After a month living out in the sticks with the gang I finally moved into my new flat. I have to say it's the largest apartment I've ever lived in alone. But then again, I've never actually lived alone before, apart from living with the crazy Arab lady Ms Ahlem in Abu Dhabi who was never there and also never allowed me to wash my pants or socks in the washing machine. But I guess that still doesn't count. My flat has two bedrooms, a galley kitchen which is slightly wider than a galley I suppose, with an oven, sink and fridge (all the mod cons) and a living area. The apartment came with 4 beds installed which I hastily dismantled to create space in the spare room for yoga. I have however realised it's almost impossible to attempt yoga without a yoga mat on shiny tiled floors, unless your willing to risk serious injury. Yoga sessions now resume in the living quarters as the lovely paper thin brown patterned carpet provides ample grippage when one is down-dogging. ( not to be confused with an outdoor recreational activity of a similar name)
My landlord insisted I have take the washing machine from the apartment next door as it was vacant, insisting "Mia mia" ( very good ) "women like very much" Thanks I said thinking to myself how very sweet of you but unlike the 99.9% of the women in Siwa, I am actually not obliged to spend every waking hour of the day locked indoors cooking and washing my husband and 10 children's clothes whilst you men frolick in the gardens and smoke shisha.
I considered my newly aquired "Washing machine". It consisted of a rather large upright steel barrel covered in dust with a loose steel lid and small pipe held to the side with a rather snazzy bit of brown twine.
On closer inspection I managed to figure out how the contraption would operate. You would pop your clothes inside an area big enough for perhaps 2 pairs of jeans where a fan-like wheel would spin the water and suds around. After rather laboriously filling 4 buckets of water from the bathroom sink and tipping them into the barrel I added suds and precariously plugged the contraption fully into the already sparking wall socket. Being all too familiar with the unpredictability of the electrical wiring in Egypt I decided to poke the on switch with the broken handle of a wooden spoon.
The barrel sprung to life with a ping and a groan and suddenly the lid was being buffeted up and down by the force of the churning water. My leg was suddenly sodden at which point I realised I had not put the cap on the out-pipe which was splurting white foam and piping hot water down my leg. It then crossed my mind that I may have filled my washing aide a little too full, or maybe hadn't put enough garments inside. In fact, it became evident I had used enough soap powder to wash all the galabayas in siwa, I took out my two pairs of jeans which were now so tangled around each other it was like trying to undo a giant steaming figure of eight.
I assessed whether this method of washing was actually easier than the good old fashioned soak and scrub in a bucket of water (which was the alternative) I decided to make it my mission to perfect the art of washing Steel Drum style.
I live in the middle of the town which is very handy for shops. I cycle to the Kids house every morning for nine which is only a 25 min cycle out towards the dunes which keeps me slightly fitter than if they had school in town which I believed they used to. My apartment is above a mechanics which is somewhat noisy in the evenings. Everybody works late in Siwa and siestas in the afternoon. The reving of dstressed engines and the call of ferral kittens emanate up to my sleeping quarters until about 1.00am. But not all is lost. On school mornings I have my very own cockerel which lives down in the street below which gently starts to waken me with it's incessant rather shrill Doodle Doos from around 5am till 8 am by which time I'm running screaming from the flat eyes blood-shot and in search of someone to maim,
After a few days I get used to my new apartment an the noisy surroundings. I always remember the first day at university when I realised my bedroom was actually positioned 3 feet away from the New Cross Gate train line on which they would consistently racked passed every 10 minutes until midnight. I find the best thing to do it to not waste energy allowing yourself to become stressed over these trivial matters.
The first couple of nights I did find myself of the verge of opening the door the my bedroom balcony and throwing multiple petrol bombs over the side at the mechanics who are clearly oblivious to the distress they are causing the neighboring residents. Now I don't even notice it.
Blobs of Blue Tack also serve as very effective ear plugs.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment