El Andalous - Settling In

The Damp Patch in My Bedroom On Returning "Home"

As I said, I’ve decided to take some holiday here, which might seem a bit odd when my entire life is like a vacation. However, I really do intend to write and I am determined to learn Egyptian Arabic, so sooner or later I will have to find myself a work routine of sorts.

This rest period will, in part, be spent settling in. I need to buy furniture, find out how best to work the arrangement of my flat, and do various administrative tasks (tax returns, apply for Sahl Hasheesh residency membership, sort out my Egyptian internet banking).

In the afternoons, I still go to the beach, although the water feels cold now (maybe 21 or 22 degrees?) and, perhaps because the temperature is cooler at nights, I am succumbing to the occasional chocolate treat when I get back from my swim.

One morning, just as I was experimenting with my new steam cleaner, Safi phoned me to ask if I wanted to come round to hers for a coffee. Task avoidance is always a pleasure, so I accepted. Anyway, she ended up kindly volunteering to take me round in her car to some furniture shops in Hurghada so that I could find a sofabed and a bookcase, which were my two immediate priorities.

My expectations of the shops were pretty low, so I was really surprised at the variety available. Of course, you end up having to pay pretty much European prices for the higher quality items, but they were there.

I quizzed Safi about the buses – this is an adventure that I have yet to tackle. The buses are unmarked white minivan type things, each with its own route, and you just hail one when you see it. Safi said she’d bought a load of large items once, got on the bus, and the driver promptly chucked off all the passengers to take her directly to her flat (for an enhanced price, of course). So, these things can be flexible (or you can be exploited), although generally the buses should just stick to the route and you should just pay the set price (around 2 EGP). You need to know the routes. I am too chicken to try this on my own as I’m sure that if I tried to get a bus, it would end up being someone’s private van and I’d be kidnapped or something.

I think we went to every furniture shop in Hurghada! However, I was really pleased to have a chance to see what kind of selection there was and what to expect in terms of prices. After re-measuring my allocated spaces, I’ve now decided what to buy for now and just need to organise myself to go back and get/order them.

It was quite a hot day, so when we got back I dashed to the beach to fit in a swim. Unfortunately, in my hurry, I forgot to take my swimming shoes with me. I didn’t really have time to go back and get them and, since the sea was perfectly clear that day, I decided to risk it without the shoes. My confidence is slowly coming back, although I am extremely unsure of myself whenever I exit the water.

I got in the water OK, if nervously, but hadn’t realised before that the swimming shoes were also protecting the upper part of my foot. When I swam with my feet in the open sea, I felt the swelling on top of my injured foot move in the water as well, a bit as if it were being tugged by a water jet (which in a way it was). It was more uncomfortable than walking! I was determined to swim, but at the same time I was convinced that the pressure of the water on my swollen foot wasn’t doing it much good. So I swam, but not as far as usual.

Another advantage of the swimming shoes that I forgot to mention before is that you don’t need to wash all that sand off your feet. It’s easier to wash the sand off the shoes than from your feet and you don’t get sand all over your sunbed. I will definitely continue to wear the swimming shoes until my foot is completely better.

It’s starting to feel like a community here. In addition to being invited to coffee by Safi a few days ago, on my way back from the beach today, Medhat called out to me from one of the golf buggies. It’s always good to see someone you recognise and he beckoned me to join him on the buggy for a lift back to El Andalous.

Once there, I walked to wash out my swimming shoes under our pool shower, and a German couple who I’d met before Christmas called out to me from their balcony. They had just returned to Sahl Hasheesh that day. It felt like a small village where everyone knows everyone else, where everywhere I turned, there’d be someone I’d know. It felt that I was beginning to establish myself.

Hurghada - First Christmas

Palm Beach Plaza Beach Looking Towards Entrance Plaza

Several people have been asking me what my Christmas was like, so maybe it is worth a blog. It also depends on your nationality as to how you define the question as well – for the Germans (and I suspect the Russians, of whom there are many here in Russgarda), the main day is 24th December; for the British, the day of celebration is 25th December. So I may as well talk about both!

I had the great pleasure of having my long-standing friend, Holger, coming to Hurghada for a month as from 22nd December. He was over to start working on his new book and had got an all-inclusive deal in one of the hotels near the city centre. I was excited about having a good friend nearby to meet up with from time to time.

As soon as I got back from the UK, I’d searched out some restaurants that were putting on celebratory dinners on 24th December (this is why I suspect the Russians also celebrate on 24th December, as this is the date that all the hotels and restaurants chose) and emailed the details to Holger, feeling slightly pressurised to find something fun for us to do.

As it turned out, he preferred to spend more time settling in and didn’t want to do anything about Christmas, so we arranged to meet up on 25th December instead (which, for me, was Christmas – see what I mean, it really gets quite confusing?).

I was happy to have a quiet Christmas Eve as it had been a long time since I’d had the opportunity just to relax and do what I want. Up to now, it had been problem after problem, even before I arrived. We had good weather with temperatures in the mid-20s, my cleaning was finished, and I was free to do whatever I liked. I decided that although I wasn’t going to celebrate Christmas as such, I was going to make the next week or two a holiday and not do any writing or learning of Arabic. I was going to have some “me” time.

So, I had an extremely enjoyable day on the beach – it was quite quiet – I read my book and swam to my heart’s content. In the evening, I got out my box of Maltesers that I’d bought in the UK and my pack of shortbread, poured myself a wine and sat down to watch any random film that I could find on the television. Maltesers are a Christmas tradition for me (this is a Fiona thing and not a British thing), so what with this, the Christmas tree, and the shortbread, I did feel quite Christmassy. I stumbled across one film channel that was playing “There’s Something about Mary” followed by “Me, Myself and Irene”, so I watched that; two unchallenging films that hit the spot for the purposes of just vegetating. It felt like an ideal day perfectly designed to match my mood.

On Christmas Day (25th Dec), I again went to the beach. I can’t imagine tiring of swimming in the sea. To my surprise, the beaches were a lot busier, but I guess maybe this is the day when the Germans and Russians rest, whereas for the Brits, it would traditionally be a busy day of preparing turkey, opening presents, and visiting family. Also, I guess many people who holiday in Egypt at this time of year are likely to be those who wish to escape Christmas, so I guess the beach is the perfect place to do so.

At 3.30pm I got my taxi to meet Holger at his hotel at 4pm. Holger has hurt his knee, so the two of us limped around together and no doubt looked a bit odd, almost as if we’d dropped into Hurghada from a planet where people don’t walk properly. Holger gave me a tour of his hotel and the grounds while we chatted and caught up. Then Esmat’s brother-in-law took us to the marina, where we looked round until we got to the mosque.

Holger said he’d read on Wikipedia that the mosque at Hurghada is the only one in Egypt where tourists are not allowed to enter. Although I’d seen the mosque from the outside before during the day, it was now dark and was therefore illuminated with its minarets towering above us in green; it looked stunning. We wandered around to take photographs and then walked to Sheraton Street, one of the most famous (shopping) streets in Hurghada. This was the first time I’d made it into Hurghada “proper” since I’d moved to Egypt.

As one of the city’s main hubs (if not the main hub), Sheraton Street was buzzing and lively. The diverse shops were all open, some lit like traditional shops, others more similar to small warehouses with items displayed on part of the pavement. The street was busy with a mix of cars and the occasional donkey and cart. The Egyptians really come alive at night. Surprisingly, and maybe it was because I was with Holger, we were not hassled that much and were able to walk down the road and chat without having to fend people off the whole time.

We stopped by in a computer shop because Holger needed an extension cable; we were guided round the corner where the shop went up two floors and was open until midnight. The guy in the store spoke really good English and was very helpful. I asked him if he would be able to clean my laptop and he could, so now I have somewhere to go for that as well. It was interesting to see everyone living their everyday lives for once and to start to get a feel for what Hurghada really is, despite the preponderance of tourists.

For our dinner, we returned to the marina and ate in an Italian restaurant where some people smoked the shisha and others ate. Holger’s Christmas meal turned out to be a pizza and mine a tagliatelle with chicken and mushrooms in a cream sauce. At around 9pm Esmat phoned, I think wanting to be done for the day with his taxi driving; we’d already finished eating some time ago, so we paid up and went around 15 minutes later to wait for Esmat.

As we were waiting, one taxi driver, whom we’d refused by explaining that we had already ordered a taxi, had the audacity to then drive up to us in the street and pretend that he was Esmat’s brother. Fortunately, we knew what Esmat looked like and knew that if he wasn’t driving then his substitute would only be in his own numbered taxi, so it was clear that the guy was having us on. However, this illustrates again the benefits of having a taxi driver you know!

After Holger was dropped off at his hotel, I was home in time to watch my soaps on my laptop (it was the first time I’d opened my laptop all day, which must be a record!) and then it was time for bed. All in all, it was a pretty excellent Christmas.

Sahl Hasheesh - First Swim After Broken Foot

Sharply-Defined Mountains Seem to Correspond With Greater Waves!

It’s near the end of December and the temperature now is quite a bit colder than it was when I first arrived in October (or should I say "not quite as hot"?!). The evenings are pleasant and I’m never too warm – I have a blanket on my bed, which I could probably do without if I closed the door to the balcony, but I prefer to have some fresh air. I’m convinced it helps me to sleep better.

This week has been a bit of a heatwave at 25 degrees, but next week it is supposed to go back down to the normal 20 degrees. Therefore, I felt I needed to take advantage of the remaining good weather and try to swim.

My first visit to the beach was quite scary. I’d anticipated that the sand may be tricky to walk on, although actually it was fine, but I took every single step with caution just in case there was a lingering stone somewhere. I sat down and read for a while on the sunbed until I felt I should at least try out the sea. I was not even sure the sea would be warm enough for me to swim, although tourists were swimming (I have to say, for the time of year, it’s very quiet here, so tourists are not yet coming back to Egypt, which is a shame; the shopkeepers are struggling). I used to swim in March in Egypt, so I must have got a bit wimpy in my old age. Or spoilt.

Anyway, eventually I went down to the sea and dipped my feet in. It was cold at first but after a while I could tell it was a manageable temperature for swimming. Nevertheless, it must be windier now than in October, because whereas before the sea was as clear as could be, now the waves washed up a lot of sand and I couldn’t really see the surface below. Thus, if I went in further, I would be blind as to what I would be treading on; this realisation quietly freaked me out. Even the little stones at the edge were worrying me.

Other swimmers, of course, were just walking straight into the water without even looking down to see where they were going (I always looked down, even before my accident!); nobody seemed to be having the slightest problem. I tried to persuade myself that my breaking my foot was a fluke and that I just needed to muster up the courage and walk in, but I argued back to myself that my foot was still a bit swollen, it wasn’t completely better, and I shouldn’t risk it. What was the point in re-injuring myself just as I was finally returning to normal?

I went back to my sunbed.

The next day, I decided to hunt for some swimming shoes; these have rubber soles to protect your feet. Jacquie had told me they cost around £3 in Hurghada, so I thought I would try finding them in Sahl Hasheesh since I had a benchmark price. The first shop didn’t have them, but they directed me to the store next door. To my surprise, as I always expect Sahl Hasheesh to be more expensive than everywhere else, they charged me £3.50 (35 LE), which I didn’t think was bad, but I asked to pay 30 LE and they accepted that.

It was a bit painful putting the shoe on my injured foot – the most pain I had in a while, probably due to the way in which I had to twist my foot to get into the shoe, but after a few goes, I found a way of putting the shoe on that mitigated some of the discomfort. I’ve never worn swimming shoes before; in fact, I didn’t even know that they existed before coming here.

It was a good investment, as I was surprised at just how much more confident I felt once I had them on. This time, I strode with relative bravado to the sea’s edge. It took a few moments for the sea to penetrate the shoes, but they were pretty good and didn’t feel too sloshy. Nobody else was wearing them, so I looked a bit ridiculous, but it was a small price to pay for the greater freedom.

I tentatively made my way across the initial pebbly section of the water, never putting my foot down fully until I’d felt the ground for sharp objects. Even on the subsequent sandy bit, I still tested my way ahead as the occasional rock is still around – it would not normally bother anyone at all, but for me it was a potential danger.

As I went further and further in, I wondered whether I really wanted to swim as the water felt quite cold, although it must have been about 23 or 24 degrees. I love swimming, especially outdoors, but I hate getting in.

Anyway, I finally made it. My arm / frozen shoulder was fine and I felt no problem there. For the first ten minutes or so, the swimming felt like proper exercise rather than the leisurely activity it usually is. For a moment, I wondered whether I would struggle to swim very far. My fear that the shoes would slip about on my feet turned out to be unfounded. I suppose they did make the swimming a bit more difficult, but really it wasn’t so bad.

I swam slightly less far than I would do normally, just to be on the safe side , although I could have gone on for longer. I would hope that I still did about 1km, but if not, it was getting close.

When it came to coming out of the water, I swam in as far as I could and stopped at a shallow, sandy place so that I could stand up without placing too much pressure on my injured foot. I wasn't able to see the ground as I stepped forward, so I very much had to feel my way with my feet. Waves pushed me from behind making me lose my balance; I was forced to steady myself by blindly moving my feet in the water onto a new, untried surface (this may have been a contributory factor to me breaking my foot originally). I could not have coped with getting out without the swimming shoes; my anxiety was pretty high even so!

Anyway, I made it. I think we have about four more days of the mid-20s before the weather cools down a bit, so I hope to make the most of my swimming shoes while I can. At least I am now back in business!

Hurghada - Final Update on My Broken Foot

The KFC at Senzo Mall

Well, that’s 2 weeks and 2 days since my plaster came off.

Before going to the UK (4 days post-cast), I’d bought myself some trainers that you do up with Velcro, a size too large, so that my swollen foot would fit in OK (I had to allow room for swelling from the flight as well). I’d identified the ones I wanted to purchase and in the morning of my departure, I went to buy them, only at 11am the shop was still closed. The neighbouring shopkeeper said it would open at 1pm, but at 1pm the owner hadn't yet turned up. By 2pm, I was able to enter the shop. Shops here tend to open late and close only very late in the evening (10pm or 11pm); the Egyptians seem to be night people rather than morning people, which generally suits me fine.

Anyway, before I left for the UK, I’d made it as far as La Piazza Restaurant and back (maybe 10-15 mins normal walk?), but my walking was very slow. Still, it was a lot better than no walking at all and moving around the flat wasn’t a problem. As noted, I’d booked the disability service at the airport.

