The latest on the airports terror alert
with Shirin and Kamyar Adl

A stick of dynamite was found in a man’s checked luggage in Houston Texas. The man, who was arrested by the authorities, claims to work in the mining industry.
Earlier I interviewed one of the other passengers on the plane who had agreed to speak to us.

‘Hello Sir.’
‘Meep meep’
‘Mr Roadrunner, this man claims to work in mining which of course would explain the dynamite in his luggage. Obviously people should be allowed to carry their work tools around with them if they wish to do so. And of course I would never object to a teacher travelling with one or two pupils packed neatly in her suitcase or a lumberjack walking through airport with a chainsaw on his back. But in case of this creature I must say, all evidence point to him being a terrorist:
1- He is brown
2- He is hairy
3- He is quite dodgy looking really

We asked Mr Roadrunner for his input on this subject but unfortunately by then he had disappeared, leaving behind only a cloud of dust.


In other news a Continental Airlines flight from Corpus Christi, Texas, to Bakersfield, Calif, was held in El Paso after the crew discovered a missing panel in the lavatory.
After examining the hole, the authorities arrested a strange looking man with a huge belly and a very big nose/mouth. There are reports from eyewitnesses that as the man (who claims to work in the pest control industry) was being escorted out of the airport, in one terrorist language or other, he repeatedly shouted the words, ‘Azat motenafferam soorakheh fori’ which when translated into Queen’s democratic English will give, ‘I hate you instant hole.’

The man arrested, who has been named by the authorities as Anteater, will be transferred to Guantanamo Bay prison later this evening.


An Aer Lingus flight from New York City to Dublin was also evacuated Friday morning during a scheduled stopover in western Ireland following a bomb threat that turned out to be unfounded.
We now go live to our airport correspondent.

‘Bugs Bunny, I hear that you have been interviewing people at the airport all day.’
(munch munch) ‘Eh…yeah that’s right.’ (munch munch)
‘So? What have they been saying?’
‘Well I asked one guy, ‘What’s up Doc?’ and he said, eh…where are my notes now? Hang on a minute…ok here they are. Eh…he replied, ‘Be vewwy, vewwy quiet, I'm hunting wabbits!’
‘Oh, well that’s very interesting.’
(Munch munch)
‘Ok…er, what about Denis Breslin, spokesman for American Airlines’ pilots union? I hear that you have been speaking to him too.’
‘Eh…’ (munch munch) ‘oh yeah that guy. Yeah I asked him, ‘What’s cooking?...Doc.’
‘O…kay?’
‘And he said, ‘There really are bad guys out there to get us.’
‘Really? Is that what he said? Well that sounds scary.’
(munch munch) ‘Nyeah…I knew I should have taken that left turn at Albuquerque.’

C Loony Adls Press 2006

Have your say!

These are some of the comments that we at the Loony Adls Press have been receiving regarding the latest terror alerts and airport security.

Erik Smith said…
The authorities have been trying to unarm airplane passengers for many years now but somehow there are still people getting onto planes armed with dynamites and knives and shoe-bombs and baby milk. Frankly I don’t feel safe travelling on a plane anymore.

Anonymous said…
I don’t think it’s fair how airport officials seem to concentrate all their attention on the Moslem looking people. As a tall blond person who has never been strip searched in an airport in all my life, I feel that my basic human rights have been violated.

Mohammad Taghavi said…
This is only another great stratagem by the Great Satan and the cockeyed British to annoy the guiltless, martyr producing nation of Iran and compel this dear nation to give up their basic human rights of a nuclear power station.
Give me your ear and let me notify you why I say this. Notify me, what other people would endure as much suffering as the first-class people of Iran when a veto on hand luggage is put in place? You are notifying us, the nation who invented the Six Carry/Push method (one backpack, two carrier bags on each hand and one big bag being kicked in the front) that we are only sanctioned one bag on the plane each? You kid me? What about all the fried Ghormeh herbs, the fried aubergines, the feta cheese and green plums? Are you anticipating us to travel without these vital substances?
But let me notify you this Mr Bush and Mr Blair, you may take away our hand luggage rights but we will never give up our nuclear rights. As god is my bystander, I will pray everyday for the day that every Iranian has a nuke in his backyard, in other words, beh omideh roozi keh har Irani yek mooshak daashteh baashad. Vassalam, nameh tamam.
Mohmmad taghavi, 38 saaleh, az Tehran

