tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-147192752024-03-07T04:54:37.421+00:00Shirin in EngelestanShirinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187290541060892058noreply@blogger.comBlogger173125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14719275.post-68078416263378462812015-06-05T14:51:00.001+01:002015-06-05T14:51:40.419+01:00<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">Sometimes if I need to remember something, I wear my wedding ring on my right hand. For the past couple of days I'd added another ring and had left the wedding ring on the left to remember there are two things I need to do. I finally did the the things yesterday. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">Now after a remembering-flood in bed last night and much ring swapping, I wake this morning to find two rings on my right hand (on the same finger). If my calculations are correct, there are four important things that I need to do today, and I can't for the life of me remember what they are.</span>Shirinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187290541060892058noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14719275.post-65070042736322565592015-05-05T14:53:00.002+01:002015-05-05T14:53:35.815+01:00<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
I was with a few friends the other night and we got to talking about the crazy ISIL or ISIS and how they have been destroying all those statues and stone reliefs. And then of course we started talking about all the things that have been taken out of Iran over the years.<br />I love Persepolis. There isn’t much left of it but it’s wonderful to just be there in the ruins. But it wasn’t until I had gone to the Louvre that I saw how amazing Persepolis really was. Most of our really great stuff is in the Louvre and the British Museum and other museums around the world. And with ISIL now on our doorstep, maybe that’s a good thing?</div>
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These guys are scary. They are truly the no fun and all mental, fundamentals. And they are rich now! The Taliban have poppy fields. These guys have oil fields. And they’re armed to the teeth with weapons they’ve collected on their way. These are weapons that were discarded by the American soldiers on their way out of the country in 2011, and the weapons they’ve collected from the Iraqi Army; trained by the American army to defend the country and keep the peace, and also weapons they have brought back with them from Syria. Iran is now fighting ISIL in Iraq, trying to stop them from reaching its borders.</div>
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Previously ISIL had been fighting in Syria against President Assad’s army alongside freedom fighters who were receiving help and support from the US.</div>
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Previously ISIL, a small militia group, had been fighting the US army in Iraq.</div>
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Previously the invasion and regime change in Iraq had left the country in turmoil and had created a fairy-tale terrorist getaway.</div>
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Previously in 2003 the US and Britain had decided it was time to disarm Saddam Hossein. Civilian deaths in Iraq between 2003 and 2011: Over 114,000</div>
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Previously in an attempt to capture Osama Bin Laden of Al-Qeda, the US had started a war with the Taliban in Afghanistan. Civilian deaths: between 18,000 and 20,000</div>
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Previously Al-Qeda had launched attacks on US soil on September 11 2001. Civilian deaths: 3,000</div>
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Previously in 1990 the US had angered Osama Bin Laden by keeping its armed forces in Saudi Arabia after throwing Saddam Hussein out of Kuwait.</div>
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Previously in 1988, an Iranian Airbus passenger plane had been shot down by a United States Navy guided missile in Iranian airspace, over Iranian territorial waters in the Persian Gulf. All 290 passengers and crew members had died instantly. US government had not even apologised for this and the incident had been ignored by western media.</div>
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Previously in 1986 The United States and Great Britain had blocked all Security Council resolutions condemning Iraq's use of chemical weapons against Iranians. Meanwhile the US had helped the Mujahedeen in Afghanistan with money and weapons in their fight against the Russians. The warfare between Russia and the Mujahidin devastated Afghanistan. Around 2 million refugees fled into Pakistan and another 1.8 million into Iran.</div>
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Previously in 1982, Osama Bin Laden had entered Afghanistan to help the Mujahedeen and had formed Al-Qaeda. Meanwhile the US was helping Iraq with weapons to be used against Iran and president Regan had removed Iraq from its list of known terrorist countries.</div>
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Previously in 1980, Iraq had invaded Iran, beginning a war that went on for 8 years. During all this time, Iraq was supported by the US with weapons (including chemical ones) and intelligence. Overall death toll: 1 million for Iran and 500,000 for Iraq.</div>
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Previously in 1979 Shah of Iran had been overthrown and the Islamic Republic of Iran had been formed. Its main mission had been to put a stop to foreign exploitation of Iran. Relations between Iran and the US had broken down completely and the US had put sanctions on Iran.</div>
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Previously the US had benefitted immensely from the very successful coup it had organized in Iran. US had now acquired 40% share in Iran’s oil. Britain’s share had now gone down to 40% and French and Dutch companies had the rest.</div>
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Previously in 1953, the democratically elected Mossadegh had been taken down from power in a CIA and MI6 drafted operation.</div>
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Previously in 1952, Mossadegh had nationalised the Iranian oil industry. This meant that instead of Britain, the Iranian people would benefit from Iran’s oil money. He also defended freedom of religion and freedom of speech. He fought for the rights of women and workers. By giving more help to farmers and sponsoring development projects in rural areas Mossadegh was trying to create a self-sufficient country that did not have to rely only on oil production. He was also trying to put an end to British political interference and exploitation of Iran’s national resources. In response to this the British government had imposed economic sanctions on Iran and was threatening military attack.</div>
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Previously in 1941, British and Russian forces had invaded Iran even though Iran had stayed mutual in Second World War and had sent the then king, Reza Shah to exile for his siding with the Germans. He had also tried to fight Britain over a very ridiculous oil deal they had signed with another king, from a completely different dynasty forty years earlier. At that time Anglo Iranian Oil Company which the British government was now a major shareholder in, had the rights to all the oil in the south of Iran. In exchange they were supposed to pay a meagre 16% of their profits to the government but they were even trying to cheat their way out of that. He had also tried to stop the French and the British from taking our ancient artefacts.</div>
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Previously in 1901 The British had bought the rights to exclusive oil exploration in the south of Iran. The Russians controlled the North.</div>
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Previously in 1895 after trying to stop our valuables from leaving the country and failing miserably, Nasereddin Shah singed a contract with the French and granted them excavation rights in Iran. They could take away half of everything they found. They took almost everything.</div>
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Previously in 1825 a collection of reliefs from Persepolis had been donated to the British Museum by Gore and William Ouseley. They had taken them from Apadana around 1811.</div>
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Well it doesn’t matter, does it? It’s not good to stay bitter about who stole whose artefacts or who overthrew whose government. And it’s not like these stone reliefs have been taken to another dimension or anything like that, is it?! They’re still on the same planet. We can still jump on planes and go and see them whenever we like…What’s that sorry?...No we can’t?!...Oh no don’t worry, we will get a visa…What’s that?...No you won’t give us visas?! … Why is that then?...Oh you think we’re terrorists!...That’s a common mistake. No you see, we’re fighting the terrorists…What’s that now?...You don’t wanna risk it?...yeah OK I understand…Yes and we did burn your flag a few times. Yes and we did take in those British navy guys that time, took their iPods and called them Mr Bean. That was mean. We let them go after a couple of days but I’m sure they were completely traumatised, not like those guys holidaying in Guantanamo, having the time of their lives. Yes that was terrible sorry about that…Yes and we did throw stones at your embassy that time, don’t remind me. That was horrible. I was talking to an Afghan friend who was saying, “Give me a drone strike on a wedding any day but never burn my flag. Getting blown up by well-dressed people who shake hands and shave their beards is acceptable; this is how you know you have a civilised, educated enemy. A few idiots burning your flag or throwing stones at your embassy wall, that’s what really hurts. That’s what the media should focus on.”</div>
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It just makes me laugh so much when I imagine these ISILs charging their way through the streets of Shiraz on their American tanks and Humvees with our severed heads on the end of their bayonets and then arriving at Persepolis and realising that the joke is on them because we’ve already been robbed! Classic! They’re gonna feel so silly. I just hope they don’t do something really awful like burn our flag or throw stones or anything like that.</div>
Shirinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187290541060892058noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14719275.post-3157826363565700052015-04-21T12:43:00.001+01:002015-04-21T14:27:15.224+01:00I have these memories from my childhood (usually of situations that have puzzled me the first time round) that I revisit at different times in my life and find new meanings in them. This is one such memory.<br />
I’m four or five and I’m sitting on the backseat of my uncle’s car in between my mum and my grandmother. My aunt and my uncle are in the front. All the women are wearing black. My uncle is wearing a denim shirt and has his sleeves rolled up. His left arm is resting on his rolled down window. It’s very tanned and brown. His other arm is much lighter. Every so often he smiles winks at me in the rear view mirror. We’re on a dusty road making our way to prison to visit my grandfather. The grownups are chatting about stuff I have absolutely no interest in. It’s all, blah blah confiscated blah blah executed. It’s grownup-speak.<br />
They all look very serious but as soon as they look at me they smile and pass me orange segments or bread. All is well with me but then suddenly something happens. And this is why my brain decides that it should record and file this incident so I can go over it later. I notice that the biggest blob of snot is making its way out of my nose.<br />
“Tissue,” I say to my mum, pointing to my nose, “I need a tissue.”<br />
My mum starts rummaging through her bag and saying, “Does anyone have a tissue?”<br />
My aunt starts looking through her bag too but my grandma doesn’t. Straightaway she holds a part of her headscarf between two fingers and says, “Blow!”<br />
I’m horrified. I don’t want to blow my nose on someone’s headscarf. But before I can say anything she pushes my head forward and wipes my nose. I pull my head back and see the most enormous blob of snot in all its yellow-green glory dangling from her scarf. She smiles at me and quickly and expertly, folds that area of her scarf and ties it in a knot. The snot is now cocooned in her scarf and dangling in front of her chest where it stays all day dangling in the prison waiting room and in the visiting room and all the way back home again in the car on the dusty road. And no matter how much I stare at it, I can’t work out why someone would voluntarily wear someone else’s snot. <br />
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The next time I visited this memory was as a revolutionary teenager. When I looked back I was embarrassed for having been such a stupid little kid. I had been there with these people whose lives had been turned upside down. They had lost everything and all I was interested in was why did my grandmother wipe my nose with her headscarf!<br />
After the revolution, my grandfather had been put in prison and my grandmother had come out of her home one day to visit her sister and had never been able to get back into her home again because it had been confiscated along with everything else they owned. They hadn’t done anything; it’s just that the general rule after a revolution is that the rich and the poor swap places. Our home had been taken too. As if that wasn’t enough, there was talk of my grandfather being executed. In fact one day his name had been announced on the radio as one of the people who had been killed that morning. It had been a mistake but these were the kind of things that these people were dealing with at the time of the great “snot in a knot” incident! These people were sad and anxious, scared and worried but they still had to give me fake smiles and winks to keep me happy in the car and in other places. That must have been very hard for them. Just the thought of that made me cringe with embarrassment.<br />
When I talked to my grandmother about all this, she would say, “Yes but I’m much happier now than I was before the revolution. I have a better life now,” she’d say, “I never liked living in that mansion.”<br />
But did that matter? It was great that she was happy but what had happened to her was still wrong and very bad. I wished I could go back in time and somehow stop that from happening. When I grew up, I would make sure no one suffered from an injustice. I would even give my life to protect people’s rights. <br />
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The next time I revisited this memory was as a mother. I had picked Dara up and he had thrown up straight down my cleavage and so once more (yes this happened more than once) I found myself trying to make my way to the bathroom while carrying a baby and trying to stop a large quantity of sick from sliding down my top, down my trouser legs and onto the carpet. I looked at Dara and I thought to myself, “You little man are the only person in the whole world who can get away with throwing up on me. And not only that but when you do this my first thought is not, “Oh I have sick on me, how horrible I think I’m going to throw up”, but it’s, “Is he OK and how can I make him happy.”<br />
And suddenly I was in that car again on the dusty road, with a runny nose. But now the memory was no longer about the injustice or sadness or who executed whom, how, why and with what effect. Yes those people were upset and worried and anxious, and yes they had lost everything but the smiles and winks they gave me were real. Most importantly, someone (who was not my mother) had once loved me so much, that she had worn my snot in a knot like a crest on her chest for an entire day in Evin prison. That is COOL!<br />