At Hurghada airport, I was rushed through passport control and security by an airport person – I think this was coincidental – and Hurghada airport is not so large, so I was able to walk without a problem and sat and had a coffee until my flight was boarding.

As I came off the plane in Gatwick, I saw a wheelchair and asked if it was mine, but was told that if I could walk, I should go to the end of the gangway and wait for them there. There were about eight of us who had requested assistance. You have to wait until last, but then you get a little buggy to take you through passport control and to collect your bags and to go through customs, so once you get going, it’s quite quick (but still fairly leisurely and you are still basically last out). It's a good service, though.

Being in the UK was good exercise for me. I walked for the entire first day in Horsham – the most walking I’d done post-cast. It was tiring, but manageable, and still very slow. Pensioners were overtaking me! Still, it was good to be out and about and to see the shops at my own pace.

In fact, I did a lot of walking most of the time I was away and after a while I got a bit frustrated that I never seemed to walk any faster, despite all the practice I was having. I had to concentrate if I didn’t want to limp, as my natural tendency was to hobble rather than to walk properly. I think it’s just that the ball of my foot wasn’t used to exercise and I hoped that by focusing on making sure I walked properly, the appropriate muscles would become more flexible again.

People kept on asking if it hurt and I kept on describing it as uncomfortable rather than hurting, possibly because my definition of “hurting” in my head was the pain when it first broke and any sensation I had was definitely far removed from that initial, excrutiating pain.

However, somewhere along the line, I did start speeding up a bit. One night, near the end, Geraldine and I got caught in the rain and we romped up the road (I felt) and I believe this forced exercise of larger strides actually helped to improve my foot a bit.

I would say that I can now walk at almost normal pace, but my (previously) broken foot is still a little uncomfortable. I can’t complain as the doctor had given me pain killers, and I’ve never needed them. Esmat said he thought I was probably at 80% of my normal capacity, which is a fair guess.

The first test of “normal” life in Egypt was to go to the shopping mall wearing my normal shoes with a small heel / wedge (2 weeks, 2 days post-cast). I happily overtook a couple of pensioners on my way in and felt pretty good about myself (apologies to the pensioners!).

It was really interesting to be in Spinneys again (it was good to lean on the trolley as well!) and I spent a lot of time looking round to reacquaint myself with the shop. I discovered a huge cheese counter and a huge sausage (not pork!) counter, which I’d ignored before as neither item interests me. I looked at the meat counter, but they didn’t have much lamb this time round – next time, maybe. The steak looked pretty good but I had no idea about prices as I never usually buy meat from the counters. That challenge will be for another day. The vegetables were looking better than before, but potatoes didn’t seem to be around – lots of lovely apples, though.

I bought myself my hoover (on special offer!) and a steam cleaner (I always feel my mopping leaves my floor dirtier, somehow). To my surprise, two shop assistants came up and stopped me, took the items out of my trolley, undid everything, tested it, and then put them back in the boxes and back into my trolley. I guess this is a good thing.

There were queues this time at the checkouts and I was getting late for Esmat. As is typical when you are running late, I was told at the checkout that I had to pay for the electrical items at another counter. I never did this for my iron or my insect killer (which broke, by the way). Since I was running late, it was a bit frustrating.

So, off I went to find the correct counter and queued at the wrong end, so was ignored for a while. Eventually, I paid, but was then stopped and told to go to the guarantee counter to get my guarantees stamped. Aaargh! For once, it wasn’t my walking that was holding me up.

By this time, I was running so late, I thought I may as well get myself a loyalty card now. As it turned out, I did things in the wrong order, as I wasn’t able to put on the points retrospectively.

On my way out, I suddenly realised that my grocery shopping was still at the till where I had done my grocery shopping, so I had to go back and transfer all those items back into my trolley with the electrical items. What a hassle!

The good thing, though, was that all this walking was absolutely no problem at all. By the end of it, my foot was starting to hurt, I guess in part due to my normal shoes, and I wasn’t able to keep up with Esmat as he rushed to the car (I learned afterwards that he had a 1.30am pick up and had wanted to get back on time so that he could get some sleep – oh dear!). I had regressed into limping mode, and will return to my trainers for when I need to walk longer distances for now, but really my foot is pretty good.

Each day it gets easier and I think it is even starting to hurt slightly less now as well. I am now feeling confident that in a week or so I will be back to completely normal walking. Here's hoping that I'm right!

Egypt - First Day Back

More Underwater Life

I woke up and everything took on a different light. Suddenly, I didn’t think the air was laden with poisonous pores from mould festering behind my wall that would slowly kill me if I inhaled them, I was sure the wall was still pretty firm, and I no longer saw an immediate need for the wall to be propped up. The sun was shining and it was a pleasant temperature. Sleep is a wonderful thing.

I had a leisurely breakfast and decided that I couldn’t possibly show my damp wall to anyone before I unpacked, as I would look too much of a slob. But I couldn’t really unpack without putting up my Christmas tree (that I’d transported from Geraldine’s) and so everything took longer than intended.

It wasn't just my suitcase making me look a bit disorganised. I’d forgotten how much stuff – mostly books and pictures – I still had to unpack from my move. I’m a bit stuck because I need to buy furniture before I can do anything about this, but all the boxes make my flat still look a bit temporary and not so much like a home.

Anyway, I eventually finished unpacking my suitcase and went to get someone to have a look at my wall, I was pleased that they sounded suitably shocked when they saw it. A guy then came in to strip it back and to put some kind of treatment on it, I think. He also looked surprised when he saw the extent of the damage, or maybe he was just taken aback at the amount of work he would have to do.

Usually, I feel a bit guilty when they do work for me as I’m just sitting and typing and looking like a lazy, rich Westerner. This time, however, I was busy cleaning, so I felt quite virtuous. My balcony had a layer of sand in the ten days I’d been away and I also needed to scrub those gluey footprints from my floor. This, along with dusting, took me around five hours, believe it or not.

The guy doing my wall said he would be back tomorrow. I laughed inwardly to myself thinking that this usually doesn’t mean tomorrow at all, but somehow I still had confidence that he would return.

It was a bit frustrating that I’d spent three full days cleaning before I left and then needed another full day when I got back, but finally the flat is looking respectable. I decided I should buy a hoover (I was working with a brush, dustpan and brush, and then mop) and a steam cleaner to make my life easier. Nevertheless, the thought of spending any of my life savings still scares me.

As days go, this wasn’t so traumatic. 

However, in the evening I went to Spinneys, but I’ll report on that tomorrow as I’m overdue an update on the health of my foot, which I want to give just in case anyone with a broken foot happens to be reading this blog in the hope of finding out what the healing process is like post-cast (I doubt it, though!). Still, you never know...

Egypt - First Time Returning Home

Finding Nemo

After ten days travelling round the UK (Horsham, Bristol, Hartley-Wintney, Edinburgh, Dundee) visiting friends and indulging myself in UK delicacies (curries, turkey, sponge cakes, fish and chips, toffee crisp), it was time to return to Egypt.

I’d wondered what it would be like to be back in the UK. I was expecting it to be colder, of course, and Safi said that she is surprised each time she returns to the UK that cold water really is cold and not tepid, as it is in Egypt, so I’d prepared myself for that as well. Instead, what surprised me (don’t ask me why!) was that all the trees were either bare or had only dead leaves on them, holding tight as if trying to pretend it was still autumn. Suddenly, I had a pang of regret at having missed the autumn colours; seeing the trees was like a monument to the passing of time, which, as I’ve said before, seems to stand still in Egypt. It was a brief moment of homesickness.