‘Miss’
‘Yes?’ the teacher replies unenthusiastically as she stares out of the window, hands behind her back.
‘Can we write whatever we want in our letter?’
‘No’ says the teacher, continuing to look out of the window, ‘you must all copy out what I have written on the blackboard.’
The blackboard has been split in two by a wriggly chalk line in the middle. On one side of it there is a letter, written in white chalk. It reads:

Drear Soldier brother
My name is … and I am … years old. You are very brave my brother. Your family must be very proud. We pray everyday for you to defeat Saddam the killer and come back home. We are behind you every second of the day, fighting from our little trenches: our schools.
May Allah be your guardian

On the other side of the blackboard there is a badly drawn picture of a standing man with his hands in front of his face in prayer position.

‘What about the picture Miss?’ asks the girl sitting in front of me raising her hand, ‘Can we draw a different picture?’
‘No’ the teacher sighs. Then she turns around and reluctantly walks to the blackboard, ‘you must draw this picture on one side of your paper, and then copy out this letter on the other side of it, putting your name and surname here,’ she says pointing to the dotted line after ‘My name is’ and then pointing to the next dotted line she says, ‘and your age in here.’
‘What did I tell you?’ the girl in front of me whispers victoriously. I want to give her a kick from under the desk but I don’t want her to know that she has annoyed me. So I shrug. ‘So?’ I say indifferently.
‘So’ she whispers again, with one hand in front of her mouth, ‘your drawing is no good and you have to start a new one now. I shrug again. Tina, who is sitting next to me whispers, ‘Just ignore her.’
The girl in front turns around and seeing that I’m still colouring in the picture I have copied from my pencil case; Luke Skywalker having a light sabre duel with Dart Vader, whispers a little louder than before, ‘You’re going to get a big fat zero for…’
‘Shhhh,’ says the teacher, ‘Quiet. You only have ten more minutes to finish your letters and then we’re going to start our lesson. If you’ve finished already, take your letter along with your moneybox and put them on my desk.’ And then she starts walking in between the desks and looking at people’s drawings. ‘That’s nice’ she says smiling, ‘Well done Zohreh.’
The girl in front of me giggles. ‘She’s not gonna be smiling when she sees your drawing.’ She whispers.
‘Shhhh’ says the teacher and glares at her frowning for a few moments before resuming her stroll around the class.
Suddenly it sounds like there is a fight going on downstairs in the yard. Some of the girls on the other side of the class are peering out of the window. ‘What is going on?’ asks the teacher as she walks to the window herself, hands behind her back. ‘A few mums are talking to each other down in the yard Miss.’ Says one of the girls, standing on the bench to get a better look. ‘Niki,’ she says excitedly, ‘you’re mum’s down there too. And so is yours Niloufar. And…’
‘Get down from there and finish your letter.’ Says the teacher as she opens the window.
An anxious voice calls from the yard, ‘Thank god Mrs Baagheri. Are you sending the kids down now?’
First looking at her watch and then back out of the window again and sounding a bit unsure, our teacher replies, ‘No’ and then, ‘There is still half an hour left until break time.’
‘We’re not talking about break time’ one of the mothers screams melodramatically in a squeaky voice, ‘the Red Alert has already gone off. We are about to be attacked.’
‘Oh I see,’ says our teacher, ‘I wasn’t aware of that.’
‘Well now that you are, will you send our kids down?’ says one of the mums from the yard.
‘I’m sorry’ says our teacher, ‘but I can’t dismiss this one class when the rest of the kids are still in their classes.’
There’s a sudden uproar in the yard.
‘What?’
‘Can you believe this?’
‘They’re crazy.’
‘Are you honestly expecting us to…’
‘Don’t worry Niloufar darling, mummy’s here.’
Niloufar hangs her head and starts to go beetroot red. Some of the rest of us start to giggle hysterically.
‘What is going on here?’ asks the principle, shuffling her way across the yard in her rubber slippers.
‘We’re about to be bombed’ shouts one of the ladies, ‘and we want to take our children somewhere safe.’
‘Yes I heard the Red Alert’ says the principle calmly, ‘but I’m sorry; I can’t close the whole school every time the red alert comes on. As you know, sometimes they come on three or four times a day and nothing happens. But even if we are attacked, I don’t think it’s safe for the kids to be sent away before school closing time. What if their parents are not home yet from work? What if their parents always pick them up from the school and they get lost? What if instead of going home…’
Tina nudges me. ‘Start packing’ she whispers. I grab my backpack and shove everything inside it in one swift move. Downstairs the principle is still counting the reasons why she is not going to close down the school, ‘I’m responsible for these girls. If something happens to one of these girls during school hours, I’m the one who will have to answer for it. I’m the one who angry parents will come to and ask, ‘why did you send our daughter out of school all by herself?’ What I’m trying to say is…’
Boommmm. The sound of the bomb is faint and muffled. ‘Aaaaa’ screams the squeaky mum, ‘they’ve started.’ The whole class stand up; ready to run out of the door. ‘Sit down’ our teacher says firmly. We all sit back down on the edge of our benches with our backpacks still on our backs.
Boommmmm. Class shakes. Windows rattle. One of the girls screams and starts crying. From downstairs mums shout out their kids’ names followed by, ‘Mummy’s here.’
Out in the corridors and stairs, kids have started to run around noisily. Our teacher goes to the classroom door and looks out for a few moments. Tina and I hold sweaty hands. All the girls with aisle seats have one leg out of the bench, ready to run out.
‘Out’ our teacher suddenly announces, holding the door wide open with one hand and waving us out with the other.
Tina and I squeeze ourselves out through the door. In the corridor, we join the sea of kids pushing each other towards the stairs. I trip but don’t fall over since we are all so packed together that there is no room to fall.
Outside in the yard, tearful mothers grab their children and storm out of the school.
Four of my friends and I try to go walk out of the gate but the principle stops us. ‘No. Only the kids whose parents have come to pick them up can leave. The rest of you are staying here.’ And then points to the back of the yard, ‘go and stand over there.’
‘Ahhh’ I say, ‘just because we don’t have crazy parents who spend their whole day waiting outside the school, listening to the radio, we have to stay here for the whole day and sit through maths while everyone else gets to go home.’ The others nod in agreement. ‘I said go and stand over there.’ Says the principle, noticing that we have not yet moved away from the gate, and points to the back of the yard again. We cut through the crowed and stand under a tree.
Booommm. There’s another explosion but we’re too miffed to pay any attention to it. ‘Back of the yard.’ The principle is saying to another group of disappointed girls.
‘Nargess’ a lady standing by the gates is calling and waving in our direction, ‘come hear darling.’ She screams. But she is barely audible in all the noise everyone else is making. ‘I’m here to pick up Leyli’ she says, holding the little first year girl, Leyli, in her arms, ‘you can come with us too if you like.’
‘That’s my neighbour.’ Says Nargess.
‘You’re so lucky.’ Maryam says to her.
‘Yeah’ she says, ‘Sorry’ she shrugs helplessly at us, ‘I see you tomorrow.’
The four of us wave at her glumly as she pushes through the crowed. When she reaches the gate, her neighbour asks her something and points in our direction. Nargess says something back to her. Then she shakes he head and says something to Nargess. Suddenly Nargess starts waving at us. ‘Come on’ she shouts cheerfully.
We start pushing through the crowd instantly, not wasting a nanosecond of time.
‘Come on’ says Nargess’s neighbour, eager to get out. We all follow obediently without stopping for a second to tend to our twisted veils or unbuttoned uniforms or undone shoelaces that have resulted from being pushed and pulled and hung on to for steadiness as we had tried to make our way through the sea of girls trying to make it out of the school.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ the principle shouts at us angrily, ‘How many time does a human child need to be told one simple…’
‘They are with me.’ Nargess’ neighbour cuts her off bravely. We all huddle behind her, using this opportunity to adjust our veils and button up our uniforms.
The principle grunts in displeasure and turns away from us.

