflow hole instead. Unfortunately for my things in the cupboard below, they didn’t even manage to do a good job of it and from having no water mere hours before, I then had a flood in the cupboard and the bathroom floor.

Flipping fantastic.

The strange thing is, that when one of these periods starts, it doesn’t give up until it is well and truly tired (note: that has nothing to do with whether you are tired of it or not).

And despite living here for all this time, the bottom line still is (only when I have water you understand), “At least it is sunny.” I mean, come on, it could be far worse: sleet.

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.

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!

My friend was walking down a road in the Hood yesterday with her 1 year old daughter strapped onto her front. She is not Egyptian. She was wearing a V-neck loose-fitting T-shirt (so, not tight or too revealing). Her daughter was holding the hem of the V. A group of teenage boys was walking towards her. She knows something is going to happen: it always does.

Sure enough, the group approach her to touch the baby. One of them ‘accidentally’ touches her breast as he touches the baby’s hand.

They walk off giggling.

Now, perhaps, he really did touch her breast by mistake.

Perhaps.

Chances are slim though, given that a) he would have probably noticed her breast before the baby (if her husband was carrying the baby, would they have stopped?) and b) had the girl been his friend’s sister, you can bet your life he would have managed to NOT touch her breast.

What’s the difference between my friend and a hypothetical sister of his friend? Nothing, other than he wouldn’t want to disrespect his friend.

Nice, huh?

*Hoda Shaarawi was an Egyptian feminist who lived from 1879-1947.

“Ooh, do you smell smoke?” I ask Mr S most mornings.
“No.” he says for the nth morning in a row.
“Hmm. That’s strange,” say I, “I’m sure I can smell smoke.”
“Hmm,” says Mr S, “What do you want for breakfast?”

The day progresses in this Hood residence, people come, people go, and the neighbours (still) have their sprinkler on far too often.

The same neighbours have a plaque with a flag at their entrance indicating they are of x nationality (I really can’t say what it is – read on, you’ll see why). After a year of moderate surveillance work, I have discovered that those who occasionally use their well watered garden for noisy Christian youth meetings and the odd run around the perimeter are not from the nationality indicated on the plaque. Of course, there is only one nationality that they could possibly be, the only one that is so paranoid as to ‘deter’ would-be assailants and attackers from their under utilised des-res by sticking up an obscure flag on their wall. The SUV parked outside might provide a clue.

Outside their house, as with many others, are some scrawny policemen for security. They are very nice in that they are not too obvious and they get on with their job of sitting and watching the street all day pretty well.

On the lookout for other less noticeable security (all in the interests of avoiding Big Brother, not being nosy, no no…), I noticed a red light in the bushes outside the neighbours’ wall. From the road this light is totally hidden. From my balcony, however, it is not. And, adding an extra sense of intrigue, it is only on at night and not every night.

I hatched a little plan to surreptitiously climb into the bushes tomorrow night to investigate. I figured I could be quite quick, getting in and out of the target area before being detected.

That was until tonight, when I saw a policeman walk over to the red light and heard a distinct metallic clank. My ‘security light’ was then obscured by a tin kettle that had been placed on what is in fact a small, diligently put out every morning, smoldering fire.

For the last hour or so I’ve been hearing some loud pop/rock blaring away. I assumed that a swimming gala or the such was happening at the sporting club along the road, so didn’t pay much attention. A few moments ago it occurred to me that I hadn’t heard any Arabic music, so headed outside to investigate. Balcony doors pulled back, the lyrics “He shall save you, He shall save you, Jesus loves you” boomed out from the garden across the road.

So, the neighbours who water their garden profusely 365 days a year, for the sole purpose of circumnavigating it about 10 times in the same period, appear to have found a use for it: teenage evangelical bible study groups.

I’m sure the music helps set the mood for those preparing the chairs and horsing around, but I’m a little puzzled as to why it’s ok for a teenagers’ bible study class to disturb an entire neighbourhood.

As it happened a couple of times before the annual expat summer exodus, I’m wondering if this means that our neighbours are going to be hosting the event regularly….