Weirdly, and I have to note this because I will otherwise forget when I look back to this time in my life, it was during my trip back to the UK that Cairo experienced its first snow in around 112 years. I remarked to my taxi driver (Esmat) that the children must have had a great time, but he reckoned that no-one had appropriate clothes and the children would have been sitting inside shivering! Anyway, it’s pretty typical of my luck that I move to Egypt for the sun and then it has the first snow in over a century.

It was wonderful to be reunited with everyone, even if only briefly, and I feel blessed to have such good friends and I know I never really let them know this enough. I am British, after all. But I hope they are all reading this and I hope they realise that I am saying this because I mean it and not because I want to be polite. I’m too reserved to mention everyone by name.

Each place I went made me think I could live again in the UK after all, having denied this proposition for years, although in the back of my mind I know full well being somewhere for a quick visit is different from being there day-in, day-out. On another level, for many of the places it is a bit of a truism that I could live there, since I already have, which just goes to show that many of my thoughts are not really worth paying attention to.

Anyway, it got to the point where I was due to return to Egypt and a part of me was looking forward to seeing the sun again. I was also curious to see how it would feel to return – would it feel like home or would it feel like starting all over again?

It was quite strange being on the flight with everyone in holiday mode and me in going home mode. As we arrived, I actually felt a little rush of panic, perhaps even homesickness for the UK.

It suddenly dawned on me that I was back to being somewhere where I didn’t understand the language and where I still had a lot to learn about how to navigate the people and the culture to make a success of being there. I felt this more now than at any other time so far, and I suspect it was precisely because I had just been in my home culture for ten days among some of my closest friends.

Before, I had left from Switzerland and had also left close friends, but the culture in Switzerland was still different from my home culture in the UK and so the contrast between the old and the new was not as great as it was now. I was suddenly faced with the enormity of what I was doing. I’ve used a lot of words here to describe something that went through my mind in just a flash, but the feeling was nevertheless there.

I felt a bit lost coming back into the airport because there were masses of tourist agents there to guide their customers through the immigration process, along with Egyptians from the airport asking people if they needed a visa, but I didn’t fall into these categories and felt like a fish swimming against the tide. When asked, I said I already had a visa and so was pointed straight to passport control. I was a little nervous as to whether this multi-entry visa really worked or not. Fortunately, I was waved through without a problem, other than a quick look of surprise, and at the second check the guy even smiled happily when he saw my visa and said “welcome back!”, which allayed my remaining worries about my return.

With my mind now firmly back in Egypt, I was already worrying about what might have happened to my flat in my absence. I didn’t have time to blog before I left, but I’d had two nights of mice in my flat (small mice rather than rats, so it was an improvement; it was also one mouse each night and a different one each night, indicating that they weren’t permanent residents, also a good thing) before I left, with one mouse even having the audacity to jump up on me (by mistake, I think) while I was watching television. I think I even batted it with my hand as I jumped up and screamed.

I’d complained again to the management and my flat had become the most trap-infested place on this planet. I had poison, I had glue traps, I had an old-fashioned mouse trap with cheese in it. No mice were caught, but the night before I left was mouse-free (as far as I could tell).

However, to compensate for the lack of mice (after all, I can’t possibly have a day where I can be free of bad luck), I discovered that there was a leak in the kitchen with water puddling all over the kitchen tops. Fortunately, it was an easy fix, but it was a bit worrying that it happened on the day of my departure. Well, obviously, it was good that it happened before I left, but it left the question open as to what might happen when I wasn’t there.

Consequently, my mind as I travelled back home was on whether the cheese in the mouse trap was stinking the place out, whether there would be a party of mice in my lounge, or would there be water flooding the floor? There were just so many possibilities to choose from!

The staff on duty – and the shopkeepers – all greeted me with smiles and “welcome back!” as I entered the building and I opened my flat door with trepidation. I was relieved not to be able to smell the cheese, although it was still there, a little shrivelled, in the mouse trap. Someone had obviously been into the flat to check the traps as I saw footprints where they had obviously trodden on one of the glue traps by mistake and had left a trail of gluey prints over the marble-tiled floor.

I’d bought four ultrasonic rat deterrents when in the UK, so my first action was to take these out of the suitcase and plug them in. Almost immediately, a cockroach waddled out from under the kitchen units, obviously distressed at the noise I couldn’t hear. I’m afraid I was too tired to have any humanity and promptly squashed it under my foot. It gave me an immense sense of relief, as it seemed to indicate that the ultrasonic noise was effective.

The flat was very quiet, and I went to bed feeling very confident that I wouldn’t have a mouse problem that night. However, when I turned on the light in the bedroom, a huge damp patch covering at least half of one of the walls caught my attention. I prodded it and it crunched.

Even I knew that this wasn’t good news. My heart sank at the prospect of being back in Egypt and having to face problem after problem. I’d had such a nice, peaceful time in the UK. Would my difficulties ever stop, would I ever get the chance just to enjoy myself?

It was late, I was tired, and my mind was in overdrive. So, although I was confident of there being no mice, I instead lay in bed worrying that the entire building may suddenly collapse on top of me as I slept. I tried to sleep on the side of my bed furthest away from the wall. I wondered whether rats could be nesting in the wall and how easy it would be for them just to gnaw through that weak façade. Comfortingly, I knew the ultrasonic deterrents couldn’t go through objects, and I was glad I hadn’t got the rat deterrent that was also electromagnetic to penetrate walls, as then I would have been worrying that the anti-rat device may somehow weaken the structure further.

I told myself that I was being irrational and that I just needed to go to sleep and the sooner I went to sleep, the sooner I would wake up and get someone to do something about it. My mind, however, wanted to worry about it and the irony didn’t escape me that just as I had got rid of the mice, something else had come along to stop me from sleeping.

In the end, of course, I did fall asleep, but my adventures here were obviously not yet at an end.

Holiday!

Just in case anyone is wondering - this blog is still active, but I won't be contributing until 21st December 2013 and will catch you up on everything then! Please continue to follow the blog.

El Andalous - Third Day Post Cast

Christmas at El Andalous

I’m sorry to be reporting my progress day by day, as it is probably a bit boring. However, when I searched the web for information as to what it is like when you come out of a cast, and how quickly you can walk again, there was relatively little information available, so I hope that this blog may help others undergoing similar quests for information.

Day Three was spent doing tidying and cleaning. Part of me felt a bit frustrated that I’d spent so much of my time post-cast just doing all these chores; on the other hand, my flat had got into such a state, it was a relief to be able to get it back to some semblance of decent living.

Again, it was another day mostly on my feet, interspersed with exercises, medication, raising my leg above heart level, and ointment! I’d finally finished all I was going to do by 3pm and decided that maybe it was time to try going outside.

So far, I had only experienced my smooth floors in my slippers. Now I would try my flip-flops (I wondered if this would require a different set of foot actions) and the rough surface of outdoors. It was also about time that I went outside of my flat as I was sure that people were thinking it odd that this wasn’t the first thing I did.

Going outside turned out to be quite an eye-opener for me. First of all, I was surprised at how much extra pressure just a slight decline or incline put on my calf. It was definitely a different exercise from being in my flat.