Outside, I hungrily breathe in the air of freedom. ‘You will all go home now, won’t you?’ Nargess’ neighbour says, holding her daughter tightly to her chest with Nargess standing by her side. We need to split from them as we are not going in the same direction. ‘Of course’ the rest of us say in unison and then we turn away from them and start running in one direction as they run in the exact opposite.
We run past the little nameless shop next to the school. For the first time I can see what the front of the shop actually looks like without a crowed of girls attached to it. Multicoloured plastic boxes containing bottles of black pop are stacked on top of each other outside in the sun. There is an empty little worn-out stool just in front of the door where I presume Mashdi, the store keeper, sits when he is not being attacked by swarms of girls from our school demanding lollipops, popsicles, cheesy puffs or sour prunes.
The street is empty except for the odd car speeding through every now and then and swerving round the corner. We run as fast as we can until we are almost flying with our sails of veils flapping behind us in the wind. With every step we take the coins we have each been collecting for the war for the past three months, rattle noisily inside their plastic grenade-shaped moneyboxes.
Booommm We run faster laughing and screaming with tears spurting out of the corners of our eyes from all the dust blowing into them.
I imagine arriving home and finding a pile of rubble where our home once stood. ‘It landed on our home,’ I sing, my right foot hitting the asphalt. ‘Chlink’ the coins do their bit. ‘It didn’t land on our home,’ I sing as my left foot momentarily hits the ground before it is forced to swing back again as my right foot comes to the front. ‘Chlunk’ sing the coins.
‘Wait’ someone is shouting. I almost fall over trying to stop. My backpack, still in flying mood, hits me on the back of the head hard before falling back down to place again.
A little further down the road, Tina sits on the ground rubbing her knee. All around her are the contents of her backpack: books, notebooks, her Barbie pencil case and a packet of cheesy puffs. Her maths notebook with red cover has fallen open in the middle of the road and the pages are being flicked through by the wind, or the invisible man. Her plastic grenade rattles happily rolling down the road until it is stopped by the tire of a parked car.

