Sty in my Eye

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We are now packing in earnest. Having serious phone conversations about sandal straps and the relative merits of facial sun-care products. Or rather I am not packing, I am writing. And there are light-coloured clothes strewn all over the faded black floorboards of the spare room. The window is open. My mother is a great believer in the benefits of a good breeze. And the sun is an antidote to everything. “Your spots will disappear in the sun and what can I do for that sty in your eye?” She prescribed me a fucithalmic ointment from the back of the veterinary cupboard last used when John rabbit had an eye infection six months ago. It says ‘for animal treatment only’ but is currently being dispersed blinkingly around the tear-slosh in my eye.

We have Syrian Visas in our brand new passports; Lizzie picked them up from the Embassy today. I am in Bristol, flourishing my Eyewitness Tourist map of the Middle East under the nose of anyone foolish enough to voice a passing interest in our trip, explaining excitedly: “We’re going here then here…” jabbing at the map with a finger “then here and here…” But really I can’t comprehend it. I don’t intend to be dramatic, but I’m tired and Egypt feels far away in my mind. A shady memory of events not yet happened; snapshots of places I’ve seen on postcards. A timeline in my mind, but as yet nothing more. I still have to call the bank. There is a sty in my right eye and haven’t brushed my hair today.

My eyes are squinting in the glare of the screen and my legs ached climbing the stairs. I am the hometown, seeing the hometown folk. Just returned from the library with my nine-year-old brother Inigo. We were looking for books on Caribbean folk law for his school presentation. Annanci the Trickster Spider was a hit, beguiling sly snakes and dozy tigers; He ended up marrying the Chieftain’s daughter. A Spider Man, son of a God, brought over to the West Indies from the Ashanti tribe in Ghana, where Inigo and I were staying around this time last year, in the Ashanti city Kumasi.

I’ll miss England. For all I know, we could have a different Government when I return. No remaining members of the Cabinet or Alan Johnson in charge. Have to say I don’t like him; his skin is pitted with pockmarks and he has a hit-in-the-face-with-a-pan look about him. My dad says this is Grandma Politics and that you shouldn’t judge MPs on the way they look; I think I’d find it difficult to tell them apart if I didn’t.

But it is not he MPs expenses stories that I am likely to miss. Although the newspapers I do always miss away from England. I’ll miss the transport system. I expect to return to London with refreshed love for TFL and 24 hour Tescos. I’ll miss the weather, too, would you believe it. I spent the last summer in an equatorial sweat, think-fingeredly dabbing my forehead with a hanky and showering thrice daily. I don’t even want a tan this year, having replaced my obsession with being meaty brown with a commitment to the health of my skin. I purchased some Solar Expertise Active Anti-Wrinkle Plus Brown Spot Matte Fluid Protection Factor Fifty and if that doesn’t work I don’t know what will.

I’m glad a few of you have read this blog already. Thank you for your nice comments. I’m hoping that I’ll be able to convey all that happens to us in a way you’ll find interesting. You’ll mostly know me well enough to be certain that I’m capable of filling the pages, but with what is the question…? I have been fantasizing about blog-worthy adventures: kidnappings, uncovering international injustices, saving babies and shaking hands with presidents - you know the score - but in reality you may have to settle with a weekly update of my calorie intake… How much fat in one portion of tagine? Can you grill falafel? Yes. I am hoping to shed a pound or two en route. Naturally.

Mary x

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