Also, I’d felt I was walking around pretty much at normal speed in my flat, but when I was outside, it was obvious that actually I was very slow! This didn’t bother me, but did make me realise that maybe I wasn’t as super-duper active as I had imagined. I had a slight worry that I would get too tired en route, but actually I could always sit on the wall by the sea, if need be. As it was, I didn’t need to rest, although I was glad when I reached Il Gusto; the ten-minute walk probably took me twenty minutes..

As I sat there sipping my strawberry milkshake (chocolate was off the menu, as was banana for the banana split), Jaqueline and Safi passed by, so they stopped and had a quick chat – so already I am meeting people I know as I go out and about.

When I got up to go back, it was much more of a struggle to get going again than it had been earlier in my flat, which was another sign that this was a new exercise for me (which is good). I slowly warmed up again and I took my time (it was nice to see the sea and the sun setting anyway).

When I got home, I realised that not only was my calf aching, but also my hip and thigh – it was reminiscent of when I relied only on my right leg when I was in plaster and my right leg ached through having to take all the weight. It now felt as if my left leg was taking all the weight, although obviously it was simply doing its fair share of the work. Again, I thought this was a good thing as my body was obviously starting to get back into action, it also brought home to me just how much of the body is affected when one foot is incapacitated. It’s quite remarkable.

The trip outside was enough to make me go online and register for disabled assistance at the airport – if I had to climb the stairs to the plane, everyone would get really impatient at me being so slow! And a wheelchair pickup at Gatwick would be easier than walking for hours at my slow pace. I felt a bit of a fraud, but I thought it nevertheless for the best.

El Andalous - Second Day Post-Cast

Jetty by Il Gusto Beach

The next morning I woke up and felt a slight dread at having to walk when my heel hurt. Again, though, it was short-lived and subsided after the shower.

Today, I was more ambitious and not only unpacked more cartons, but also moved my furniture around as I tried to decide how I would arrange the flat. There wasn’t any point in unpacking my pictures until I knew what I wanted the flat to look like and what was going to go where.

This time, I took very few rests, so I was pretty much on my feet all day and still my foot didn’t hurt. I was so pleased! Of course, I was only on smooth, flat ground, so nothing that ambitious, but it was still better than I could have hoped for. The heel didn’t even hurt any more.

When I rested, again, getting started was difficult and I would have to hobble for a while, but generally, it was all pretty good going.

With the pain in the heel starting to subside, I became aware that the mobility in my foot wasn’t really too bad; it was my calf muscles that were really weak. I had been doing foot exercises at random points through the day and now I decided that actually I should be doing calf stretches, so I added that into the routine as well.

I also began to take my swelling more seriously as I needed to get a shoe on in a few days’ time. I read that the calf’s activity can help to reduce swelling so that gave me a greater impetus to do those calf exercises so that it became more active as soon as possible. I also started to raise my leg above heart level, as so many sites advised. I’d ignored that up to now, but decided if I could get the swelling down this way, maybe it would be easier then to keep the swelling down longer-term. I have to say, I wasn’t convinced that the raised leg really helped, but at least I felt I was doing all I could do to help myself.

I tried on a shoe at one point, but it would be too painful, particularly if you add a flight and extra swelling on top. Even on my OK foot, the shoe was a bit constrictive – I guess I’m not really used to it any more, having been in flip-flops most of the time before my injury. My feet are broad at the best of times and my mum always used to say that I shouldn’t go round in bare feet because it would just make them even broader and then it would be impossible for me to get shoes! Anyway, shoes can be problematic to start with, so with the swelling, it was going to be even more difficult.

On the whole, though, I thought I did extremely well to be on my feet for most of the day with no real pain to report. The evening, of course, I rested, in various poses with my leg at various heights. I was determined to get a shoe on at some point, somehow!

El Andalous - First Day Without Plaster

View of Sahl Hasheesh from El Andalous Rooftop

I woke up the next morning and my instant reaction was to reach out for the crutches. And then I realised I didn’t need them! I tentatively got out of bed. Again, my heel was hurting a lot, protesting, I think, that it had been overused in the last five weeks. I hobbled painfully – because of the heel – towards the bathroom and had my first shower in six weeks (I’d had the other plaster before as well).

I was relieved not to have to go through the palaver of tying the bag round my leg, sticking it out of the shower and worrying that it would get wet. I looked at the bag in the bathroom and realised I could now throw it away, but I didn’t want to tempt fate.

Even with the cast and even in normal life, I always found myself more able-bodied after washing, and this was no different. My body had warmed up and got itself into action while I was in the shower, so when I got out, my walking was really pretty easy.

My flat was dirty and untidy after all that time of minimal care, so rather than explore outside, as everyone expected me to do, I started on sorting out my flat. I unpacked about eight of my shipment cartons and it was a relief to be able to use two hands again. Having a broken foot means more than just the loss of the foot!

Not having exercised for some time, I got tired easily, although my foot felt fine, so I took a rest once an hour. My foot was occasionally a bit uncomfortable in certain positions, but I can’t say it was really painful at all and I was walking around and carrying things quite happily.

I felt blessed and it also felt like a miracle that my bone could heal itself. I marvelled at how brilliant my body was.

I washed my foot, as advised, and more and more dead skin fell off. Where the plaster had been, my leg was a weird combination of no hairs on the left-hand side and excess hair growth on the right-hand side. The bottom of my foot looked like arid mud with hairline cracks everywhere and the part of the leg without hair looked flaky and a bit tender, so I handled it with care, moisturising my foot and my leg afterwards.

The ointment I was prescribed felt wonderful on my foot. I can’t say I really notice it making any difference to the swelling, but it felt very beneficial when I applied it.

Each time after I rested, it was hard to get started again, and I would always feel the pain in my heel at first and I would have to hobble until my body adjusted itself. On the whole, though, I was proud about how much time I’d spent on my feet and how well it had all gone. 

I unpacked my scales and weighed myself – to my delight, I’ve lost one stone (c. 7 kg) since I’ve been here. I must now be near to my medically ideal BMI.

As I was making my supper, my taxi driver texted me to ask how I was doing; it was good to feel that people were interested in my well-being.

All in all, there was a lot to be happy about.

Hurghada - Cast Off!

Egyptian Pillars With Sunken City in Distance, Sahl Hasheesh

And so the day finally came where I could potentially have my cast removed from my foot. I couldn’t really quite imagine what it would be like to wake up the next morning without it; I had no idea how mobile I would be.

As it was, the whole day was going to be a bit manic. I had workmen due to come at 11am to fit mosquito netting doors to my balcony so that I could keep my doors open at night without getting bitten, and fans were to be installed in my lounge, bedroom, and balcony. I was feeling a bit stressed about that as well, since I hadn’t seen the fans and I felt I was buying them in blind faith.

The workmen came, but as it came to 13:30, I got increasingly worried about getting to my taxi on time for 2pm and was not sure what I would do about the workmen while I was not there. The foreman said he would oversee them and make sure everything was safe. Since he was due to do a lot of work in our block, I decided it was to his advantage to ensure nothing was stolen, so I metaphorically closed my eyes and hoped for the best.

My other dilemma was over what footwear to bring with me to the hospital. I decided a flip-flop wasn’t sturdy enough; I couldn’t wear heels as that would be too much pressure for my foot; I had some new flat shoes, but I thought they could be a bit tight, especially if my foot was swollen. In the end, I plumped for a trainer and socks, since the trainer was supportive and if I couldn’t put it on, I would at least have a sock to wear.