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Finally, this is what I’m seeing now when I take a trip down that dusty memory lane as a woman approaching forty.<br />
People always said my grandmother was the kindest person in the world. They couldn’t understand how she could lose everything and still be happy and be able to laugh until she had to excuse herself and go and change her outfit or say things like, “Our house in the village has been turned into a school, isn’t that great?!” and really mean it. But she herself said to me time and again when I was older that the revolution and losing all her stuff, had actually, if she was absolutely honest, been good for her. Before the revolution, they had been very rich. They had lots of land and lived in a great big mansion with a huge garden. They were far away from their family and friends. People visited them once a week for Friday lunch. Lots and lots of people would come which she loved but she didn’t really get to sit down and have a nice chat with the people she missed; she was running around most of the time, being a good hostess.<br />
After the revolution when she lived in a flat in Tehran, her friends and relatives visited her almost every day. My uncle and cousins lived two minutes away and we went there all the time too.<br />
Her relationship with my grandfather (I don’t want to get into the details but let’s just say it) wasn’t good. After a few years when he was released from prison, he was a completely different person. The two of them began a wonderful relationship and stayed together until the end. <br />
So this is what I’m thinking about now:<br />
If as a direct result of a great injustice, the person who the injustice has been done to ends up begin happier than before, do we still call it a bad thing or is it a good thing now?!<br />
If I could go back in time now and stop that from happening, would I do it?<br />
Is it disturbing that I can’t even agree (on a simple matter of right and wrong) with my own self over the course of my own lifetime?!<br />
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Now what I’m really looking forward to is revisiting this memory as a grandmother. I’m hoping that I will then find out the true meaning of Snot in a Knot. I’m secretly hoping to find out that grandchildren’s snot has some kind of healing power and can be sold for a good price at a special grandmothers’ bazar in downtown Tehran.Shirinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187290541060892058noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14719275.post-49875650292477540802015-04-13T12:27:00.000+01:002015-04-13T12:27:10.491+01:00<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
Multiculturalism. It's a beautiful thing. But are we using it to its full potential?<br />I am very pleased to report that lately I have had the pleasure of helping many of my fellow citizens in my host nation by sharing with them the knowledge and wisdom of my other culture. Yesterday I bumped into one such helpee and he thanked me profusely for what I had done for him five weeks prior.<br />You see my neighbour wanted to take his family away in Easter but he wanted to leave a few days before the holidays started because tickets were so much cheaper then. He had filled in a form at his son’s school and asked for two days off for him.<br />I saw him getting out of his car one morning, waving papers in the air and foaming at the mouth. “They refused,” he was yelling, “Can you believe it?”<br />I said, “Children aren’t allowed to take days off any more. You know that right?”<br />“Yes but I was honest with them,” he spat, “I told them that if we didn’t leave early we couldn’t afford to go on holiday. They still rejected my request.”<br />He was absolutely furious. He said he was going to take his son out of that school because he was so angry with them.<br />I said to him, “Listen. I can fix your problem but you must do exactly as I tell you, no more, no less. First you go home and bin those papers. Scratch that, recycle them. Then book those cheap tickets for you holiday. On the day of your departure, take your family to the airport and just before getting on the plane, call the school and tell them that your child is sick.”<br />Now five weeks later he was back here thanking me for my help. They’d had a lovely holiday and he had not taken his child out of that school or had a fistfight with the head-teacher.</div>
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Unfortunately Mr Farage does not see these positive impacts that we foreigners can have on the society. All he sees is foreign pickpockets coming here and stealing jobs from British pickpockets. How many children have now been able to go skiing in term time or sun themselves in Canary Islands because of my sound advice to their parents? At least six.</div>
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British people find it very difficult to lie. They are forever owning up to things and telling the "truth".</div>
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"I broke that. I'm very sorry. I take full responsibility."</div>
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"I'm very sorry but I might have scratched your car."</div>
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"We seem to have invaded your country for no reason whatsoever but don't worry we're leaving now. You're OK clearing up right? Excellent! Bah-bye now. Bah-bye.”</div>
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An Iranian can and will take her child out of school for a week to go skiing and then sends her back with a sick note from a doctor friend that the child will give to her teacher with a tanned face and goggle marks around her eyes.<br />An Iranian does not feel guilty about lying to the authorities. We have a lot of rules that don't make sense so we have to decide for ourselves which ones we accept and which ones we ignore.<br />For example the number one rule of drinking in Iran is that you never admit to it. Deny. Deny.Deny. Always. Even if you’re too wasted to stand up straight and you’re having to hold onto something to try and steady yourself and that something turns out to be the beard of the police officer who is trying to arrest you, you still do not admit to drinking.<br />“No shir, I have never had a drink in my whole entire life. Hic”</div>
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There are special situations however in which a British person will as a rule, always lie. In Britain no one's bum ever looks big in anything. "You look great," they keep telling each other, "you look great!"</div>
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When I first came to England, a young lady of eighteen, with a head full of dreams and a face full of facial hair, I did not know about these nuances of culture. You see I am not a big fan of looking at myself in the mirror so usually when an aunt or a friend said to me, “Seriously, do something about your face or I’m not going anywhere with you” that was my cue to mow down my moustache. But here in England everyone had been all, ‘What hair? Where? I can’t see anything. You look great!"<br />I was under the impression that since moving to England my moustache had become invisible. Six months had passed like this until one day I met up with an Iranian friend who set me straight. She told me that I had become a victim of a reverse case of Emperor's New Moustache and that this in fact was the reason shopkeepers were calling me sir. Thanks a bunch British people! I looked like Clark Gable. Thank you for your “honesty” and “sincerity”!<br />Iranians never lie about the important things in life. An Iranian will tell you if your bum looks big in something, sometimes when you haven’t even asked.</div>
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You see Mr Farage, there is so much we must learn from you and there is so much you can learn from us. We know this. Why else would we leave behind our families and friends, our dry countries, and most importantly, the safety and security of our metric system to come here? I’ve been here for twenty years now and I still have absolutely no idea how much my friends weigh or how tall they are or how much grape I’ve bought. And although the separate scorching hot and freezing cold taps have been absolutely brilliant on those rare occasions when I’ve wanted to pasteurise my hands, I still don’t fully understand them. It’s a daily struggle but we soldier on because we have a dream; a dream to make a new breed of superhuman beings with impeccable queuing ethics and the ability to take their children out of school in term time without breaking out in a rash. Who knows maybe one day they will even use the metric system. But let’s not set our goals too high now. One step at a time.</div>
Shirinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187290541060892058noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14719275.post-48683977777636599412015-04-11T11:12:00.001+01:002015-04-11T11:12:10.284+01:00<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">Our PC is probably the least smart of all our electrical goods at the moment and I’m including the toaster in this. The toaster is not smart but it does what is asked of it. The PC is not smart but it thinks it is. It’s like a teenager. It thinks it knows better than us. It even has that, do-I-have-to air about it. Every time I ask it to save something, it comes up with questions like, “Are you sure you want to include all the layers?” So the Iranian in me starts taarofing and I go and delete some of the layers and merge a few together and then ask it again politely to save the file, if it’s not too much trouble. Then it does it finally, reluctantly. And I can’t work out what its problem is. It’s not like it has better things to do, other places to be. It just can’t be bothered. And it’s constantly denying the existence of things, “File does not exist”, “Scanner cannot be found” I’m looking at the file on its desktop and the scanner is five centimetres away from it. Luckily I’m quite good at fixing computer problems. I turn the scanner off and on again. The two of them meet. The computer sighs. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">The only subject our PC is actually interested in is virus protection. Every time I turn it on, there is a new virus it needs to be protected from. It’s a complete hypochondriac. So I get AVG on the case, who always recommends a full body scan. Then I have to sit there while the PC tells AVG all about its various ailments. I swear there is something going on between those two. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">My phone is definitely my favourite of all our gadgets. The only negative thing I can say about my phone is that it doesn’t speak Farsi. Even that is not a problem actually, it’s the fact that it doesn’t speak Farsi but insists it can that gets on my nerves a little. I keep saying to it, “You don’t speak Farsi and that’s absolutely fine. Please just don’t autocorrect me when I’m writing something. For example when I wrote that email to that Iranian publisher and you autocorrected my Bemoom (stay) to Bekoon (to my bottom) that was not funny.” And it wasn’t. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">But I love its enthusiasm. It’s like a puppy dog. Even when I’m writing something with a pencil (pencils never have any idea what you’re writing and won’t even attempt to guess) I can see my phone on the table with its hands up going, “I know! I know what you’re trying to write! Pick me! Pick me!” </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">My iPad is evil. I’m pretty sure it’s planning a coup against us or something even more evil and twisted like hijacking the television and locking all the channels onto Iranian Press TV. It’s smart. Maybe a bit too smart. And cheeky. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">It has gone and given me a nickname for example, off his own bat, without my say-so. And now wherever my name appears, underneath it says, “Dark Tower”. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">“You are Shirin,” it tells me, “but because we’re buddies, I get to call you Dark Tower.” </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">I’m pretty sure it’s alive. One time Dara said to it, “If I put a book in front of your screen, will you read it to me?”</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">The iPad replied, “I’m sorry but I seem to have misplaced my reading glasses in another dimension.”</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">We thought this was brilliant. Our iPad is so witty we thought, wonderful. Sometime after that we had a few friends over and we were telling them about this. Then we thought why tell them when we can just show them! So we brought the iPad out and we asked the question again. Do you know what it said? </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">“I will do a web search for that, Dark Tower.”</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">We were like, “No no no, don’t do a web search! Say that funny thing!” </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">But it just flat out refused to say it and made me look like a complete idiot. You see what I mean when I say it’s evil. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">My phone too calls me Dark Tower. But I don’t mind that. I know that is the iPad’s doing. It probably told my phone that this is what I wanted. My phone is very gullible. The iPad was here way before my phone arrived. My phone looks up to the iPad.</span>Shirinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187290541060892058noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14719275.post-69703915997714310512015-03-25T11:41:00.001+00:002015-03-25T11:41:49.906+00:00<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
Sometimes I look at Dara looking up at me with his big eyes and I think, "You're a smart kid, surly by now you've worked out that I'm just making this up as I go along!"<br />And it doesn't end with parenting, does it? It's like we're always just making it up as we go along.</div>
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I used to work in an office. Everyone appeared to be doing stuff but if you looked at them their eyes would say, "I have no idea what I'm doing here!"<br />It's like someone had said, "Pretend these people work i<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">n an office."</span></div>
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It's like we're in some kind of game and we're being played with by some children and they're saying things like, "Pretend this is a famous pop-star and he sings laa laa la and everyone loves him."</div>
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"Pretend this is a famous artist."</div>
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"Pretend there is a very clever man who can't move and sounds like a robot."</div>
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They say the main pretend and we fill in the gaps ourselves. It makes sense, doesn't it? How else can you explain the Iran Iraq war for example?<br />"Pretend they're fighting. Now pretend they're not fighting any more."<br />Simple!</div>
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The one in charge of Oxfordshire is completely obsessed with building work. At any given time he must have at least ten building works going on. If there is absolutely nothing to do, he will send three vans and nine council workers to rebuild our bin shed. He has done this three times in the past twelve months. The workers have no idea why they keep doing this.</div>