On the vertical front, our downstairs neighbour has been relatively quiet since my return a few days ago. Nothing short of a miracle this, as she is utterly unable to speak to any of the ’staff’ i.e. doorman, cleaner, delivery boys/men. The minute she opens her mouth a tirade of insults gets hurled at the unfortunate minion opposite her, at decibel levels high enough that Mr S’s HSE department would render our apartment unlivable, due to a live environmental hazard. The situation, and undoubtedly, the unfortunate minion’s humiliation, is worsened by her inability to carry out this communication in any location other than the stairwell, which acts as a wide boy’s boom box on her gnarly bellows.

I spent a good few months trying to imagine what she looked like with a friend of mine, based on this voice. We came to the conclusion that she was an old, tremendously fat woman, with grey hair, who probably dressed in black galabeyas (long shapeless tunics) and had bad health problems that gave her trouble walking. All this would help explain why she was more than a little short tempered.

I never saw her.

Not, that is, until I realised that she was the short, slender, impeccably made up, immaculately dressed, sweet-as-roses, butter-wouldn’t-melt, friendly, BMW-driving woman I pass in the stairwell.

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.

The Hood is under construction. Gardens are not essential to modern living, so apartment blocks fill what once was lush grass and flower beds. Money is money and land in The Hood is at a premium, so it’s hardly surprising. Unfortunately, it is at the cost of some architectural delights of the area. Families inheriting their parents’ house and spacious garden often opt to sell the property and split the proceeds. Developers salivate.

It is illegal to knock down an old building in The Hood. This means that the old villas stay but suddenly have walls up around them as a new apartment building fills the garden.

This is a villa that apparently once had ponies in the garden. The villa is now inhabited by (from what I can make out) security men. The apartment block is going to be five or seven stories high and surrounds the house on two sides. The back is only a few metres from the villa.

There is apparently a loophole: a building that is unstable can be torn down. Apparently,* it would be possible to build an underground car park that extends under the old building and by sheer coincidence destabalises its foundations. No longer structurally safe, the villa needs to be torn down and in its place goes another apartment building.

*I, of course, am only speculating on hearsay. I am not suggesting that this is the case with the pictured building.

Now it’s getting ridiculous. The schmanzification of the entrance has meant five 15 cm diametre ground spotlights in the flower bed under the new pillars in the porch area with three in the ceiling plus eleven in the flower bed outside with six in total in the concrete arches. Before this “upgrade” we had one light in the entrance in the ceiling and one at the start of the path. I’m not sure if the night has become darker necessitating more lights, but it’s obscene.

Bear in mind that on the other side of the building behind the garage the concierge-come-handyman (extremely nice and very good at his job) lives in a brick room with a TV, one light, an old rickety bed and a heater in winter. On the other side of the floodlit path and its concrete pillars is another room for the next door concierge, this time with the concierge’s wife, 6 year old son and 8 month old baby. Their roof is basically sacking with concrete poured on top. Their walls are not plastered.

It makes me feel ashamed. Again, these people are not the worst off in the city, but where does it end? How badly off does someone have to be in relation to others to get help? I am not noble enough to dedicate myself to eradicating poverty here and even if I were, I’m not sure I have the confidence that it can even be done. Not in my lifetime anyway. So, I just help the people I can in ways that I can, even if it means making concerted efforts not to loose my rag when I get annoyed because they’ve done something stupid (which actually costs me a lot more than anything I could hand over financially!).

Still, whatever is over the wall, 25 large light bulbs to light a 17 metre path is ridiculous.

I was on my way home from the Hood’s gym this morning, after a rather vain attempt to work off some of the French cheese, French wine, French bread and apparently also the fattening for non-French French air that passed my lips over the past week, when I heard a woman shouting rather loudly. It seems I wasn’t the only one to hear, because three taxis had also stopped for a bit of early morning entertainment. Now, as is usual with these things, I didn’t actually see or hear what happened, but from what she was shouting at a fourth taxi, that she had blocked with her rather voluptuous bottom, the taxi driver had commented on said bottom, as he slowed to round the corner, and she had heard.

Hats off to her though. I know it happens to everybody (female), but I’ve only ever seen (in blind rage I sometimes have outer body experiences) myself shouting at some idiot, who it’s pointless shouting at in the first place because he’s usually so stupid he doesn’t get it, with a crowd gathering around for some free entertainment from the crazy foreign woman. Bad start to the morning for her, but a nice confirmation for me that I’m not the only mad woman roaming the streets.