My taxi driver came – in his new car! – promptly at 2pm and I arrived on time at the hospital. This was the first time I’d been to the hospital on a proper working day (rather than on a Friday) and it was noticeably busier. The guy on the desk was friendlier and considerately brought all the forms over to me that I had to fill in and he arranged for someone to take me to the doctor in a wheelchair.

I worried as I sat waiting for my doctor, as there seemed to be another doctor there who didn’t speak much English. I wanted to have the same consultant as I’d had before – he was young, pleasant, witty, and could speak good English. And, of course, he knew exactly what I’d been through. Eventually, my consultant came in with the other doctor and I felt a wave of relief.

He asked me to get up on the bed, although both he and the nurse seemed very alarmed when I stood up and they warned me to be careful, but actually I’ve got to be a dab hand at standing up using my right foot only and couldn’t see what they were fussing about.

The doctor informed me he would take off the plaster – they all call it Gips here, as in German, and I’m not sure why. Perhaps they’ve just found that everyone understands that, maybe it is called Gips in Russian and/or Arabic (I find that hard to believe)? Anyway, everyone calls it Gips and I understand what they mean, so it doesn’t really matter.

What alarmed me was that he said he would take off the plaster and then get me another foot. My first thought was that he meant that he would take off the plaster and then replace it with a foot-only plaster or sturdy shoe. I had been hoping today would be the end of it! After a while more of thinking, though, I realised that he may have meant another x-ray of my foot.

Meanwhile, he took out a circular saw and started sawing through my plaster. I was extremely thankful that I’d read about this on the internet, where people said not to be alarmed because it is a special saw that can’t actually cut you, or I would have been completely petrified. Looking at the saw, it didn’t look any different from a real saw, it had a convincingly sturdy and sharp appearance, and even though I knew it couldn’t hurt me, a part of me wasn’t wholly convinced. However, it was true, even when it touched my skin, it just felt warm and that was about it, really.

I was fascinated to be reunited with the bottom half of my leg and my foot. To my surprise, my leg looked pretty OK. It wasn’t even particularly hairy, maybe just at the top, and it didn’t look wasted either. In fact, strangely, the left-half of my leg was devoid of hair. My foot was swollen, but not as badly as the last time, and my toes looked a bit wasted where they joined the foot. I couldn’t smell anything, so that was also a relief. Overall, I was pretty pleased. It looked like a foot with toes on.

We then went to X-Ray, which confirmed my later thought of what “getting another foot” meant, and I started to feel a bit more positive. Again, everyone seemed very worried as soon as I tried to get from the bed back to the wheelchair, even though I was feeling confident in my manoeuvres. The nurse kept on telling me I was a “very brave woman”. This is what they kept on telling me each time on my first visit whenever they were about to do something very painful to me or if they were unable to help my pain. I began to hate that phrase and really I had no desire to be brave. This time, though, there wasn’t anything to be brave about. I’m not mocking the nurse, though; she was extremely pleasant and made a huge effort to talk to me and keep me happy. Top marks to her!

When I was in X-Ray, I had a quiet moment to myself where I had the opportunity to examine my foot more carefully. Shocked, I found that the actual wound was still very visible as a gash; I guess when a wound is not exposed to air, it doesn’t recover as quickly. I also hadn’t realised it was quite so large. The last time I saw it, it just looked like a little slit.

Then I was whisked off in the wheelchair (“you’re a brave woman”) to another room, where the consultant explained that my foot had healed very strongly. I can’t explain how relieved I was. He said my major problem was my swelling. My heart sank as I dreaded him telling me that I needed a few more injections. However, instead, he said that I had to put a cream on my foot three times a day, bathe it in warm water three times a day, take tablets three times a day, and then take painkillers if and when I needed them. He advised me not to be worried if the foot hurt every now and then as this was normal. I asked if I could walk and he said it was absolutely not a problem; it was just my ligaments that needed to be brought back up to par.

While waiting for the medications, I put on my sock, which was actually quite difficult and a little bit painful to do, so I gave up on the idea of putting on my trainer. My sock would have to do.

I had been delighted to hear I could walk, but was also a bit confused when they still wanted to take me to reception in the wheel chair and didn’t want me to walk on my crutches out of the building. Was I OK or was I not OK? I was also surprised that they didn’t insist that I pay this time. My insurance had actually requested that I pay up front because it was easier for them, but I was wheeled outside before I knew what was happening and by then I just couldn’t be bothered. I felt I had already paid enough up front and had gone through enough trauma.

On the way back, I needed to stop to get money out. My taxi driver encouraged me to try putting my foot on the ground, which I did. To my surprise, I felt no pain at all. Nevertheless, I didn’t want to experiment with my foot in a public place, so I still took it carefully and didn’t put any weight on my foot. I got back in the taxi and I arrived back to the apartment with the two security guards cheering as I came in!

The workmen were still in my flat, which was a bit frustrating as I wanted to bathe my foot and start experimenting with it a bit. However, it was good to see the progress and the fans looked better once they were up than when they were in the boxes. Everything was slowly coming together.

As I walked round to inspect everything, I started to experiment a bit, placing increasing pressure on my foot. After about fifteen minutes, I finally plucked up the courage to try walking without the crutches, and actually this was OK! It didn’t hurt, at least not where I had been wounded, although I couldn’t walk fluently and I was scared of overdoing it. Still, I could get about, and without pain, which was more than I could have hoped for. I didn’t dare keep it up for too long, though.

Finally, the workmen left, and I could experiment a bit more on my own. I wandered round the flat trying to assess how my foot felt and whether I was hobbling because I needed to or whether it was just habit. I tried to move my foot naturally rather than automatically trying to keep it in the position it had been in whilst it was in the cast. Obviously, my foot doesn’t have as much movement and flexibility as it had before, not yet at any rate, but it was still doing well, I reckoned.

I got a bowl of water to bathe my foot and, of course, now I had two hands free to carry it, so that was already progress. Maybe I will have another Sitz bath yet (not that I need it)! A lot of gunk came off my foot as I bathed it – I guess mostly from the bandage, but also dead skin. Although the doctor had made quite a fuss about it being swollen, I really didn’t think it was too bad. My taxi driver had suggested that I do some exercises with the foot when it was in the water and that this may be better than walking in the first instance, so I also tried that.

I am still sitting with my foot up, as recommended by the doctor, and in any case I often sit like that anyway. At the moment, it’s my heel that hurts most, which is surprising, because I’ve relied on my heel a lot over the last five weeks, but maybe it’s overworked and is bruised and I just hadn't noticed with all my other challenges.

I now have five days for my foot to get as well as possible before I fly to the UK!

El Andalous - Last Day With Cast

Me, With The Second, Very Fetching, Green-Coloured Cast

Yes folks, that’s five weeks gone. You are probably thinking how quickly that went; I’m just thinking it couldn’t come soon enough.

To be honest, I’ve been pretty lucky with my cast – I haven’t had the itching that many people have and say is unbearable; I’ve had my writing to do, so I haven’t felt bored or even particularly deprived. In addition, I’ve had no problems sleeping (once the rats were gone); my foot didn’t really hinder me there at all.

I think the worst part for me, apart from not being able to do my own shopping and having to rely on other people all the time, and not to be able to do things immediately (such as unpacking my shipped items), is getting up in the morning.