‘It landed on our home. Chlink. It didn’t land on our home. Chlunk…’ I sing turning into our street after dropping off Tina, Maryam and Goli at their homes, making the last bit of my journey home alone since out of all my friends I live the furthest from school. I try to jump higher as I run, to see if any smoke is coming from the direction of our home, surprising myself with how much energy I still have after all that running.
I run up the stairs two in one, bursting into the front door of our flat, gasping for air. My mum and dad both come to the door to meet me. ‘They closed down the school?’ my mum asks. ‘No’ I say panting, pulling my veil off theatrically and feeling my hair stand up with static electricity. My dad smiles. ‘We escaped.’ I say and throw myself in their arms.
It didn’t land on our home.

‘You love Saddam Hussein?’ asked the Greek barman eagerly. I had been mistaken for many things in my life but Saddam Hussein’s lover was definitely the most interesting one.
‘No’ I replied in a bit of a squeaky voice that had resulted from me being so shocked at this question. Socrates, the barman, frowned in disappointment. ‘You like Iraq better now?’ he inquired, leaning over the bar. He was quite big and now towering over me.
I instinctively stepped back, taking care not to step on the chubby black puppy sleeping just behind me with his fat, pink belly pressed against the cool stone floor of the restaurant.
‘No’ I said, ‘the current situation in Iraq is terrible but Saddam Hussein wasn’t such a great person either.’
The barman stepped back, giving me knowing nods. ‘Yes it’s terrible’ he said, his face showing disgust but also happiness at having found exactly the right English word to describe his feelings in relation to the Iraq situation: Terrible. This he now repeated several time whilst shaking his head from side to side. I kind of wished I’d picked a better word.
‘Do you go back there?’ he finally asked, after sufficient number of ‘terrible’s were expressed.
‘Ah’ I said smiling, realising the misunderstanding, ‘I’m not from Iraq, I’m from Iran. With an N.’
Socrates gasped, widening his eyes. ‘Iran?’ he asked excitedly. I nodded, dreading his next question which I assumed was going to be about me being in love with our president. But luckily it wasn’t. He just nodded at me approvingly. ‘Very good’ he said, looking me up and down.
I looked over to the bottle of coke and the can of iced tea that I had taken from the fridge about ten minutes earlier. They hadn’t been that cold to begin with and now they were even warmer. For the fifth time since I had met the barman, I stretched my hand towards him, holding a five Euro note.
‘Hey’ he shouted at a chunky middle aged guy sitting at the end of the bar, waving my money away. This was followed by a series of words in Greek with the only recognizable word to a non Greek speaking person being: Iran.
‘Oh’ the other man replied, raising his eyebrows in surprise. Then he got up and headed in my direction.
Standing in front of me, one hand on chest, he began, ‘Hello’
‘Hello’ I replied, losing all hope of ever getting away.
‘I am Socrates’ he said, bringing his right hand to shake mine. Hearing this exact same sentence about ten minutes earlier from the barman had amused me a little but now I was just hot and bothered and wanted to drink my coke sitting on the beach with my feet in the water.
‘Shirin’ I said, shaking the man’s hand, ‘nice to meet you.’ Then I waited but neither of them said anything. They just stood there looking at me as one would at endangered species shown on television; with a look of sorrowful respect accompanied with the faintest of smiles. The puppy yawned and dragged his belly across the floor a little to reach a cooler area.
‘Iran’ said Socrates #2 with great determination that was mirrored in his tight fist held near his face, ‘very good country.’

