“Oh no, oh no! Oh no, I don’t believe it! I DON’T BELIEVE IT,’ I was suddenly yelling to my friend down the phone, ‘There’s a guy taking a shit on the roof next door!”

“What?!” she yelled.

“Oh, no. No, he’s not. He’s not. He’s..?” and I couldn’t exactly figure out what was going on.

The workman in a galabeya (long robe thing) was squatting down and had pulled down his longjohns.

“I don’t know what he’s.. Oh my goodness!”

“What is it?!” she yelled at me.

“I can’t believe it! Oh my GOODNESS!”

“Whaaaaaaaaaaat?!”

“He’s washing his…diiick! And…,” Now, there are some things I will probably never blog about, but let’s just say I wasn’t a virgin when I met Mr S, “…he’s hung like a bloody HORSE!!”

Yep, on the roof opposite me, one of the workmen had taken five minutes when (I’m guessing) he knew nobody else would be up, and used the water brought up for mixing cement to wash his very long, very fat manhood in broad daylight, at the start of his ablutions before noon prayers.

The sight is unfortunately impressed on the inside of my eyelids.