Each time I wake up, I feel thwarted at the idea of having to hobble to my bathroom (which feels like a very long way) on my crutches. I can sense my arms aching before I even get my crutches. And when I get to the bathroom, I have to wash myself by hand. I have to balance on my broken foot to wash my good foot, but of course I can’t put weight on it, so it has to be done very delicately on my heel, and I’m not sure that this is even very good for me. The same holds when I put on items of clothing, although recently I’ve taken to hobbling naked into the lounge and dressing whilst sitting down. Washing is never very satisfactory since it’s never a full body clean.

I can put a plastic bag on my foot and sit in the shower with one foot sticking out, but I only have one plastic bag that is large enough, so if it breaks, I am stuck. Consequently, I save this exercise for days where I need to wash my hair (I can do that only in the shower) and I avoid doing that for as long as possible these days.

I’m saying this, not to complain, but to illustrate why I can’t wait to come out of my plaster. Most of the time, I have to say, I’ve been pretty upbeat and it’s enabled me to push forward with my writing. It is pleasant to sit on my balcony by the fountain, have my neighbours pass by for a chat now and then, and to get on with things at my own quiet pace. I would have been more miserable in a grey and cold climate, so I am thankful to be here. In many ways, it really hasn’t hampered my life so much.

However, somehow, nearing the day where my cast might come off seems to have changed my psychological make-up. I have mixed feelings.

I don’t dare believe that the cast will come off because I will be so gutted if my foot isn’t healed. This fear, I think, is making me feel more resentful towards my cast.

All of a sudden, it feels a lot harder to use the crutches, it all seems like more of an imposition. The cast feels so heavy.

Then there are times where I think that maybe I could have been more careful, maybe I have used my foot too much when washing myself, or hobbling to the lounge from the kitchen with my food, and I’ve put myself back; maybe I should have not even had my heel on the floor, ever. I worry that I’ve wasted the last five weeks doing the wrong things, hindering my progress.

I am starting to imagine pains in my foot, convinced it hasn’t made any progress at all. I find it a bit frustrating that I can’t see my foot, see whether the wound is healing. I can feel sweat dripping off my foot at times and then I worry that my wound has opened and that it is blood, which it isn’t, of course. And, if I think about it, it is probably good that I can’t see my foot, as that would probably just make me worry even more.

I should get a grip, really, as I’ve managed OK for 5 weeks and it wouldn’t be the end of the world (just a huge inconvenience) if it has to be 5 more weeks; I’ve really passed the time quite pleasantly.

I also have a slight dependency fear at the thought of my cast coming off. What if it comes off too soon, I turn in my sleep and it somehow tweaks the bone out of place? How will I know how far I can walk, how much to push myself? Will my bone be safe when it’s not in this nice, protective cocoon? Maybe I should wear walking shoes to protect it a bit, maybe even keep the shoe on in bed for a while? Will my bone really be able to continue to heal without the cast?

I’ve been tempted to put some pressure on my foot to test it out a bit before I go to the hospital, but each time the fear of undoing everything just before I go is too much, so I don’t. Some days, I am convinced it is just a normal foot in the plaster and it’s just a matter of the plaster coming off. Other days, I feel it hurting – or think I do – and I wonder if I have made any progress at all since I got this “new” bandage put on.

At first, I fantasied about being able to walk straight away once the cast comes off (some people claim to be able to do this), but I’ve downgraded my expectation now to it probably hurting a bit at first and to needing my crutches for maybe the first week or so. It will be nice to have a proper shower! I’ve heard that the leg will look pale, hairy, and wasted, with sensitive skin for the first three days, and possibly also smelly due to it not being washed for all that time (one person claimed it took three days to get rid of the smell!).

Anyway, I thought I would report all this because I find it quite interesting. I was expecting my spirits to be raised in the run-up to the D-day, and to be in pleasant anticipation, but actually, it’s pretty much the opposite, to my surprise. It will be easier once I know either way (cast on, or cast off).

El Andalous - Internet Banking

Premier Romance Sunbed, Sahl Hasheesh

Some time ago, I received a call from the bank, requesting that I come in to collect my PIN from them. I actually had my phone switched on, which was a bit of a novelty, so I did take the call, but was a bit alarmed that they weren’t just wanting me to come in to collect the PIN; they also wanted me to state immediately when I would come in. I felt a bit frustrated as it would be easier and cheaper if it could just be sent to me, but this was obviously not how it worked.

Anyway, I went in as requested on the specified day and he handed me over the PIN in one of those protected envelopes and explained several times that this was the PIN for internet banking and not for my debit card. When I asked about my debit card, they informed me this would be delivered within the next week and I would be able to set my PIN for that via internet banking.

I didn’t bother opening the envelope as there was no immediate need. As promised, the debit card also arrived, by courier. Again, I didn’t open it for a while since I couldn’t access any cash machines at the moment anyway due to me being housebound. However, after ordering some mosquito protectors for my doors and paying the deposit, I was suddenly running low of cash and thought I should really turn myself to sorting out the card and the PIN.

I think I was delaying because a part of me somewhere just knew that this wouldn’t run smoothly.

I started off by opening both envelopes. At the bank, the manager had warned me that I might have written over the PIN while using the envelope to rest on as I wrote down my phone number for him, so I opened it with some trepidation. However, all was well. The print for the PIN was faint, but legible. What was a bit confusing was that it claimed it was the PIN for telephone banking and not for internet banking. I don’t want to do telephone banking!

I then opened the debit card, which told me that I had to set my PIN by telephone banking. What is it about the Egyptians that make them like the phone so much? I even received a letter by normal post the other day (yes! I was surprised! But it arrived!) and they asked me to give a phone number and someone would phone me to check it had arrived. What a palaver! To date, they still haven’t phoned me, though, although I may have misremembered my number.

So, here I was, faced with conflicting information. The bank told me it was my internet PIN and that my debit PIN could be set via internet banking; my correspondence told me it was my phone banking PIN and that my debit PIN should be set via telephone banking.

I started off with the internet, since that was my preference, but it wouldn’t accept my PIN and I couldn’t sign in using telephone banking credentials because I didn’t know what my telephone banking number was (it wasn’t my account number, card number or telephone number – I tried!)

I had no option but to try telephone banking. The first four or five times, the phone just shut down on me. Anyway, eventually, I got the phone to ring. Of course, it was an automated voice, asking me to press 2 for English. I looked at my phone. The screen was black. How do I press 2 when you don’t have a keyboard? I pressed a few random icons at the bottom of the screen but I wasn’t sure what any of them did. I ended up hanging up as I was a bit scared about what these random buttons may be doing. I hate mobile phones!

I brought up the user manual on my computer and hunted around until I could find out how to bring up the keyboard when you are in the middle of a phone call. It was all so much faff.

Eventually, I got the phone to ring again and I managed to press 2. I went through all the menu options until it asked for my PIN. I entered my PIN and it wasn’t recognised by the system. I put the phone down, did it all again, typed in my PIN extra carefully, but still the system wouldn’t recognise the PIN. Maybe it was the PIN for internet banking after all?

Again, I went on the computer, went to the HSBC site and found a map of the options for the phone banking and saw a route by which you can get to order a new phone banking PIN, so I decided to do that, although it made a bit of a mockery of me having to go into the bank to fetch my PIN, which I obviously didn’t need.