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I'm pretty sure the one in charge of United Nations is a toddler. The other children didn't want her in the game but their parents said she had to be. So she got a room full of well dressed people that go, "blah blah blah" and an army of people with funny hats that do nothing and have no power.</div>
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The one in charge of Israel is another toddler and he doesn't listen to anyone.<br />The others say, "No you absolutely cannot put a wall there."<br />He says, "Yes I can. Look! There!"<br />The others run to their parents and complain. But their parents say, "Let little Joshie play too or we'll go home right this second."<br />So they let Joshie play. But the girl in charge of Iran is not happy.<br />"If he's doing that then I will make all my people grow beards and pretend we're making a big bomb and pretend we're making a big power station."</div>
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"Which is it then bomb or power station?"</div>
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"That's for me to pretend to know and for you to pretend to find out."</div>
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Every now and then the toddler insists that there is going to be a big meeting at the United Nations and everyone must attend to listen to blah blah-blah-blah.</div>
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And that in my opinion is how the world works.</div>
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"Pretend this person is talking nonsense."</div>
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Shirinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187290541060892058noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14719275.post-44048354019807398972015-03-12T14:10:00.001+00:002015-03-12T14:10:09.894+00:00<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
My Midbook Crisis</div>
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Tuesday</div>
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I met this shiny brand-new pencil in Costa. We doodled together. We doodled on napkins. We doodled on the back of receipts. We even doodled in the toilets on toilet paper. I knew it was wrong but it felt so right.<br />This was not the kind of pencil you would take to meet your agent or to an IBBY Conference. It had Hello Kitty on it. It was unpredictable and unruly. Not like my own pencil that practically draws itself. With this one, drawing every cat whisker, every penguin beak was a struggle but did I care.<br />We came out of the toilets to a sea of tut-tutting, eye-rolling customers, waiting to use the facilities. I dropped Hello Kitty off where I’d found it, next to a half empty or half full cup of latte on an unused table in a dark corner of the café.<br />I went home and in an attempt to avoid my pencil I went straight to bed. I tossed and turned for hours. Was it the guilt that was not letting me sleep or the fact that it was only three o'clock in the afternoon? I’ll never know.</div>
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Wednesday</div>
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I spent the entire morning in G&D, casing the joint with a hot chocolate in front of me. Yesterday had been a spare of the moment thing. I had not planned it. Today was planned. I knew exactly what I was doing. I had even brought four sheets of gleaming white A4 paper in the anticipation of what was to come.<br />Word soon spread that the hot chocolate drinking black-haired person in the corner pays good gummy bear for a go on your crayon. Toddlers came to see me from all over. Soon I was swimming in drawing materials. And it was bliss even if I felt dirty. Many of the crayons were sticky with ice-cream and syrup.<br />When I got home I went straight into the shower. My pencil said nothing. We hardly ever speak any more.</div>
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Thursday</div>
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As I came out of Broad Canvas, clutching tightly to my Where’s Wally bag heavy with Artist Quality Windsor and Newton watercolour sets, new paintbrushes and jewel encrusted sketchbooks, I bumped into a fellow illustrator. Our eyes met and he knew instantly something was not quite right.<br />‘What’s in the bag?’ he asked.<br />I shook my head, ‘Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.’<br />‘OK,’ he said backing off with his palms out towards me in front of his chest in an attempt to calm me down, ‘take it easy.’<br />I relaxed a little then and loosened my grip on the bag. That was when he went for it. He snatched it right out of my hands.<br />‘Just as I suspected,’ he said looking inside, ‘You’re having a midbook crisis.’<br />‘I'm not!’ I yelled, going for my bag but he pulled it away. ‘Give that back!’ I yelled, ‘Can’t an illustrator treat herself to a few luxury items without being accused of going through a “midbook crisis”?!’<br />‘Listen to me,’ he said, ‘I'm trying to help you.’ He pulled off a gummy bear from my collar and held it in front of me. How could I have been so careless?<br />‘I've been down this road before,’ he said, ‘it begins with nasty, sticky crayons in ice-cream parlours and it ends in your agent and editor breaking down the door of a seedy motel in Paris and finding you with a half empty bottle of masking fluid, wearing nothing but tissue paper.’<br />I sighed and shook my head. ‘Down the rabbit hole,’ I said.<br />‘It was actually Green Eggs and Ham,’ he sighed, ‘I’d storyboarded the entire book straight onto the walls in day-glow paint.’<br />I nodded.<br />‘Go home,’ he said, ‘go to your own pencils and paintbrushes. Don’t give into your midbook crisis for it will swallow you whole.’</div>
Shirinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187290541060892058noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14719275.post-55386751296819167602015-03-11T11:39:00.000+00:002015-03-11T12:55:49.104+00:00<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
Do you ever think about how thoughts are connected? One minute you’re sitting on a bus, looking at traffic outside, the next minute you’re thinking about apples. How do we go from traffic to apples?! Trains of thought have always fascinated me. Problem is whenever I try to ride one, it stops. It’s like it only works if I'm unaware of it. Last night I was washing a spatula and I started seeing fish swimming around underwater. But amazingly this time I knew how I’d got there. I<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">’d managed to sneak onto my train of thought, unnoticed!</span></div>
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I'm washing a spatula and it makes me think of the person who gave it to me, my grandma. As soon as I think of her I can see her pouring herself a cup of tea in her kitchen. I'm looking at her from the entrance to her kitchen. Now I'm thinking of oranges and I'm yanked back in time to when I'm tiny and I'm sitting on my grandparents’ bed, looking up at my grandma who is pealing oranges. Juice drips from the segments as she gives them to us. I can taste her hand cream. She has the satisfied smile of a grandmother who has managed to trick her grandchildren into eating something nutritious. I'm happy because it’s my turn to sleep in the middle next to my grandma. My grandfather has been banished from the room on account of his unbelievably loud snoring. My other cousin sleeps next to me and the other one on the floor next to the bed. Next weekend the floor sleeper will sleep in the middle and the other two will move down a space each. That’s how we do it, unless someone is sick or has had a particularly bad injury or a nose bleed that day. These are the kind of things that can instantly bump you up to a middle-sleeper. Now I'm sleeping on the floor in the space between the bed and the radiator and I'm looking into the dark under the bed and I see two gleaming eyes looking at me. The eyes belong to Poochie, my grandfather’s bad tempered black poodle who loves my grandfather but absolutely despises all other human beings. Now I'm thinking of cucumbers because Poochie loves cucumber skins. I see my grandfather holding a long piece of cucumber skin and Poochie jumping up in the air and snatching it from his hand. Now I'm thinking I wish I had cucumbers to put in Dara’s lunch box for tomorrow and so I'm picturing his lunch box which has lots of different fish on it. Now I'm thinking of fish swimming underwater.</div>
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Shirinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187290541060892058noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14719275.post-55078305757498125162015-02-26T10:17:00.001+00:002015-02-26T14:59:08.231+00:00<div class="MsoNormal">
We went over to some Iranian friends for dinner. Now this
couple has a completely different sense of humour me, especially the guy.
Anything he finds funny, I can almost guarantee will make me want to spoon my
brains out through my nose. I give you an example of how differently we see
things. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One time we’d gone over to their house again and this guy
told us a story. I laughed so much I had tears running down my face. At one
point I was rolling around on the floor, making animal noises. On our way back
I said to my friend I never knew how funny this guy was, we should hang out
with him more. My friend said, “It was quite funny but you shouldn't have
laughed that much, he was being serious. He was pretty upset.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now this is the story. This guy is driving along when he
suddenly gets a flat tire. He gets his spare tire out of the boot. Oh I forgot
to mention, he is on a steep hill! He drops the tire and it starts rolling down
the hill! I mean come on! You can’t tell me this and expect me to keep a
straight face. This is Pink Panther style genius. So he’s running after it when
one of his shoes come off (because he’s wearing them Iranian style with the
backs turned down) so he has a brief Sophie’s Choice moment when he has to
decide whether to follow the tire or go back for his shoe (this by the way was
the part where I was on the floor making animal noises) he decides to follow
the tire. Long story short, he catches the tire at the bottom of the road,
climbs back up the hill only to find that his car has been stolen because he’s
left it open with his keys inside. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'm sorry but in my book this is the kind of thing that you either decide to keep to yourself or you share with others as a funny story. So now this guy was asking me if I’d heard the new Iranian
jokes. ‘Oh they’re so funny!’ he was saying. Shivers! Now there are these Farsi
jokes that are so brilliant that they make you want to find the person who made
them up and give him as much gold as he can eat. However knowing this guy,
these jokes would not be any of those. I knew I wasn't going to find these funny
but I was going to laugh at them anyway because I'm very polite like that. <o:p></o:p></div>
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With the first two I laughed with what I considered to be
the appropriate gusto. Unfortunately both times I did this way before the
punchline. The third time I was determined to get it right. I thought I would wait
for a long pause before I did my laughing. This time I ended up with a serious
timing problem though and by the time I realised the joke had ended, it was far
too late to laugh. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“It’s funny!” he insisted and I replied to him with the
special response I reserve for this kind of situation; vigorous head nodding
along with a goofy smile and raised eyebrows. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Here’s where he started getting really nasty. I felt like
Albert Camus’ missionary in The Renegade (tortured for years until finally with
a cut out tongue and a mouth full of salt he accepted the idolaters’ god as his
own). I'm afraid my host was a lot less compassionate. He was now threatening
to forward jokes to me on Viber. I was totally distraught as you can imagine. So I didn't laugh in all the appropriate
places, does that now give you the right to invade the sanctity of my phone? There really is no need for that kind of behaviour. </div>
Shirinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187290541060892058noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14719275.post-47231528829939753952015-02-25T14:50:00.000+00:002015-02-26T14:59:52.409+00:00<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">I've been researching my new book about weddings and now google is convinced I'm getting married. He's told all his friends too. They're all very excited about it. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">Facebook knows. Every time go on here it bombards me with pictures of brides and confetti. YouTube is a little confused. It thinks I'm having a Cat in the Hat wedding in Pakistan with reggae music. It's coming up with some brilliant videos. eBay is in charge of dresses. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">Hotmail is not part of their gang thoug</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">h. No google doesn't like Microsoft. My email still thinks I'm looking for cheap flights to holiday destinations. And I know it shouldn't but it bothers me that they're all laughing behind his back going, "look at that one! He has no idea about the wedding."<br />So I'm like, you think you're so clever, don't you Mr Google?! Granted, you have planned an out-of-this-world Cat in the Hat spring wedding in Morocco for me complete with stripy red and white bridesmaid dresses. You've put Photobox in charge of wedding invitations. Facebook is pushing for an "Event" and Moonpig is chucking flowers at us. However, from where I stand, I see a huge, fundamental flaw in this enterprise. Tell me my friend. When you were planning this o so spectacular wedding, did you at any point stop and say to yourself, "have I completely lost my mind?!"<br />I mean riddle me this smartypants if you please! The wedding is in Morocco. How are we going to get there?! You never thought about that, did you?<br />But guess what. Hotmail did!<br />So call it kismet, call it serendipity or whatever you like. All I know is you've all made me feel so very special and without you my fabulous, imaginary wedding would not have been possible.</span>Shirinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187290541060892058noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14719275.post-55854852053530375832007-02-20T11:46:00.000+00:002007-02-20T12:02:18.359+00:00I think I might have made my peace with banana at last. I’m glad of that. Banana and I go way back and I did not really like the idea of my unborn child coming between us.<br />As I’m sure anyone who grew up in Iran remembers, for many years after the revolution bananas disappeared from Iran. You just couldn’t find them anywhere. Years later they reappeared in the form of small, black, unappetising things that were sold by aggressive, suicidal men who would jump in front of your car and try to shove the overpriced fruit through your window.<br />Some time later a better brand of bananas called, Dole was imported to Iran. This meant that from then on, the suicidal men who would throw themselves in front of your car, would also order you to, ‘Eat Dole!’ This was not without its hilarious consequences since the word Dole is very similar to the Persian word for a little boy’s tinkle!<br />But before all this, there were no bananas in Iran at all. When I was little I had bananas twice a year. Once when my Auntie Leili came from Canada and once when my Auntie Maryam came from England.