Who would have thought that as a result of the Lebanon tragedy, being Iranian would suddenly become something cool and trendy! All the time we were in Corfu, whenever we told anyone we were from Iran, they would look at us admiringly.
The most interesting example of this was definitely the antiwar demonstration that we accidentally attended in Corfu town. We were walking around in the evening, going from shop to shop; waiting to feel hungry so we could go and have dinner, when we saw a group of people walking down the road carrying Lebanese and Palestinian flags and shouting slogans which were all Greek to me ;-)
Naturally the photoblogger and his flaneur missis followed the crowd. He, enticed by the prospect of great photo opportunities, and her, drawn in by the cuteness of the group of nine local dogs following the demonstrators.
As we marched through the narrow streets, more people and dogs joined. After a while, a little out of breath, Kamyar caught up with me and my twelve furry friends at the end of the procession. ‘Excuse me’ he said to the guy walking in front of us, holding a Lebanese flag, and asked him what it was exactly that they were shouting about, fitting into his question, very artfully, the three magic words that we had come to understand would instantly turn people into our friends: I am Iranian.
It worked. The man looked very pleased and so did the woman next to him. After he was done explaining to us what was being said by the demonstrators, he whispered something to the person next to him. This started a little Mexican wave of whispers, with every now and then, someone turning around to give us a respectful nod.
At Liston, everybody stopped and continued shouting, standing in a circle. Kamyar and I and a collection of dogs, stood a little further away, watching. After a while a young man with dreadlocks ran towards us. ‘Come quick’ he said excitedly. They were about to burn flags and he had rushed to call in the experts, as it were!
I don’t really like the whole flag burning thing myself and despite being Iranian, with flag burning in recent years having become a national pastime of ours, I’m afraid I had never seen it being done before. Even so, obviously carrying the Iranian-flag-burning genes, I took one look at the Israeli and the American flags that they were holding and knew they were heading for a disaster. The flags they were about to burn were different to the other ones they were carrying. These were made out of plastic for some reason. And as if that wasn’t enough, the guy in charge of burning them, first covered them both in what smelt like lighter fuel.
The flags went from flags to charred nothings in 1.2 seconds.
The crowd screamed and jumped back as the flags went up in flames.
The dogs dispersed.
The Iranians went off in search of a nice restaurant.

Drrrrrrrrrrrring Drrrrrrrrrrrring
‘Huh’
Drrrrrrrrrrring Drrrrrrrrrring
Shirin quickly picks up the phone, at the same time producing a very unnecessary cough. ‘Hello?’ she says, trying her hardest to sound awake. As if sleeping is some sort of crime.

‘Good morning’ says the hotel receptionist from the other end, ‘I have Europe Car people here. They have come to pick up the car you rented.’
‘Oh!’ she replies, blinking rapidly a few times to try and get things in focus whilst looking at the clock, ‘But we were supposed to return the car at ten, it’s not even nine now and we still haven’t put the petrol we used back in.’
‘Oh!’ replies the receptionist.
‘Well the petrol station was shut when we got back last night so we thought we would do that this morning.’
‘Please excuse me a moment.’
And then two Greek voices discuss the matter on the other side. Shirin takes this opportunity to rub her eyes with the back of her free hand and check out her tan. It’s looking good but it could be better and today is her last chance to try and get it just perfect.
‘Hello?’ Says a nervous Greek voice from the other end.
‘Yes? Hello’
‘I am very sorry but I need to take the car now.’
‘But what about the petrol?’
‘It is ok. I will see how much you used and take the money from your card.’ And then her voice goes from nervous to sounding like she is about to cry, ‘Please, I need to take the car now. I will not be able to come back in this weather.’
That’s when Shirin notices the ‘wishhhhhh, wishhhhhh’ sound from outside. It’s raining. ‘Oh Greeks’ she thinks to herself swallowing her laughter while shaking her head from side to side in the knowing manner of a person from the UK.
‘Please’ the woman pleads again.
‘Ok’ she replies, ‘Don’t worry, my husband is on his way to the reception now.’ looking at the poor, half sleep husband next to her and waving him out of the bed.
‘Oh thank you’ says the woman on the other side, sounding very relieved.