So, on I went to the phone banking system again, through all the hurdles until I was on the line waiting for a customer service assistant. I waited, and waited, and waited. It kept on telling me that they were available until 11pm. I wasn’t going to stay online until 11pm and I wondered if this was how they made their money, by getting people to wait endlessly on the phone. In the end I gave up and decided to phone at night when maybe it was less busy.

I went on again in the evening, as planned, went through all the hurdles and ended up with a real person.

I don’t know what it is, as I think they are all speaking very clear English, but for some reason I cannot understand Arabic people when they are on the phone. Maybe I am in a state of panic? Maybe I haven’t adjusted to the Arabic lilt? In any case, it is very embarrassing as I keep on having to say that I can’t understand; they get very frustrated and I get increasingly flustered and embarrassed. Why do people like the phone?

The woman said a lot of words and went through a very long explanation and in the end I understood that she was putting me through to somewhere else and that there were certain rules for making up the PIN that I couldn’t quite grasp apart from that it couldn’t be 123456 or 111111. I braced myself for the next person, but this time it was just an automated voice and I just typed in my number, phew! There was no option afterwards to confirm or to hang up, so I just hung up and hoped that all was well. In truth, I had no clue. I hoped the woman hadn’t told me to select another option afterwards, because if she had, I hadn’t done it.

I wanted to give up at this point, but I really needed a PIN for my debit card or I wouldn’t be able to access any of my money. In fact, I didn’t really want the telephone banking PIN at all. Me and telephone baking won’t get on, I just know it.

I decided to have another go at internet banking now that I had the telephone banking PIN. However, still none of my numbers worked as a telephone banking number and still I couldn’t access internet banking. Finally, I found a FAQ for telephone banking on the HSBC website and hidden somewhere in there, under an answer not to do with telephone banking numbers, was the information that your telephone banking number was the first, say, 8 digits of your account number, followed by the number 6. How random is that?!

Miraculously, this worked and I finally found myself on the internet banking system. However, to access the full functionality of the internet banking system, you had to order one of those security keypads. There was a funny cartoon of the history of banking security, showing the last great innovation to be the Swiss locked vault and now the Egyptian security keypad had come along as the next great improvement.

I ordered the keypad, slightly despondent at yet another delay to my accessibility, looked around on the basic functionality of internet banking, but there was no way to alter your PIN for your debit card. I would have to go back to telephone banking.

So, there I was again, on the phone, going through all the options. Fortunately, it was all automated, so less stressful than dealing with a person, and it even accepted my new phone banking PIN, and then on I went to the automated voice asking me for my suggested debit card PIN. I typed in my desired PIN. There was a moment’s silence and it said it would put me through to a customer representative. I immediately hung up.

I tried again, and when I got through I offered a different suggested debit card PIN. This time the system said it didn’t recognise what I had pressed. I found this encouraging as at least it wasn’t trying to put me through to a human, and I now entered the number I originally wanted, only this time I thumped extra hard and extra carefully on my keypad, since it looked as if that had been the problem. An electronic voice asked me to confirm – was this success? I thumped in the numbers again and I got confirmation of the number. At long last, I’d succeeded. It may have taken me almost a whole day to do it, but I got there in the end.

Moving is supposed to be stressful, and people generally think of the act of moving, but actually it is all this getting yourself sorted malarkey that is just as, if not more, stressful.

El Andalous - Meanwhile...

Old Town, Sahl Hasheesh, from the Water

I mentioned briefly that, during this time, my bum was hurting a bit as I sat. Actually, I realised fairly quickly that I had a pea-sized lump and it was this that was making me uncomfortable. At one point, I even had to fetch a cushion so that I could sit OK, although it wasn’t doing much for my posture.

After searching the internet, I decided to diagnose myself with piles. This on top of everything else! I wasn’t experiencing bleeding, it was just discomfort when sitting, but I was in the right age range. I remember Deborah Delanoy telling me that when you turn 50, all of a sudden your health just goes completely to pot. I have to say, my experience to date seems to bear this out.

One cause of piles was too much sitting, which would fit, but I couldn’t really do much about that as it was a consequence of my broken foot. Since the home remedies for piles seemed fairly innocuous, I felt that, even if I had diagnosed myself wrongly (quite possible), it couldn’t do any harm to follow them. Although piles can disappear of their own accord within a fortnight, I was keen to do the home remedies as it would be just my luck to end up being one of the few that need surgery.

On discovering the home remedies, I went full force with my therapeutic regimen. I doused the lump with white vinegar and put ice on it several times a day. I thought it did help a bit. The next day, I decided to try the Sitz bath – basically you sit in a tub of warm water to relax the area. This is where it all went horribly wrong.

I got a tub, filled it to about a quarter to a third with water at just the right temperature. I was then going to take it into the bathroom, set it on top of the toilet, and sit there for a while. First mistake. I picked up the bowl only to realise that it was too heavy for me to be able to carry with one hand when I was on crutches. From here on, I didn’t really think things through properly.

What I thought was that I could set it on the floor in the kitchen. The kitchen cabinets would hide me from sight to anyone looking in from outside and then I wouldn’t have to carry the bowl. I put it down, undressed as appropriate, and plonked myself down into the bowl, behind the kitchen cabinets. Unfortunately, I’d underestimated my bum mass, so as soon as I sat down, water poured out, all over the kitchen floor. I looked in horror as water went everywhere, the marble floor having no absorbency.

I then realised that my cast was now sitting on water, so I had to lift my leg up. My skirt was sitting in water. The floor looked slippery and I suddenly wondered if I could even stand up from the position I’d got myself into. I had visions of security having to come in to rescue me and finding me sitting there half-naked on the kitchen floor with my bum in a bowl of water!

The sensation of sitting there with my bum in warm water was actually extremely pleasant (you should try it one day) and I contemplated just sitting there for a while and ignoring everything else. However, the longer I sat, the more I began to fret about what I would do if someone knocked at my door. Maybe security would come to check the glue traps for the rats? Maybe Jacquie would come by? Maybe there would be a delivery? I not only needed to get up, I needed to dress myself, and then I would have to explain all the water everywhere whilst wearing a drenched skirt. I was in a bit of a pickle.

I wondered what had possessed me to try this, given that really my ailment wasn’t so bad. I didn’t really need to go to these extremes. What was I thinking? Somewhere, I had lost the plot. I have to wonder about myself sometimes.

The first job was to soak up some of the water. Fortunately, I was sitting just by the drawer holding all the tea towels, so out they all came and I wiped all around me until the flood became a few wet patches instead of a veritable flood.

The next thing was to stand up, which required me to think through my tactics for a while, since the last thing I wanted to do was to slip and break my leg or put my healing process back to the beginning again. But I knew that somehow I had to solve the problem, because there was no way I was going to let myself be rescued by security. I would never live it down. My foot is a big enough source of conversation as it is, let alone having everyone know that security had to heave me out of a Sitz bath. 

Fortunately, I did manage to stand up in the end and it wasn't as difficult as I feared. There wasn't much I could do about my sodden skirt, but I guessed it would dry out as I sat outside in the sun. It was the least of my worries.

I won’t be trying a Sitz bath again in a hurry, at least, not while I have a broken foot.

I still have the lump at the moment, but I think it is subsiding now, and I’m just sticking to the occasional dab with vinegar. It’s a lot safer!