Novelty

As I bade a cheery farewell to my former Superbrand colleagues last December, many were kind enough to inquire what I was intending to ‘do’ during my Sabbatical. ‘Live in France, drink a lot of wine, burn my Blackberry and lie in every morning’ didn’t cut the corporate mustard. I invented a tale about ‘writing a novel’ as I sailed from the shores of the shareholder to my creative retreat. The former colleagues, technologists to a man, looked impressed! Unfortunately they have now started to inquire about progress.

I purchased a couple of smock-like garments, started to wear my hair down with a fresh, Bohemian rake, waited for inspiration and for words to miraculously appear on the page. Nothing happened. I challenged Amazon to find me in the depths of rural France, ordering a couple of ‘How to write a novel’ publications. They found me. I studied and to my surprise, sitting around pouting like Virginia Woolf or tripping the light fantastic a la Aldous H wasn’t going to do it. To write a novel, the tomes espoused, I needed objectives, a plan, an outline design, milestones and targets. It felt like time was moving backwards.

Two weeks ago, someone (kindly) offered to read the first draft. The pressure is on. I have managed to sling 25,000 words into my laptop (25% of a first draft will keep her busy for a while). Early mornings, late nights, daily milestones, technical challenges, have crept back into my life uninvited. I haven’t even had time to don my smocks, let alone pout!

Today I drove to the nearest town with shops sufficiently substantial to have heard of printer cartridges. After much internet activity, a young man handed over the cartridges bearing the exact number of my printer. In went the cartridges, swiftly followed by an error message. A time warp had sucked me into its vortex! Several hours later and with hair resembling Tina Turner rather than the fragrant JKR, I find that my printer, purchased in Abu Dhabi, needs special Middle Eastern cartridges! Presumably with Islamic, alcohol free ink! I won’t find any of them in France!

 

On the bright side, I have a bona fide excuse for my nascent editor. If I can get some cartridges shipped over, I will deliver on my milestone sometime next week …… Insha’Allah!!*

See ‘Smallprint in the Sunshine’ – October 2013

How to influence a nation!

Global rulers draw upon a range of approaches to encourage citizens to comply with their chosen direction. For example, in Saudi Arabia dissuading women drivers relies upon the meting out of a few lashes, in Pakistan, mountainous paperwork attesting to ‘medical need’ dissuades the would-be merry-maker from ordering a beer on room service. In the UK, the powerful encourage the unclean proletariat to ‘be more green’ by taxing them for every molecule of CO2 emitted.

In France, where WH and I are enjoying a few months repose, the authorities are promoting recycling among the populace. Specifically, recycling garden and kitchen waste to fertilise home grown vegetables and similar goodies. Would failure to compost mean a trip to the guillotine or a hefty cheque to the ‘tresor publique’? We duly contacted our ‘bons amis’, the local dustmen who agreed to sort us out.

 

Within days we were telephoned; someone would come that afternoon. I looked out the window for a gentleman of Worzel Gummage appearance bearing one of those two pronged forks which hang on the walls of rustic barns. At three on the dot, Madame Composte, with swingy chestnut hair and a smart navy suit, arrived in a nippy silver Citroen. With elegance and grace she extracted her fare from the boot and laid it on view. Two large composting bins, a reuseable bag of ‘starter’, numerous colourful books, brochures and leaflets.

With standards of professionalism and client focus of which the Apple Store would be proud, she launched into her pitch. She was a lady who knew her compost and spent a full 30 minutes explaining optimum temperature, oxygen levels, PH and microbes. We were converted, a pair of veritable composting advocates. Whatever was all this quality going to cost, we wondered?   ‘Everything is guaranteed.’ she said ‘We will return your 15Euro* deposit if you return the bins or we’ll replace them in seven years.’ She bade a charming farewell, handing over her business card bearing a 24 hour free helpline. We will rest easy knowing she is at hand should we face urgent composting queries in the middle of the night.

Now that’s a good way to get the citizens to do what you want!

*Less than $10

Wings of drifted snow, eyes of flame and a skeleton in the closet.

Having had our children early, wonder-husband (WH) and I have been prematurely excluded from that most emotional and enjoyable of events, the school nativity play. To overcome our withdrawal symptoms this year, we interrogated the offspring of relatives and friends to fill the void and garner some vicarious tear jerking to the (imagined) first, quivering lines of ‘Away in a manger’.

Having analysed the transcripts from several interrogations, WH and I can report that for those like our own offspring who never clutched at the stardom of virgin or her consort (who are the kids that get to be Mary and Joseph and what have their parents done to bag the roles?),  the angels are most coveted openings available and that among them, Gabriel of the drifted snowy wings, flaming eyes and a full four Basque nineteenth century verses of his own, the most coveted of all.

 

Wonderful flying buttresses!

We carried out parallel interrogations among the mothers; seasonal seamstresses who expressed a preference for, and some of whom exhaled with visible relief at having bagged for their progeny, a shepherd or a king …. a few rustic or regally coloured offcuts, something to carry (lamb or bling), a tea towel or paper crown; not too difficult to craft while quaffing the Bristol Cream and mince pies. Now when it came to Gabriel’s costumiers, we were in another league. Wings of drifted snow require engineering of equivalent visionary genius to Notre Dame’s flying buttresses with commensurate levels of stress. 

Hubert van Eyck - alter detail

To round off our investigations I did further research on the Angel Gabriel. Apparently ‘he’ is not a ‘he’ at all but is represented in numerous transcripts, icons and art as a woman …. ‘her wings of drifted snow, her eyes of flame etc etc’ …. Furthermore, she is not only a Christian messenger of the Annunciation and similar but also an important herald in the Islamic tradition, she who heralded in fact, to the prophet Mohammed the three defining aspects of Islam, Iman and Ihsan. … I need to now go and ponder how to break the news to my erstwhile friends in Saudi Arabia (see To buy and Abaya and In the twang of a G-string - Oct 2013) that Gabriel is a woman. With their patchy approach to gender inclusion, I am not sure they are going to be too pleased to hear from me again!!