<br />They would each bring me a bunch of bananas, hugging them like a baby all the way on the plane and in transit so they wouldn’t get bruised. I was a very lucky girl. Most of my contemporaries had never even seen a banana in their lives or if they had, they had been so young then that they couldn’t remember it.<br />One day at school something very interesting happened. I think I was in third or forth year. At first it was like any other day. The bell rang and we all ran out into the school ground for our first break.<br />The sportys played volleyball. The older girls sat on the stairs of the pray-house, whispering in each other’s rears and giggling. Younger kids held hands and pointlessly walked round and round in circles. In one corner a girl tried to swap a tangerine for an orange flavoured wafer. In another, a girl split a cheese and cucumber roll with her friend. Next to them a girl desperately tried to finish her homework.<br />I sat with a few friends under the shade of a tree. We were talking about this and that. Suddenly I noticed that I could no longer hear the usual loud murmur of the school yard. It was as if someone had pressed the mute button on all the girls.<br />In addition to going mute, all the girls had also stopped dead in their tracks and were staring at something in the middle of the yard. Naturally my friends and I stood up and started looking around for whatever it was that had so mesmerized everyone. And that’s when I saw it: that slender body with its natural curves (well curve really!), that radiant colour, those tiny, brown beauty spots. I knew what it was straightaway. ‘It’s a banana,’ I said as if thinking out-loud. The people standing around me all turned to look at me.<br />‘What did you say that was?’ one of the girls asked.<br />‘A banana,’ I said confidently.<br />Maybe none of them had ever seen a banana before but they should still have been able to identify it from pictures and stuff. I mean most of them had never seen an elephant before either but I’m pretty sure if an elephant had walked into our school, they would have been able say exactly what it was. Also we had banana flavoured chewing gums. Ok so they had the texture of cardboard and tasted more like the idea of banana from the point of view of someone who had never had a banana before in his life but it was still some point of reference.<br />‘Are you sure?’ another girl asked.<br />‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’m sure that’s a banana.’<br />From that moment on, the girls that were around me, hung onto my every word as if it was the most important thing they had ever heard in their life. If someone asked an inappropriate question, the others would snap at her saying things like, ‘she said it’s chewy,’ in a pay-attention-girl sort of tone.<br />Meanwhile the banana went up and down the school yard as it was watched by four hundred pairs of eyes.<br />The thing was at our school we all wore dark coloured uniforms. We even had to wear dark shoes. The only things at school that had any colour in them were our bags and at break times when we didn’t have our bags with us, the whole place was just a sea of black, grey, navy and brown. So to suddenly have this bright yellow, almost luminous thing in the middle of all that, was really amazing.<br />The banana belonged to a girl called Maryam who had it clutched to her chest tightly as she walked round and round, seemingly aimless. You could really see the terror in poor Maryam’s eyes. She gave the impression of a sheep trying to make her way through a pack of hungry wolves with her injured little lamb by her side.<br />Oh but she also had a sheepdog. Not exactly a sheepdog actually, it was just another wolf really but it looked like it might have turned friendly.<br />This sheepdog/wolf/self-appointed-bodyguard was called Fatemeh. Mrayam and Fatemeh were both in our class. We were all friends in a way because we were all in a one class but these two girls weren’t really special friends or anything like that. I had never seen them hang out at break times together before. But this day was different. This day Fatemeh had her arm around Maryam like they were best friends. As they walked past us I noticed that Fatemeh was holding onto her new best friend so tightly that you could tell her fingers were digging into her shoulders. ‘We’re best friends,’ I heard Fatemeh say, ‘and best friends always share everything.’<br />Maryam did not answer. She just stared ahead, holding onto her banana. It didn’t look like Maryam had had any say in this newfound friendship.<br />I guess what Fatemeh was doing wasn’t very nice really but I think in a weird way, Maryam actually appreciated it. I mean her own friends had deserted her and now she was under the watchful eyes of the whole school. I don’t think people were going to attack her or anything like that but it still must have been very scary for her. Fatemeh might have wanted half of her banana but she was also protecting her. Whenever someone tried to get close to Maryam, Fatemeh would push them away.<br />Suddenly there was an announcement on the loudspeaker. Maryam and her banana were to report to the office immediately. Straightaway Fatemeh let go of Maryam and vanished into the crowed. Maryam and banana made their way to the office. Some minutes later Maryam came back out alone. The banana that had brought the whole school to a standstill had been confiscated.Shirinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187290541060892058noreply@blogger.com143tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14719275.post-1170012173165002412007-01-28T19:19:00.000+00:002007-01-28T19:22:53.170+00:00I’d always known as human beings we are very adaptable and can get used to almost anything but I would never have guessed that one could even get used to feeling sick. Now it’s only been a week and bizarrely I think I’m starting to get used to having a carsick feeling twenty four seven. Can’t say I like it or anything but it’s there and what’s weird is that I’m beginning to have trouble imagining a time when it wasn’t there. For example even looking at a banana makes me want to throw up now and I can’t for the life of me imagine a time when bananas didn’t have that effect on me and I used to like and even eat them!<br />It’s like that feeling when it’s in the middle of a very cold winter and you look at pictures of yourself on a beach in a bikini and you are so cold at that moment that you think no matter how hot it might have been on that beach, if you were to be transported to there right now, you would still probably wear a cardigan at least.<br />The funniest thing is that if something makes me feel sick at the moment, then it’s not just smelling it or seeing it that makes me feel sick, it’s even hearing the word or reading it somewhere.<br />At the moment garlic is one of the things that I cannot stand. So of course I get an email from my mum this morning titled, Garlic! Every time I read the dreaded word it made my stomach churn! I think I might be turning into a vampire.<br />However the weirdest thing about pregnancy so far is that it feels like someone has come in the middle of the night, emptied my head of my brain, and replaced it with some cotton wool. I can’t think at all. Which means after finishing the sentence before last and before writing, ‘I can’t think at all’ I spent about ten minutes staring at the monitor while my brain took a break and thought about a green meadow with white, fluffy bunnies jumping about in it. Can’t say it was unpleasant but it wasn’t exactly my cup of tea either.Shirinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187290541060892058noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14719275.post-1169411471700758572007-01-21T20:28:00.000+00:002007-01-21T20:31:11.740+00:00Big news people! I’ve gone and got myself knocked up. <br />So for the next few months you can look forward to such posts as, ‘Constant Puker’, ‘Me, myself and my leaky nipples’ and ‘Midwife Cowboy’<br /> <br />Thought you might be interested in knowing some of my likes and dislikes at the moment so here they are: <br />First, Likes: Boiled vegetables, Tomatoes, Celery, Aaloo (prunes), rice, eggs, Marmite, Blueberries<br />Dislikes: Chocolate (Smell of chocolate actually makes me gag! Now isn’t that something?!), Baked beans, most sweet things, hummus<br /><br />Must go and throw up now.Shirinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187290541060892058noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14719275.post-1168603011961814732007-01-12T11:22:00.000+00:002007-02-05T12:26:27.060+00:00At our high school there used to be a small but fearsome lady called, let’s say, Mrs R. This Mrs R had a rather curious phrase that for some reason she was very fond of and would repeat over and over again. No matter what you did from arriving late to breaking a window to chewing gum in class to ripping another girl’s veil, Mrs R would say to you, ‘May you break you neck.’<br />I know in Iran people say some pretty bizarre things like if you really like someone you may say to them, ‘I want to eat your liver.’ And they will think that you are being very sweet but this was different. This was not a phrase that we all knew and had hidden meanings and stuff. No, this one basically did exactly what it said on the tin, it wished for you to break your neck and die…at your earliest convenience!<br />She had overused this phrase so much that we no longer called her Mrs R. Instead we referred to her as Mrs My-you-break-your-neck. Not to her face obviously.<br />One of the funniest things about Mrs My-you-break-your-neck was that the amount of vigour she put into saying, ‘May you break your neck!’ and the tone of her voice, changed depending on how bad what you had done had been. For example if she caught you giggling at postcards of muscly men that your friend had sent to you from Germany, she would go mental and while waving her finger at you would yell, ‘<span style="font-size:130%;">May you <strong>brrrrrreak</strong> your neck!</span>’<br />But if for example you had written, ‘I am a donkey’ on a piece of paper and stuck it on the back of another girl’s uniform, she would give you a look of disgust that (you and I probably only reserve for when we’re scraping pieces of dog shit from the bottom of our shoe) and while shaking her head, would mumble, ‘May you break your neck.’ and then turn around and go as if to say, ‘well you’re just an idiot and not even worthy of me wishing for you to break your neck.’<br />This last one is a bit long but it’s a very good example I think so I’ll tell it anyway.<br />One day at school these two girls had started a water fight and were running around the school yard with empty glass bottles of coke that they had filled with water.<br />Now by doing this these two were breaking all sorts of school rules. For one they were running, for two they were having a water fight, for three they were playing with their coke bottles instead of giving them back as soon as they had drunk the content. In short, they were in big trouble.<br />Suddenly as the two were running around and laughing, they collided with each other and one of the bottles broke, cutting one of the girls’ hands. Blood started gushing out and they both started to scream and cry. Some people ran into the office and brought out the nurse and I think called for an ambulance as well. The nurse ran out with bandages and started to bandage the girl’s hand right there in the garden with a massive crowed gathered around them.<br />Meanwhile I had a genius idea. I ran into our classroom and got a piece of white chalk and ran out again. Now I’m not sure if had I thought about this a bit more I would still have done it but some blood had spilt on the ground and for some reason I thought it would be absolutely hilarious if I drew a chalk, body outline around it like in detective movies. As if someone had died there. And that’s what I did. I did it really quickly without drawing any attention to myself (which was easy because everyone else was gathered around the injured girl) and then went and stood with the others. It wasn’t because I didn’t want them to know it had been me, it was just that I thought it would be funnier if they suddenly turned around and saw the outline there without seeing me draw it.<br />Anyway at the end one person saw it and started to laugh and then everyone else saw it too and they all started to laugh, even the nurse. The only person that had not found it funny at all was the injured girl’s water-fight partner. She went absolutely mental at me and kept yelling things like, ‘You are so insensitive Saramad [my maiden name]. My friend is going to die and you’re making fun of her. I’m going to tell Mrs R what you’ve done.’<br />This was when I started to feel a bit bad. Her friend had just cut her hand and wasn’t going to die or anything and I wasn’t making fun of her anyway but I thought maybe she was right and I had been a bit insensitive. Then I suddenly saw Mrs R, aka, Mrs May-you-break-your-neck running towards us.<br />The girl that was yelling at me, ran to her crying and saying, ‘Mrs R, come and see what Saramad has done. She is so horrible.’ and things like that.<br />Basically she knew she had broken all sorts of rules and was very much in trouble so now she was trying to draw some attention to me hoping that they would just forget about her.<br />On the other hand I was at the early stages of pooing my pants as you could tell by Mrs May-you-break-your-neck’s way of running that she was pretty angry.<br />A little out of breath, Mrs May-you-break-your-neck stood at the foot of my chalk outline with the other girl next to her who was screaming and crying and pointing to the ground.<br />Mrs May-you-break-your-neck looked down for a few seconds without saying a word. Then I noticed that she had started to bite her lips the way we do to stop ourselves from laughing. Then she turned to me and while the beginnings of a smile were trying to break out from the corners of her mouth, somewhat playfully, borderline affectionately, said, ‘Saramad, may you break your neck!’ before turning around and walking back to her office.<br />So basically her tone varied but the saying always stayed the same, ‘May you break your neck!’<br />One day we noticed that Mrs May-you-break-your-neck had not come in. She was absent for a week I think and then one day turned up wearing, yes you guessed it, a huge, white neck brace over her veil.<br />I just remember looking up to the heavens as soon as I saw her on her first day back and thinking to myself, ‘There is a god. And he sure appreciates irony.’Shirinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187290541060892058noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14719275.post-1168089082283740092007-01-06T12:55:00.000+00:002007-01-06T15:59:26.513+00:00<div align="left">Ages ago <a href="http://leylibehbahani.blogfa.com/">Leyli</a> invited me to a game called Shabeh Yalda where you reveal five things about yourself that you haven’t already and invite five other people to do the same. Now I haven’t been around for a while so, sorry about the delay but here it is anyway.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://shirindarengelestan.blogspot.com/2007/01/blog-post.html">راستی این فارسی هم داره اگر ترجیح میدین.</a><span style="color:#ffffff;">ل</span></span><br /><br />1- I hate it when people say, ‘Guess how old I am!’<br />In my opinion this is the most pointless exercise known to mankind and nine out of ten times, it ends in tears. Well it does if I’m the person you’re asking!<br />There was this one time at a friend’s house when I was talking to this guy who I thought was still at school. Then he said something about his military service and it surprised me because I thought he was about sixteen or seventeen. Turned out he was twenty or twenty one, the baby face type.