Outside, rain is coming down hard on the lawn and on the flowers and on their drenched towels hanging out to dry. Shirin sits on the edge of the bed, scratching her legs and looking at the too familiar English style sky. ‘So you missed me so much that you had to follow me all the way to Greece then hey?’ she says looking up at the clouds.
‘What about the petrol?’ asks Kamyar, pulling his T-shirt over his head. ‘It’s ok’ she replies, watching the fat drops of rain land in the anti-mosquito candle left outside on the table, ‘she says she can just take the money.’

The next ten minutes are dedicated entirely to Shirin thinking about what she is going to have for her breakfast. By the time Kamyar gets back, drenched from head to toe, she has worked out exactly what she is going to have: three pieces of toast dripping with double cream and topped with blackcurrant jam washed down with a cup of coffee. But the storm is getting worst by the minute. ‘So this is the catch.’ She says to herself, ‘being stranded in our room on our last day here without any jam.’
She had wondered about the catch ever since the very cheap last minute holiday they had booked without even knowing exactly which hotel or which town they were going to, had turned out to be an amazing holiday in a wonderfully gorgeous place, not far from her idea of paradise.
They had been given a little house all to themselves, about five minutes away from a huge swimming pool and a beautiful beach, with amazing views of Greek mainland. But somehow non of it had felt right and everyday, lying back on the beach or by the pool, jet skiing in the Mediterranean, eating fresh swordfish, accidentally receiving a much better rented car than they had paid for, she had asked herself over and over again: What is the catch?
‘But if this really is the catch’ she thinks to herself, ‘it’s actually an ok one. We’ve had a fantastic week and now it’s raining a little, so what?’

‘Terrible weather, isn’t it?’ the old lady from next door was shouting to the people standing by the front door in the house opposite from them, ‘Do you have supplies?’
‘Supplies!’ Shirin chuckled to herself.
The lady continued, ‘Have you heard about the airports? ...Terrible, isn’t it?’
‘The airports?’ Shirin thought, ‘Oh no, have the airports closed down because of the rain? Oh fogodsakes’ she thought, getting up from the bed and walking to the door, ‘it’s just a bit of rain.’
Outside the rain had been busy. It was still coming down hard and now everything was under at least two inches of water. ‘Umm’ she thought, things were starting to look serious now.
‘Look at this’ she said to Kamyar who was pouring water in the kettle to make coffee, ‘There’s water everywhere.’
And so they both did what any normal holidaymaker in their position would do; they took out their cameras and started to shoot.

Their paradise had gone from this

and this

to this

and this

For the first time since they had bought their tickets, Shirin thought about the annoying mandatory insurance that they had been made to buy, wondering if the cheap £17.99 one they had chosen, offered a helicopter rescue from the roof or not.
‘Oh we must watch the news’ she said, suddenly remembering what she had overheard earlier, ‘The lady next door was saying something about the airports being closed.’

‘Airport plot’ read the white writing on the red band at the bottom of the television screen on BBC World Channel. And then it changed to ‘Terror Alert’
It took them a while to work out exactly what was going on. Basically the British police had been informed that terrorists had plotted to blow up planes in midair, using bombs in liquid form (a Doctor Evil kind of plan basically) and now many flights had been cancelled and all airports were in chaos. Shirin and Kamyar watched in disbelief.
‘So this is the catch’ Shirin thought to herself.
Outside, rainwater was only about an inch away from reaching the top of their doorstep and pouring into the house. Occasionally a lobster-red, English man in shorts would slosh past their door, ankle deep in water to get to the shop for some food for his family. ‘Wonder if the shop has any jam left.’ Shirin thought to herself.

They spent the rest of the morning staring at the television or reading their books. The rain would ease off for a while and then start up again. By twelve o’clock they noticed an opening in the clouds and then a small brown dog with a goatee swam past their front door. The situation was still extremely surreal but things were definitely improving.

By two o’clock the rain had stopped. Blue skies had come out again and Shirin was sitting outside in the sun eating her three pieces of toast with cream and jam, hoping the dog with the goatee managed to swim home ok. They still had the airport situation to worry about but now that it was sunny again, it wouldn’t actually be that bad really if they had to stay a few extra days.

I’m back from sunning myself in gorgeous Corfu. More on that story later but until then feast your eyes on these: amateur photography galore ;-)

Taking a break from blogsphere
Big love to you all
xxxxx