The Rudolph rebellion (or adversity in advent)

 For the last three years, I have spent the majority of the Advent season in Saudi Arabia. Despite the respect for other faiths encouraged within the Qur’an, the Saudi religious leaders believe they know better and maintain an uncompromising ban on all things which might precipitate Christmassy thoughts. As a result, the western shops which normally utilize standard global livery must take special care to expunge all items red, green or gold!

 

Two years ago, in their infinite wisdom, the Mutawah (Saudi religious police) decided to harass those emerging from Starbucks with red, snowflake emblazoned cups. Thereafter, plain white cups were standard issue for the entire months of December and January and Saudi minds remained uncorrupted by thoughts of Bethlehem (God forbid), mangers and Virgin births. Following worrying press articles that year describing the exact nature of sanctions meted out to subversively festive souls, I hid my advent calendar in the safe and undertook twenty four days of sinful activity under cover. 

 One evening, suffering from a paucity of Christmas merriment, my colleague and I donned our (obligatory) abayas and journeyed to the Red Sea Mall (see To buy an abaya – October 2013) in a quest for things Yuletide which had ‘slipped beneath the religious radar’. Imagine our joy when in a ‘home decorating’ store we found for sale a large bowl, rim bedecked with the portraits of our friends Donner, Blitzen, Prancer, Dancer, Vixen, Cupid, Comet and rosy nosed Rudolph. Indeed racy little Blitzen appeared to be imbibing from something resembling the stirrup cup!

 We bought the bowl which was cripplingly expensive, having been shipped a very long way indeed to Saudi! We installed it in our office for all callers to admire and we lived to tell the tale! Moreover, a point was made: those who would censor others’ beliefs must be very thorough in their research if they are to achieve their dubious aims! 

 

 Best wishes to all who intend to celebrate Christ’s birth this year whether in your opinion he is the son of God, a prophet or neither!

Lagos: the new Dubai or simply dubious?

Among the honours conveyed upon countries, Dutch courage, French cuisine, German precision, Nigerian fraud is among the least endearing. The airport in Nigeria’s financial capital Lagos, where immigration is sub-divided into twenty needless interventions, interspersed by hours of queues, does little to re-endear the visitor. Numerous opportunities to accelerate one's passage with bribes only serves to reinforce Nigeria's swindling reputation. 

The drive between the mainland and Victoria Island however, provides a glimpse of Lagos’ potential; mangroves, shallow azure sea, wooden fishing boats, busy locals and a new marina. In the evening from the hotel, looking across the water towards the yachts and mansions of the few, I was reminded of the Florida Keys (the local beer may have played some part in this!) 

Dubai today

Lagos today

Forty years ago Dubai comprised a few scruffy buildings, a lot of sand, some sea and far too much heat. Mineral wealth and visionary leadership transformed Dubai into the desirable megalith it is today. Nigeria has the mineral wealth, more striking and diverse natural beauty and is arguably already further forward than the Dubai of forty years ago. Will Nigeria’s leadership grasp this opportunity, as the Emiratis did, or remain hamstrung by their dubious honour?

The big issue of ihram instability

Among the five big rules which govern the lives of Muslims is the requirement to visit Mecca once in a lifetime. There are get-out clauses for the poor (just as well in view of the visa prices) or infirm but generally a visit is to be bagged in the quest for paradise. Pilgrims follow strict rules including the requirement for men to wear ihram, a white rectangle wrapped (no stitching, no knotting) around the male person without the fettering of undergarments.

Despite clear demonstrations on u-tube showing tried and tested wrapping and fixing techniques, the majority of British pilgrims take a cavalier attitude to ihram stability. As a result, having run the gauntlet of the aircraft steps at Heathrow, all is in disarray by the time they reach seat 48B. If like me your employer requires you to regularly make the trip from Heathrow to Jeddah (the nearest airport to Mecca), I recommend facing forward, head motionless. Remember, eyes are nether-height when seated on an aircraft!

 

I once made an exception when a group of sporty, olive skinned students from Bradford joined me on the flight; only good manners to acknowledge and assist fellow countrymen on their holy endeavors!

The spiritualism of the sweet chestnut

Wait until they are brown and fallen from the tree

The transition from Superbrand to a twelve month 

Choose the fat, dark ones

sabbatical is underway. To kick start my stress-free, altruistic, spiritual*, organic existence, this afternoon’s task was to embrace the sweet chestnut. Our region of the Charente (see September 2013 – Back to 2002 and now full circle) is famous for sweet chestnuts which grow absolutely everywhere, I have learned (today) due to the granite adjoining the ‘cold lands’ of the neighboring Limousin region. Groups of cane-wielding locals can be seen foraging and filling their baskets daily in the autumn so I set out to follow them and despite lack of cane (whose purpose I was unable to deduce), I soon had a bagful. 

Ready for some cooking

Regarding the challenge of peeling the little blighters, I need not have feared; the preferred local method (reluctantly shared with a foreigner like me) is to cut a cross in the shell, plunge in cold water, bring to the boil for three minutes then remove. To my immense surprise, the peel came off each chestnut in one piece and a bowl of  energy rich, gluten free, low calorie, mineral abundant goodies sat atop the counter in minutes.

The healthy cookery possibilities are endless from chestnut and chocolate cake, through chestnut with venison or pork to soup, and all this abundance for no cost at all just outside the back door. I see Delia Smith recommends buying them vacuum packed; tish pish to Delia I say, not spiritual at all!

* in the context of the opposite of materialistic