<br />Anyway there was a woman there who I was meeting for the first time that night and who overheard our conversation. For some reason this woman found this little mistake of mine absolutely hilarious and then no matter what, would not drop the subject. She kept laughing and going on and on about how funny it was that I had thought this boy was about sixteen or seventeen when he was twenty or twenty one.<br />‘Oh you don’t have a clue how old people are do you?’ she kept saying while giggling. I think she was a bit tipsy but I was getting a bit annoyed with her anyway because I wasn’t!<br />After about ten minutes of laughing she finally asked the question, ‘So how old do you think I am then?’ and as quick as anything, I blurted out, ‘Forty two’<br />Turned out she was forty two. And from the look on her face, she was not too happy about it either! Well she asked for it, didn’t she?<br />She was right about one thing though, I really didn’t have a clue how old people were; I had thought she was about forty eight and basically I had tried to be nice to her by saying forty two instead!<br /><br />2- For some reason a lot of people seem to think I’m a lot smaller than I really am. My dress size is ten or twelve, very rarely eight (depending on the shop I’m in) but I’m normal size really. However some people I know seem to always be trying to push my dress size to see how low they can go before I actually burst out of the outfit they have given me!<br />On occasions I have even been given children’s clothes. I’m thirty one. With breasts and everything! I mean they’re not big but they’re there.<br />So I get given these tiny T-shirts made for ten year olds and as if that’s not enough humiliation for one day, then I am often made to put them on there and then as well to see how it looks.<br />So I come out taking care not to take deep breaths because I’m afraid the T-shirt might rip if I do. My belly is hanging out and I’m being choked by the neck line and they go, ‘Oh great! It fits!’<br /><br />When I worked at this restaurant for a short while, on my first day my manager looked me up and down and then handed me a uniform. I went into the changing room and put it on. Then I looked at myself and thought, ‘Odd! Is this T-shirt really meant to flatten my chest like that?’ I thought maybe they had some sort of no-chest policy or something.<br />I took off the T-shirt and looked at the label. It wasn’t small or extra small or petit or anything like that. Oh no. The label said: Age: 5-6 years. 5-6 years! I’m not joking. The bastard had not even given me a normal staff uniform, he had given me one of the kiddy T-shirts that we sold in the restaurant. Needless to say I looked like a retard.<br />Talking of retard, I always wondered how I still got tips even though I was a very bad waitress, now I’m thinking it’s possible that people just felt sorry for me.<br /><br />3- I can’t stand it when people say, ‘I never give a hundred percent in what I do, I give a hundred and fifty percent.’<br />What on earth? I don’t know which idiot started this whole stupid over hundred percent business but whoever it was, should be ashamed of themselves.<br />Suddenly giving hundred percent to something is not enough anymore. If you go for a job interview and say, ‘I give a hundred percent in everything I do,’ they will probably think you’re a bit lazy! You have to say I give a hundred and ten percent at least or two hundred percent if you really want to impress them.<br />In sports, everyone has to give hundred and ten percent now or it’s not good enough. If you watch interviews with football managers they always say, ‘My boys are going to go out there today and give a hundred and ten percent.’ Which basically means, they will do the best they can and then give a little bit more.<br />So why do your best and then do a little bit more then? Why not do your best and then do a lot more more? Hmm, let’s see what percentage that would be. Hundred and fifty percent? Two hundred percent?<br />So where does it end then? Nine hundred and ninety nine percent? One million percent? Absolute nonsense.<br /><br />4- I really envy those people who can come out in the middle of winter wearing just a vest or a T-shirt and not even shiver. I don’t know how they manage it but I wish I could do it too as it seems like a very useful skill.<br /><br />5- This blog was very nearly called, ‘Communication, no!’ But then I thought it was probably best to go with a title that did not need explaining.<br />The story behind ‘Communication, no!’ is that there was this guy that my cousin and I once met in a party in France. He was very sweet and kept trying to talk to us. The problem was, he didn’t know much English and we didn’t know French. So he would start to say something (by the way he was completely coked out of his head) in English and then suddenly he would get excited and say the rest very fast in French. And then we, not having understood a thing, would say, ‘Sorry, no French.’ And every time, he would slap himself on the forehead and stamp his foot and totally helplessly shout out, ‘Communication, no!’ Then after a few moments he would try again.<br />Unfortunately we never found out what was going on in that poor guy’s coked up mind that he was trying to tell us about but I doubt I will ever forget his desperate cries of ‘Communication, no!’<br /><br />And now I’m passing this onto these guys if any of them are interested in doing it:</div><br /><a href="http://homeyra.wordpress.com/">Homeyar</a><br /><a href="http://makhoudjit.blogspot.com/">Foulla</a><br /><a href="http://countingseconds.blogspot.com/">Amanda</a><br /><a href="http://amirsalbum.blogspot.com/">Amir Sharifi</a><br /><a href="http://chakamehazimpour.blogspot.com/">Chakameh Azimpour</a>Shirinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187290541060892058noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14719275.post-1166266385614093362006-12-16T10:44:00.000+00:002006-12-16T10:53:05.616+00:00A few days ago I heard on the news that anti-war protesters finally won their case against the police to prove that their rights to protest were violated after 120 of them were detained by the police in March 2003. The campaigners had planned a peaceful demonstration outside Fairford airbase in Gloucestershire (which is where many American B-52 bombers were launched from to bomb Baghdad in the early day of the war) but instead they were stopped in their coaches, searched, then kept in there for two hours and then escorted away from the base and sent on their way. The campaigners were obviously not happy about this at all and so they took the police to court. On the 14 December this year the campaigners finally won their legal battle when high court of appeal ruled that the police acted unlawfully.<br />Gloucestershire police said that it was “disappointed” with the outcome and that the officers had acted in “good faith”.<br />But here’s the interesting part. When interviewed on the news the other night the head of Gloucestershire police (who looked pretty upset) said that they did this for the protesters’ own safety as they were worried that a demonstration might make the American pilots angry and result in them opening fire on the protesters.<br /><br />[Some violent shakes of the head to adjust brain in right place followed by a minute or two of staring at the monitor with widened eyes] <br /><br />Excuse me?<br />You were worried about the American pilots getting angry and opening fire on the protesters?<br />Opening fire on these didgeridoo playing, tree hugging, British, peaceful protesters?<br />And this is really what you think of American pilots? That they are sadistic robot gorilla types that are programmed to shoot at anything that might look like it might disagree with them?<br />And these are the creatures that were sent off to carry out “precision bombings” in Baghdad? <br />‘,:-<br />I don’t for a minute think that this would ever have happened you know. That the Americans would open fire on the protesters I mean. It’s absolutely ridiculous. But what really makes me laugh is that this is obviously what the British police think! Of their allies! Oh dear!Shirinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187290541060892058noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14719275.post-1165666555028597922006-12-09T12:00:00.000+00:002006-12-09T12:15:55.890+00:00This year in an attempt to build bridges between Christians and other faiths, celebrating Christmas openly has been frowned upon.<br />Oh yeah, that ought to do it! That is going to build bridges between faiths alright. Bridges that they can then cross to reach the people of other faiths…and kick their heads in!<br /><br /><strong>-</strong><em>Why aren’t we having a Christmas tree this year Mummy?</em><br /><br /><strong>-</strong>Well little Johnny, you know what a Muslim is?<br /><br /><strong>-</strong><em>No</em><br /><br /><strong>-</strong>You know <a href="http://www.intelligencesummit.org/images/news/BW6-9.jpg">Abu Hamza</a>? The guy with a hook for an arm and one eye that you used to have nightmares about every time you saw him on the news? Well that is a Muslim. And that doesn’t like Christmas so we’ve decided not to have Christmas anymore because we don’t want to offend him. Isn’t that nice?<br /><br /><em><strong>-</strong>But what about Santa Mummy? Is Santa still going to come</em>?<br /><br /><strong>-</strong>No honey, I’m afraid not. You see Santa’s sleigh was hit by a scud missile as it flew over Gaza. The Jewish government has already accepted responsibility and has apologised for this mistake…which is nice.<br /><br /><em><strong>-</strong>So no presents?</em><br /><br /><strong>-</strong>Well not quite darling. Here is a copy of the Holly Koran for you to read during the holidays and in this envelope I have two circumcision vouchers for you and your daddy to be redeemed on Boxing Day! Isn’t that great?!<br /><br /><br />Yeah that’s it! Get them while they’re young. Make sure that message of “Hate non-Christians” is tattooed on their brain before they’ve even reached the age of ten.<br />Two out of three companies in the UK have banned Christmas decoration in their offices this year so not to offend people of other faiths. It’s political correctness gone mad darling! Whatever next? A veiled Muslim lady delivering the Christmas Day message?<br />Well they’re one step ahead of us on that one. Channel 4 has already signed up a veiled Muslim lady to do their Christmas message and it’s going to be aired at exactly the same time as the Queen’s speech.<br />Also talks are currently being held with heads of Al-Qaeda as Harrods desperately tries to sign up Bin Laden for its in-store Father Christmas.Shirinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187290541060892058noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14719275.post-1165238867843474532006-12-04T13:26:00.000+00:002006-12-04T13:27:47.890+00:00Back in a few days.<br />xxxxxShirinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187290541060892058noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14719275.post-1162116256400466122006-10-29T09:43:00.000+00:002006-10-30T10:34:26.506+00:00A few days ago Negar of <a href="http://location-texas.blogspot.com/">Location Texas</a> made a comment about me being pregnant. As I’m sure you would all agree, predicting that someone in Oxford is with child, all the way from Texas is no easy feat.<br />Now those of you who know Negar know that she has been fasting all Ramadan and altogether really is quite holy (overlooking her foot obsession. Actually Jesus quite enjoyed washing other people’s feet) So I’ve been thinking, now we don’t know yet if I am or not but supposing for a minute that I am pregnant, shouldn’t that be considered a kind of miracle on Negar’s part? And if yes, shouldn’t that make her allegeable for canonization and ultimately sainthood? Of course she will still be needing one more miracle to become a fully functional saint but it’s a start isn’t it? Wouldn’t it be cool though? Saint Negar of Texas. Has a real ring to it wouldn’t you say?<br /><br />I don’t want to alarm you but did you know ‘Saints almost went out of style in the 1960s’? (according to Don Lattin of San Francisco Chronicle) I know! It’s unthinkable, isn’t it? ‘Those were the days when many church leaders saw Catholic saints -- and the miracles performed in their name -- as outdated…’ Uhh!<br />Those were the terrible times during which many saints were either downgraded to mere martyrs or were stripped off their holiness altogether.<br />They even made a television programme about it called, ‘The Weakest Saint’ which was presented by the fierce Sister, Anna Robinson.<br />‘Now, who is two miracles short of a sainthood?’ she would say to the terrified saints standing all around her in a large circle, ‘Who has managed to pull the wool over the eyes of the cardinals of the Congregation for the Causes of Saints? Which one of you has been canonized when they should have been shot out of a cannon?’ she would throw her icy stare at the saints; unforgiving, brutal, ‘Which one of you has been acting all holy when in reality you are only as holey as a tramp’s undergarment? It’s time to reveal, the weakest saint.’<br />The BBC refused to air the programme however claiming that no one would watch it on account of saints and martyrs being so passé. Well they had almost gone out of style then as we said earlier.<br /><br />One of the saints that were dropped during the downsizing was poor old Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travellers (I don’t know why that was, I suppose he had dreadlocks and lived in a caravan) who once carried the weight of the whole world across a river. Well he did it by accident actually or more to the point, he was tricked into doing it.<br />One day poor old Christopher was about to cross a river when a child came up to him and said, ‘Hewwo mister Chwistopey. I’m onwy a wittoy baby. Wiww you take me to the othey side of this big wivey wiv you pwease?’<br />But when Christopher put the child on his shoulders, he realised that he was unbelievably heavy. On further inspection he noticed that the child was in fact none other than our own Lord Jesus Christ (who died on the cross to save all our sins) carrying the weight of the whole world! Talk about mardeh rend, Minoo! That’s just so unfair isn’t it?<br />God asks his son to take the world from one side of the river to the other and he’s thinking, ‘Ugh, I have to do evvverything around here.’<br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>I heard that.</strong></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /></span>‘Course you did, you’re always eavesdropping.’<br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>And you are always moaning, ‘Oh do I have to daddy? but I don’t like touching other people’s feet’, ‘oh why do I have to walk on water? Why can’t I part the sea like Moses?...<br /></strong></span>‘Ok ok, I get the massage. I’ll do it. Why do I need to take the whole world across the river anyway?’<br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">We’re going on a picnic.<br /></span></strong>‘Can’t we just take sandwiches like everyone else?’<br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>HuH, see? Always moaning, ‘Oh but do I have to daddy? why Can’t we just take sandwiches…<br /></strong></span><span style="font-size:100%;">‘OK OK! Jeeeesus! I said I’ll do it didn’t I?’<br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Ok then you move the world and I’ll go and get the Thermos and the picnic blanket.</strong></span><br />‘Yes you go and do that father, I’ll just take the world to the other side, no problem.<br />Is he gone? Phew. I thought he’d never leave. I’m just sick of this you know, he’s always giving me inappropriate tasks, ‘<strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Let them eat your flesh and drink your blood.</span></strong>’ ! ‘<strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Raise the dead.</span></strong>’ It wasn’t even Halloween.<br />Now I have to carry the whole world to the other side of the river and what for? We’re not Iranians. We don’t have to take everything we own with us on a picnic so we can cook rice and aubergine stew from scratch…Hey who’s that? Is that Christopher coming this way? Hmm, that has just given me an idea.<br />Hewwo mister Chwistopey…’<br /><br />That’s a joke obviously but I’m not surprised if Jesus is a little bitter about his miracles. Moses got all the best ones really didn’t he? He turned a cane into a snake, parted the red sea, ate red hot charcoal and burnt his mouth. Now those of you who are not familiar with the story of Moses are probably thinking that the latter can’t have been a miracle if he actually burnt his mouth, but it was.<br />Basically Moses being a prophet was different from all the other kids right from the start and as time went by, Pharaoh got more and more suspicious. Until one day he said to his wife, ‘Listen Missy, I’m not all that crazy about this basket boy you’ve brought in here. I’m thinking about having him you know…What do you think?’<br />‘What?’ his wife replied, horrified, ‘Are you crazy?’<br />‘Well he just makes me feel uneasy you know.’ Said the Pharaoh, ‘Look at him sitting there all quietly on top of the desk.’<br /><strong>Wife:</strong> ‘What’s wrong with that? He is just drawing.’<br /><strong>Pharaoh:</strong> ‘He is drawing up blueprints for a bridge that he is planning to build over the river Nile.’<br /><strong>Wife:</strong> ‘Hmm, yeah maybe he is a little advanced for his age but he is still only a harmless wikkle baby.’<br />So they walked over to the desk.<br /><strong>Wife:</strong> ‘Helllo wikkle Mozy pozy. Do you have a little kiss for mummy?’<br /><strong>Moses:</strong> ‘Later doll, yeah? I’m really busy right now.’<br />‘You see what I mean?’ Pharaoh whispered to his wife, ‘He’s not normal.’<br /><strong>Moses:</strong> ‘Yo Pharaoh, wanna come down to the river with me tomorrow? I’m going to pick a nice spot for my bridge.’<br /><strong>Pharaoh:</strong> ‘No I don’t like going by the river. There are frogs there. I don’t like frogs.’<br /><strong>Moses:</strong> ‘Really? You don’t like frogs? Huh, wha’doyouknow!’<br /><br />So the next day when Moses came back home from picking a nice spot for his bridge, a table had been set for him with two plates on it, one containing a piece of red hot charcoal and the other a piece of cold, black charcoal. This was a test devised by the Pharaoh to separate the prophets from kids and the logic behind it was that the genuine child, being a bit of a dumb-dumb by nature, would be attracted to the redness of the red, hot charcoal while the baby prophet, being a bit clever and having supernatural powers, will eat the cold charcoal! Or say, ‘Goodie! Is it Egyptian fondue night? Make your own kebab type thing? Where’s the meat?’<br />However the poor Pharaoh had not taken into account that prophets don’t always play fair, especially the baby ones who can be extremely crafty at times. So he was tricked by baby Moses who picked the hot charcoal.<br /><br />For a while now I’ve been begging a friend of mine to let me try this out on her baby but she is just one of those overprotective mothers who would never let their kid do things like eating hot charcoal (hopefully Saint Negar is correct and soon I won’t have to keep begging others for every little experiment that I want to do).<br />Finally the other day, we settled on a much safer option. I was well up for it at first but then I lost interest when I realised that she’d said raisin and not razor.<br />She offered the baby a raisin and a grape. He picked neither as he was busy chewing on a slug he had found in the garden. An imbecile or a messenger from god? We will just have to wait and see with that one I suppose.<br /><br />When it comes to prophets, I really think Noah drew the shortest straw. The poor guy really had his work cut out for him there didn’t he? First he had to single-handedly build a ship. Then he had to go and pick out two of each animal to get on his ship so they could later repopulate the world. That must have been really hard because he must have had to put them through vigorous tests and interviews to be able to pick out the best and the healthiest. Well it would have been terrible if after the flood he realised that the male zebra he’d picked had a low sperm count or something.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/1600/snake.jpg"><img alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/400/snake.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Is there anyone in the family with this problem?<br />Have you attended alternative practitioners like an Osteopath?<br />Has it stopped you going to work?<br />Have you felt resentment for being off work?<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/1600/crow.jpg"><img alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/400/crow.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Do any problems arise out of going to the toilet so often?<br />What about social problems, work problems, with opening your bowels so often.<br />What actually was the original problem?<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/1600/seal.jpg"><img alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/400/seal.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Are you able to get about?<br />Can you walk upstairs?<br />How far can you actually walk?<br />Are Social Services involved (e.g. meals on wheels, home help)?<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/1600/cat.jpg"><img alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/400/cat.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />What actually happened at the time?<br />Is there any difficulty with speech?<br />Are there problems with swallowing?<br />What treatment are you on at the moment to prevent further attacks?<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/1600/pengu.jpg"><img alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/400/pengu.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Do you get the Flu Vaccine and Pneumonia Vaccine on a regular basis?<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/1600/ants.jpg"><img alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/400/ants.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Have you ever been admitted to Hospital with too much sugar in your blood?<br />Has it affected you from an Insurance point of view?<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/1600/fisih.jpg"><img alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/400/fisih.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />How did you first notice that her memory was going?<br />Would she get lost if allowed out alone?<br />Is she able to take part in any conversation?<br />Does she repeat things very often?<br />Does she get more confused at any particular time of the day?<br />Is she likely to wander?<br />Is she likely to do other things like leaving the gas stove on?<br /><br /><br />I don’t know what he did about lazy animals like pandas and koalas and things like that. Koalas are apparently as lazy as they come. I once saw this programme about koalas and in it they were saying that koalas are too lazy to mate and so there was this guy who was in charge of koalas’ mating. So I thought he would be lighting scented candles for them and playing Barry White on the stereo but I was wrong, his job was definitely a lot more hands-on.<br />This is what he did: He went over to a sleeping male koala, holding onto a tree and started, humm, let’s say, “pleasuring him”, manually. Once the male koala was good and ready, he grabbed him by the scurf of the neck and rammed him on top of another sleeping koala, on another tree (this one female). You would think the koalas would take it from there themselves but oh no, the job of the koala fiddler was not yet complete.<br />The female koala didn’t even wake up all the way through. The male opened his eyes briefly (well I say opened. Half opened really). He looked unimpressed and rightly so; the guy didn’t have much of a rhythm. And to top it off he was talking to the camera the whole time which must have been quite off-putting.<br />That’s some job that guy has, isn’t it? ‘And what does your father do little Sheila?’<br />Hope poor Noah didn’t have to do that.<br /><br />Oh sorry, I just realised I’ve left you all high and dry by dropping the bombshell of, ‘Saints almost went out of style in the 1960s’ on you at the beginning, without letting you know that there really is no need to panic because only a few years later, saints made a huge comeback all thanks to the king of cool, John Paul II and the one and only, Mother Teresa. Phew!<br />Now Mother Teresa, like our very own Negar, has performed one miracle so far. A medallion with a picture of Mother Teresa was taped to the stomach of a woman suffering from a cancerous tumour and after a while the tumour disappeared.<br />Now there are those, like Dr. Ranjan Kumar Mustafi who refuse to accept that this was a miracle. ‘She had a medium-sized tumor in her lower abdomen caused by tuberculosis,’ he (nicknamed Dr Tattletale by the supporters of Mother Teresa) told the Sunday Telegraph, ‘The drugs she was given eventually reduced the mystic mass and it disappeared after a year’s treatment.’<br />Doctors, ey? Always trying to take all the credit. So answer me this then Mr Smarty Pants, who made the tumor in the first place, ey? I suppose next you’ll be wanting to take credit for that too. It’s all me, me, me with these doctors isn’t it?<br /><br />Anyway enough about Mother Teresa. I think Negar’s miracle is much better. Predicting pregnancy from thousands of miles away! That’s really something. I’m sure neither Dr. Ranjan Kumar Mustafi nor the Pope himself will able to argue with that one.<br />Humm, Saint Negar of Texas, the patron saint of bloggers.Shirinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187290541060892058noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14719275.post-1161447613945623712006-10-21T17:01:00.000+01:002015-02-24T11:07:43.595+00:00This year when I was in Iran, I was told by an uncle (a few times removed) who looks a bit like Sloth from the Goonies (in a nice way) that on account of my great grandfather and a little sack full of screwed up pieces of paper that he was buried with, I will be going to heaven regardless of what I do in this world.<br />
<br />
It’s a strange feeling knowing that you are going to go to heaven no matter what. It kind of makes me wish I enjoyed doing more bad things. At the moment the worst things I do are probably not picking up the phone sometimes, throwing away mouldy bread and not listening to the great advice of prophet Mohammad, ‘Stop eating at one bite before feeling full’<br />
To top it off, I used to get these terrible migraines when I was younger that would stay on for hours and according to Prophet Mohammad suffering through one hour of headache is the equivalent of seven years of praying (or seventy? Ok, let’s say seven is correct) which means discounting the hangover pains (which I have a feeling will not count) I have many more years of praying banked up than I’ve lived in this world.<br />
<br />
I’m thinking of putting some on ebay if anyone’s interested. I mean why not? Some people (who are very busy or simply can’t be bothered) employ others to pray for them. It’s true. If they go out drinking one night, the next morning they’ll call up their employee and say, ‘Fancy some overtime?’<br />
Things could be a lot simpler if instead of employing someone and having to listen to their whines about holidays and raises and bonuses, you could just go and buy however much praying you needed on ebay. I’d always known I was destined to become an entrepreneur.<br />
Now I’ve patented this idea so don’t you migrainy types think you can just go and start up your own business because I will sue your Nurofen-starved heads, not only in this world but also in the next.<br />
<br />
Now back to the subject of my great grandfather and his little sack of screwed up pieces of paper.<br />
My great grandfather was a man of god. He prayed. He read the Koran.<br />
Every time my great grandfather…Aah I don’t know why I keep saying ‘my great grandfather’ it’s a bit formal isn’t it? I’ll just use his name from now on, Mirza Mohammad Ali khan-eh Sahamnezam. That’s better. So every time Mirza Mohammad Ali khan-eh Sahamnezam read the Koran from start to finish, he would take a little piece of paper, screw it up and keep in a little pouch. This was the pouch that was later buried with him.<br />
<br />
Apparently there were so many pieces of paper in there that would make Mirza Mohammad Ali khan-eh Sahamnezam the…well I was going to say ‘the king of heaven’ but I suppose a position like that has probably already been taken by someone like Prophet Mohammad or Jesus so he will be something like Secretary of State perhaps. Anyway even after becoming a high ranking heaven official, he will still have so many screwed up pieces of paper to spare that (according to uncle Sloth) all his children and all his children’s children and their children will get all their sins washed away and enter heaven too.<br />
Great, isn’t it? It’s like having your name on the best guest list ever. While all you lot will be queuing with the rest of them outside the gates of heaven, putting your most holly faces on to try and get in, I’ll be pulling up in a white chauffer driven Bentley and waltzing in through the VIP door to pick up the keys to my three bedroom Victorian semi with a river of milk and a river of honey running through the bottom of its backyard.<br />
<br />
Ok so maybe it’s a bit mean of me to rub it in your faces like this. But don’t worry I’m pretty sure it’s not going to be all milk and honey and Bentleys and Victorian semis for me either.<br />
Think about it. First of all there’s going to be The Judgment Day where everyone (literally) will be present along with God and Gabriel and the Devil and lo and behold, Mirza Mohammad Ali khan-eh Sahamnezam and his little sack of screwed up paper which I’m guessing the Divine Court is probably going to be a little offended by. I mean they’re supposed to be the biggest record holders ever. They’ve been keeping records since the dawn of time. They know exactly how many grains each ant has picked up in its lifetime and how many times you have passed wind and tried to blame it on your senile grandmother. And then my great grandfather for some reason has felt the need to take his own evidence down there.<br />
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I just hope their records match with his screwed up pieces of paper because what is he going to do if they don’t? Is he actually going to have it out with Gabriel? In front of everyone? Ooh, I don’t even want to think about it. You know how it’s kind of embarrassing when one’s parents get drunk and start doing karaoke or re-enacting scenes from Saturday Night Fever? Well I’m not sure but I’m kind of guessing your great grandfather quarrelling with Gabriel on Judgment Day in front of every creature that has ever lived in this world plus God and the Devil and all the angels is going to be quite embarrassing.<br />
<br />
And then of course we will have the matter of my sentencing.<br />
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<strong>Gabriel</strong>: Shirin, you are hereby sentenced to shuffle excrement in Hell for all eternity. Any questions?<br />
<br />
<strong>Me</strong>: Yes. Th…<br />
<br />
<strong>Mirza Mohammad Ali khan-eh Sahamnezam</strong>: What? She can’t be going to hell. There must be some kind of mistake. What about all those headaches she used to get?<br />
<br />
<strong>Gabriel</strong>: Yeah well she was fine with those but then she started selling all her banked up prayers on ebay. Then when she saw what a great demand there was out there for prayers, with the help of a friend she opened up a praying sweatshop in downtown Tehran and started exporting affordable prayers to Europe and the US.<br />
<br />
<strong>Mirza Mohammad Ali khan-eh Sahamnezam</strong>: I can’t believe this. This is terrible. So that is why she is going to hell.<br />
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<strong>Gabriel</strong>: No that’s fine. There is actually a legal loophole in Islam that makes it absolutely fine to buy or sell prayers but your great granddaughter’s problem is that she forgot to keep any prayers for herself.<br />
Now dear I believe you had a question for us.<br />
<br />
<strong>Me</strong>: Emm, yes… about what I’ll be shuffling for all eternity, do you know if that will be human or animal excrement?<br />
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<strong>Gabriel</strong>: Hmm, let’s see. Half burnt stakes, yada yada yada, getting ripped apart by angry dogs, yada yada yada. Oh here we go. Yes, pool of excrement. No that’s not it. Oh yes here we go: shuffling excrement… Hmm, no I’m sorry dear. Unfortunately it does not specify which type of excrement you will be shuffling.<br />
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<strong>Devil</strong>: Sorry to interrupt but can I say something? Now don’t take my word as Gospel but seeing that the act of shuffling excrement will be taking place in Hell, I would imagine it’ll be mostly demon shit.<br />
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<strong>Me</strong>: Oh, I should think that is quite acidic. Am I right?<br />
<br />
<strong>Devil</strong>: Yes but you don’t need to worry about that; we will be issuing you with special protective gloves and boots…<br />
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<strong>Mirza Mohammad Ali khan-eh Sahamnezam</strong>: Ok that’s enough. You know I’m not going to let her go to Hell and that’s that. So let’s start our negotiations about how many Koran readings it’s going to take to keep her out of there.<br />
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<strong>Gabriel</strong>: Fifteen.<br />
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<strong>Mirza Mohammad Ali khan-eh Sahamnezam</strong>: FIFTEEN? You havein’ laugh? Is he havni’ a laugh? No way. I’ll give you one.<br />
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<strong>Gabriel</strong>: ONE?! ONE?! I know you’re haggling Mirza Mohammad Ali khan-eh Sahamnezam but that’s ridiculous even by Iranian standards.<br />
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<strong>Mirza Mohammad Ali khan-eh Sahamnezam</strong>: Two and that’s my last offer.<br />
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<strong>Gabriel</strong>: No way Pedro.<br />
<br />
<strong>Devil</strong>: No way Pedro?!<br />
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<strong>Mirza Mohammad Ali khan-eh Sahamnezam</strong>: Ok then, three and I’m not giving you a Besmellah more.<br />
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<strong>Gabriel</strong>: What did you say? Because for a minute there I thought you said ‘three’ and I was going to get seriously insulted. Thirteen and I’m not accepting a Gholho vallah less.<br />
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<strong>Mirza Mohammad Ali khan-eh Sahamnezam</strong>: Well tough because I’m not giving you any more than four.<br />
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<strong>Gabriel</strong>: Twelve.<br />
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<strong>Mirza Mohammad Ali khan-eh Sahamnezam</strong>: Five.<br />
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<strong>Gabriel</strong>: Eleven and that’s only because you are a direct descendent of Prophet Mohammad.<br />
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<strong>Mirza Mohammad Ali khan-eh Sahamnezam</strong>: Six or I’m walking.<br />
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<strong>Gabriel</strong>: Are you kidding me? No way. Ok I’m getting bored of this now. Let’s call it an even ten.<br />
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<strong>Mirza Mohammad Ali khan-eh Sahamnezam</strong>: Seven<br />
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<strong>Gabriel</strong>: Nine<br />
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<strong>Mirza Mohammad Ali khan-eh Sahamnezam</strong>: Eight<br />
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<strong>Gabriel</strong>: Eight and a half.<br />
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<strong>Mirza Mohammad Ali khan-eh Sahamnezam</strong>: Eight and a quarter.<br />
<br />
<strong>Gabriel</strong>: Done.<br />
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<strong>Devil</strong>: Halleluiah!<br />
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<strong>Me</strong>: Thanks for bailing me out Mirza Mohammad Ali khan-eh Sahamnezam. I’m very sorry you had to…<br />
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<strong>Mirza Mohammad Ali khan-eh Sahamnezam</strong>: Come on young lady, we have a lot to discuss.<br />
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<strong>Me</strong>:Uh-oh!<br />
<br />
<strong>Mirza Mohammad Ali khan-eh Sahamnezam</strong>: Now tell me. Have you thought of any new money making schemes suitable for this world?<br />
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<strong>Me</strong>: Seriously?<br />
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<strong>Mirza Mohammad Ali khan-eh Sahamnezam</strong>: Yes. Well we have all eternity here so we might as well do something.<br />
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<strong>Me</strong>: Well off the top of my head…a sewage system for Hell?<br />
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<strong>Mirza Mohammad Ali khan-eh Sahamnezam</strong>: Do you think there will be much profit in that?<br />
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<strong>Gabriel</strong>: Excuse me! Can the people who have already had their sentencing PLEASE move their talks of dodgy dealings out of this court?! We really need to get on with things over here!<br />
Ok where was I? Oh yeah. May I have your attention please, may I have your attention please? Will the real Slim Shady please stand up? I repeat, will the real Slim Shady please stand up? We’re gonna have a problem here... </div>
Shirinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187290541060892058noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14719275.post-1160835692746470392006-10-14T15:01:00.000+01:002006-10-15T09:10:46.416+01:00I fasted once. Twice really but it appears that one of the times will not count because I ate at lunchtime and that apparently is a big no-no.<br />It was the month of Ramadan and my cousin Shadi and I had decided to fast. It was my first time but Shadi was a pro. I was about ten or eleven and Shadi was two years older. We were staying at our grandparents’ house.<br />I could hear the sound of the call of pray as I was being shaken awake. I pulled a blue mohair jumper with an orange butterfly on the front, over my red, Japanese style pyjamas (very popular with us kids back then) and crawled out from under the stairs.<br />Now to avoid any misunderstandings let me just explain that we were not made to sleep under the stairs by our cruel grandparents. No, it wasn’t like that. Usually we slept under the dining table like normal people. Well I say normal!<br />Basically it was during the bombings and my grandmother, Mamanjoon had got it into her head that the safest place for us all to sleep in was under the dining table. It was made of choobeh albaaloo (sour cherry wood) you see, which apparently is very strong.<br />‘You pack up every night and go and sleep in reinforced concrete shelters?’ I used to say to my friends at school, ‘Maybe you should think about investing in a sour cherry wood dining table.’<br />So when we stayed at our grandparents’, we all slept under the dining table. All except Madarjoon (Mamanjoon’s mother) that is. Madarjoon was far too old and far too sensible to leave her comfy bed in favour of sleeping under the dining table with me, my two cousins and our two grandparents.<br />I don’t know exactly what our bomb plan was really but I imagine it was something along these lines:<br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/1600/Bomb-Watch-1b.0.jpg"><img style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/320/Bomb-Watch-1b.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/1600/Bomb-Watch-1b.jpg"></a></p><div align="left">In the event of a bomb trying to enter the house, first Madarjoon would try to catch it and fling it out of the window.<br /></div><p align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/1600/Bomb-Watch-2b.jpg"><img style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/400/Bomb-Watch-2b.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><div align="left"><br />If she failed to do this however, the bomb would then bounce off the dining table and that would be the end of that.<br /><br />As you can see it’s quite a plan. Luckily we never had to find out exactly how foolproof it was. Anyway, back to the main story of my failed fasting.<br /><br />So that night Shadi and I had moved to our own private quarters (under the stairs) so we wouldn’t wake the others when we woke up at dawn to start our fasting.<br />I slumped myself into a chair at the smaller, round dining table (that was still being used for eating purposes and not as a bunker on account of it being a bit flimsy and not quite big enough for all five of us to fit under)<br />As I sleepily shoved pieces of greasy aubergine omelette (that had been left out for us by Mamanjoon the night before) in my mouth, Shadi poured me a cup of tea from the flask and stirred in a couple of spoonfuls of sugar, talking non-stop, ‘We’re not doing this right but it’s ok. You’re not supposed to eat after the call of pray. Actually I don’t know…maybe you can eat all the way through the call of pray too in which case we should eat very fast. It shouldn’t matter though because it’s not our fault; our alarm clock didn’t go off. It’s lucky I woke up myself. Anyway I don’t think it matters. The important thing is that we wanted to do this so it’s ok. We will eat quickly and we’ll go to bed and we won’t tell anyone about this. Ok?’<br />I nodded. I was far too sleepy to have an opinion anything at the time.<br />A few hours later we woke up again and watched telly while the others had breakfast. A little past midday, I went home (which was about five minutes away) to get something. And within ten minutes of me arriving there, I had raided the fridge and scuffed a huge bowl of Spaghetti Bolognese.<br />The truth was I had found fasting quite boring and not at all the exciting spiritual experience that I thought it was going to be. I had expected to at least be able to levitate by lunchtime. However I did feel the exact opposite of that as soon as I told my cousin what I’d done. She was very disappointed in me. I said, ‘But it wasn’t going to count anyway, was it? Because we woke up late.’<br />‘It would have counted.’ She said, ‘Being a few minutes late wouldn’t have mattered, the important thing is that we wanted to do it.’<br />I hung my head in shame and sneaked upstairs to Madarjoon’s room. It had been another quiet night on Bomb Watch for her and I figured she could use some company. </div>Shirinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187290541060892058noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14719275.post-1160218632851297782006-10-07T11:46:00.000+01:002006-10-07T11:59:08.070+01:00I was watching one of my favourite programmes last night called <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/qi/">QI</a> (Quite Interesting). It was all more than quite interesting and all the way through I was doing the usual pleading with my brain to remember at least one interesting fact from the show so in the unlikely situation of that subject ever coming up in a conversation, I would have something to say about it and dazzle everyone with my cleverness and as usual my brain was refusing to accept anything.<br />‘Come on please. They are talking about the real people who Gulliver’s travels and Robinson Crusoe were based on. This is very interesting. Could you try and remember this please?’<br />‘Sorry, no can do. The disc is full.’<br />‘But how can that be? I don’t know anything really.’<br />[Yawn] ‘Well you know this morning when you were trying to memorize your mobile phone number?’<br />‘Yeah’<br />‘That took a lot of space.’<br />‘Oh cool, so did I manage to memorize that at the end then? Huh, I hadn’t realized that I had.’<br />‘Oh yeah’ [Yawn] ‘077 something, something and all the rest of it.’<br />‘077?! That’s all you’ve got?’<br />‘Hey come on, it’s a long number. How many digits? Ten? Eleven? You know I’m not good with numbers.’<br /><br />But as soon as a picture of a kangaroo came up, for some reason I knew that I was going to remember this interesting fact no matter what. And I did!<br />‘What is it that kangaroos can not do?’ Asked Stephen Fry.<br />‘Play the piano.’<br />‘Oh shut up Brain.’<br />‘Drive’ Said Alan Davis<br />‘Vote’ said another guy<br />‘It’s a bodily function.’ Said Stephen Fry<br />‘Burp’<br />‘Fart’<br />‘Yes’ said Stephen Fry, ‘kangaroos can not fart.’<br /><br />Interesting! But it gets even better. Apparently, as I write this, cutting edge experiments are being done by scientists who hope that one day those species of bacteria that live in a kangaroos’ guts can be fed to cows and with any luck stop them from farting so much and ultimately end global warming.<br /><br />Uhum, yes. Sounds like a great plan. But is there a plan B that maybe we could work on before starting this? The thing is I’m just not comfortable with the idea of experimenting with trying to improve cows again. We all remember what happened last time when we tried to do that, don’t we? And who would have thought that something as innocent as feeding some cows to some other cows would start such an appalling chain of events with the cows all going mad and even worse, making some of us go mad too with the terrible thought of not being able to eat burgers for while. Oh those were tough times.<br />[Yawn] ‘Oh yeah, very tough, very tough. Is it lunchtime yet?’<br />[sigh] ‘No not yet.’<br /><span style="font-size:85%;color:#333333;">‘Snack time?’<br />‘No’<br /></span><span style="font-size:78%;color:#999999;">‘Play time?’</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;color:#999999;">'No'</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;color:#999999;"><span style="color:#cccccc;">'Sleep time?'</span> </span>Shirinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187290541060892058noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14719275.post-1159720598130953422006-10-01T17:31:00.000+01:002006-10-01T19:36:26.456+01:00One of the situations that make me feel very uneasy is when someone calls me and I get the feeling that they are after a very long conversation because they’re bored. Oh just thinking about it sends shivers down my spine. ‘Hi’ they say in a miserable sounding voice, ‘I’ve been stuck in traffic in Headington for twenty minutes; I’m bored out of my skull.’<br />This is when I start to panic. But then I think, no no no, let’s not be hasty now, it might not be what I think it is. So I say (in a oh-no-you-poor-thing way) ‘Oh no, that’s bad.’ And then ask, ‘Are you on a bus?’<br />‘Yeah’ they sigh. Oh no, I’m really panicking now. ‘Where are you heading?’<br />‘London’ they say cheerlessly. My worst fears are realized; this means they’re after a two hour conversation.<br /><br />I’ve never been a big telephone fan. When I was younger I never went through that period of spending hours on end on the phone. My mum, who was extremely worried over my lack of interest in this teen must, even went and bought a little, red telephone especially for me and put it in my room. But it didn’t work; neither my mum’s plan nor the phone. It was one of those cheapo plastic ones with very sharp edges and built in Random Disconnecting System (which did exactly that). Bad for having a conversation on basically but great if you were after something sharp to slit your wrist with. The man in the shop may not have been lying after all when he had said that these were very popular with teenage girls!<br /><br />Living so far away from my family and a lot of my friends for so many years however has taught me to appreciate a good phone conversation with a loved one. But I still can’t get my head around the idea of calling someone not because I miss them or have something to tell them or ask them, but just because I’m bored. I’m not saying it’s wrong to do that or anything, I just don’t understand it especially when the bored person has absolutely nothing to say and it’s like they’ve called you to entertain them.<br />I was having one of these conversations this morning. Oh it was like pulling teeth. There were many ‘Hmm’s and long silences and ‘So what else is new’s. It was clear that neither of us was enjoying ourselves much but still every time I tried to direct the nonexistent conversation towards an end, the person on the other side brought up another subject. Twenty three minutes and forty five seconds this suffering went on for. It really was quite painful.Shirinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187290541060892058noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14719275.post-1159364673895926742006-09-27T14:22:00.000+01:002006-09-28T09:06:20.473+01:00All this talk about banning skinny models from catwalks has reminded me of this little story which I thought I could share with you.<br />A couple of years ago, in January 2004 to be precise, I went to ‘Fashion in motion’ a fashion show by some famous Iranian designers at V&A Museum in London (organised by Iran Heritage Foundation).<br />My aunt and good friend was one of the designers there so before the show I got to rub shoulders with the rich and famous of the Iranian fashion world. My choice of outfit: a thick, stiff, black polo neck that flattened my chest to nothingness (It was a cold day, ok? And that was the only jumper I owned at the time. I’m not a big fan of winter clothes really) was something that I regretted almost immediately and then a bit later, after paying a visit to the ladies' room, my very rushed and amateurish makeup application!<br /><br />Straight off you could tell the designers were not happy and there was tension in the air. After some minutes of persistent eavesdropping I managed to work out what the problem was. Apparently the models that had been brought in for the show, how should I put it, er, let’s say had a lot more meat on them that designers had anticipated.<br />Luckily my aunt did not have to worry about things like that much on account of her clothes mostly being, if not one-size-fits-all, then one-size-fits-many. But even she was a little annoyed I think because one of her outfits had not fitted any of the models.<br />There was this one guy there that everyone was feeling sorry for though who from what I gathered was not going to be able to show a lot of his designs since none of the girls could fit into the clothes.<br /><br />As usual with cases of unhappy Iranians vs. people of other nations, there was a lot of talk of conspiracy theories. ‘They’ve only done this because we’re Iranians.’ I heard someone say (Iranian is the new “Black” apparently), ‘they would never have given us such fat models if they didn’t want to annoy us.’ (These were not the designers themselves by the way. Those guys were too busy running around to have time for uncovering conspiracies. These were just their friends and other nosy people) ‘Of course’ another one joined in, ‘do you think if Giorgio Armani had a show here they would dare give him these models?’<br /><br />By the time I took my seat by the catwalk, I had taken the idea of fat models and run with it and was imagining all kinds of amazing entertainment for the night: big mummas packed into delicately made clothes with the stitches coming undone, handing out cookies to the audience. Unhealthy, overweight, teenage mums munching on chip butties and pushing prams and wearing pink pleated shalitehs and tonbans (short skirts worn on to of a pair of baggy trousers that fasten round the ankles)<br />I could go on but I don’t want you to, like me, get too excited about this and then be totally disappointed!<br />I’m only kidding. The show was absolutely fantastic. However I just couldn’t get over what I’d heard round the back. I’m not a designer and I haven’t been to many fashion shows so I don’t know, maybe these models were actually a bit bigger than normal catwalk models but to me they looked super skinny and I just kept thinking if this lot couldn’t fit into the clothes, I really don’t know who could. A stick insect? But she would probably get crushed under the weight of the clothes and suffocate!<br /><br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/1600/Chador2.jpg"><img style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/400/Chador2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Fatty number one ;-) </p><p align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/1600/Gold.jpg"><img style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/400/Gold.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/1600/Maryam2.jpg"><img style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/400/Maryam2.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/1600/Show1(72).jpg"><img style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/400/Show1%2872%29.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/1600/Red.jpg"><img style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/785/1316/400/Red.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p align="center"><br />I can’t remember who took these pictures. They’re not great. You can see some better ones on the <a href="http://www.vam.ac.uk/images/image/5255-popup.html">V&A website</a>.<br /></p>Shirinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187290541060892058noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14719275.post-1159029835001890062006-09-23T16:45:00.000+01:002006-09-24T08:35:06.213+01:00It breaks my heart every time I have to throw the fat parts at the top and the bottom of sliced bread in the bin so I don’t do it for ages and keep them in the cupboard thinking that I’ll take them and feed them to the ducks sometime but then when I don’t get round to doing that for a while and they get covered in powdery green dust and strange fungi, I’m left with no choice but to throw them away. Oh how I wish like in Iran, we had Namakis (Salt Men) in Oxford who would exchange dry and mouldy bread for crystal salt.<br />Bread has a lot of respect in Iran. Robab, my cousins’ nanny, used to say, ‘If you see a piece of bread in the street, pick it up, kiss it and then put it somewhere higher up like on a wall or a windowsill so it won’t get treaded on.’<br />Actually all food get a lot more respect there than they do here but bread in particular is much respected bordering on holly.<br />Growing up in Iran one of the first rules I ever learned was that ‘you finish everything that is on your plate’. When I see people leaving food on their plates, I feel so angry. Well it’s more upset than angry actually. To me it’s just sad that they see nothing wrong with wasting food. The funny thing is that from what I’ve seen, usually these are the people who are seen as righteous and whose behaviour is envied by others. Time and time again I’ve heard people (usually ones that are a bit on the chubby side) make comments such as, ‘Oh you are so lucky you’re able to leave food on your plate, I always have to finish everything, even when I’m full.’ And the other person, the rude one, the one Robab and my grandmother would not have hesitated to give a good telling off to, the one who has for many years been in charge of how much goes onto his/her plate but has not yet been able to calculate exactly how much he/she is able to eat, sits there with a massive grin on his/her face, looking very pleased with him/herself.<br />It’s like eating is such a bad thing that doing anything else with your food other than eating it is fine. ‘Just don’t eat it ok? Because eating will make you fat and that is bad’ seems to be the message.<br />Some time ago I was with a few friends; a couple of them with new babies, one with an older baby and me with no baby when I heard this (which I think is one of the strangest pieces of information and advise I’ve ever heard in my life), ‘It has been proven that mothers put on most of their weight from “let’s not waste”’ Said the older baby mummy in a knowing manner, ‘but you mustn’t think like that. As soon as you think your child has had enough, you must pour what’s leftover on the plate into the bin and pour washing-up liquid all over it.’<br />I felt the same look coming over my face as when people ask me questions like, ‘Just out of interest, exactly why do Moslems love to blow themselves up so much?’<br />‘Yeah I’ve heard that’ said one the new baby mummies, ‘I’ll definitely do that because I don’t want to get any bigger than this.’<br />The older baby mummy smiled and nodded sympathetically. I smiled and raised my eyebrows. Many questions were circling around my head. Some I figured I was better off not knowing the answer to (So is the washing-up liquid really necessary? Is it possible that if you don’t do that, you will at some point during the afternoon go looking through the bin for a little snack? And if you are the kind of person that does that, is a bit of washing-up liquid going to stop you?) and some I thought I would just get laughed at by asking them (Does it absolutely have to either go in the bin or be eaten? What’s wrong with putting it in the fridge and keeping it for later? It could make a nice little snack for you or the baby couldn’t it?) But most of all I was thinking ‘Exactly when did food lose all its respect in this country?’<br />Somehow between these girls’ grandparents’ generation (who without a doubt respected food after all the hardship they had gone through during the war) and now, it has become absolutely fine for someone like <a href="http://www.channel4.com/entertainment/tv/microsites/Y/yawye/">Gillian McKeith</a> (of <a href="http://www.channel4.com/entertainment/tv/microsites/Y/yawye/series_two.html">'You are what you eat'</a>) to go to someone’s house, get a bin bag and throw anything sugary or fatty that she finds in the house in there, encourage the overweight person who has asked for her help to put muffins and éclairs on the floor and stamp on them, then set <a href="http://www.channel4.com/entertainment/tv/microsites/Y/yawye/s3ep2.html">a table with all the things that person eats in a week</a> (slabs of cheese, kebabs, burgers, cakes, chocolate, numerous glasses of beer and coke, biscuits, takeaways,…) and occasionally use other shock tactics such as making a chocolate gravestone and a human size grave covered entirely in chocolate bars.<br />I actually like this programme because it teaches people to eat well and be healthy but must they waste all this food in the process? Ok yes, cakes make people fat but cake is still food isn’t it? It has been made from flour, sugar, oil, eggs maybe milk, maybe nuts. These are all good food that our bodies need and should be treated with respect and not as the enemy. Yet people on this programme and others similar are encouraged to destroy them, throw them away and pour washing-up liquid over them, in short do anything but eat them. Maybe I’m being a bit naïve here but shouldn’t they instead be taught to respect food and try to control themselves so they won’t overeat?<br />Let’s say someone is a sex addict and whenever he/she sees a good looking person, he/she wants to…well you know. Anyway when he/she goes to get the help of an expert, does the expert 1- try to teach him/her to somehow get his/her desires under control? Or 2- tell him/her that whenever he/she sees a good looking person in the street, he/she should punch them in the face so they’re not pretty anymore and therefore no longer desirable?<br />This might seem like an extreme example but I’m sure if you were to put this scenario and someone destroying a skip full of cakes, cheese, bread and chocolate, to group of people in a famine stricken country, they would think that these were both equally ridiculous.<br /><br />I don’t know what came first really; the wasting of food in our daily lives or in movies and television. But it does often feel like they are one step ahead of us, taking things to extremes. And it’s strange how they usually take every possible care to make everything appear so natural in movies yet when it comes to eating habits, they often fail miserably.<br />I’m talking about all the times someone buys a sandwich, takes one bite of it and throws the rest in the bin because he receives a phone call with good or bad news/sees a friend or enemy standing on the other side of the road/realises he’s late for something/has had amnesia for the past four years and then suddenly remembers (if what he remembers is that he doesn’t like pastrami and that’s what he’s bought, then I guess that’s understandable but it’s probably something lame like) he is a prince who everyone thinks has died in a yachting accident and now that his father has died, his evil cousin is about to be crowned as the next king unless he gets himself to the palace pronto. He could still eat the sandwich on his way there if you ask me. I would. I had to throw my half eaten tuna sandwich in the bin about a year ago because the bus driver said no food was allowed on the bus and I’m still thinking about that sandwich and cursing that bus driver every time I do. And it wasn’t because he had made me get on the bus hungry because the sandwich was huge and I had already eaten my fill (I was just keeping the rest for later).<br /><br />There are so many examples of these unnecessary throwing away of food in movies and television that I could write a whole book on them. The depressing British soap operas (Eastenders, Hollyoaks,…) are full of them. No one ever eats on these programmes.<br />Scenario: A couple sit down to have dinner with plates of sausages and chips in front of them. Phone rings. The man picks it up (bad move), ‘Hello’<br />‘Your wife is cheating on you.’ Click, beeeeeeep<br />‘Hello, hello, who is this?’<br />‘What’s wrong Barry?’ Asks the wife, picking up a chip.<br />‘You’ replies the husband with an angry look on his face, ‘you’re cheating on me. I don’t ever want to see you again.’<br />Walks out. Slams the door behind him. Now the woman either starts crying and runs upstairs or starts crying and empties the plates in the bin. And I just think, Love, you cheating might have been shocking news to him but it’s not news to you, is it? So why not finish your dinner?<br /><br />Another common scenario is this: A man/woman walks into a house. He/she takes care to come in quietly as it’s pretty late at night. He/she walks into the dining room to find a table set for two with two plates full of food that have gone cold and a flickering candle on its last breaths. In the living room, a woman/man sleeps on the sofa fully dressed, holding an empty glass of wine. She/he has been waiting for he/she to arrive and he/she is very late for their dinner date. Now she/he suddenly wakes up and starts rubbing her/his eyes and he/she starts to apologize for his/her lateness…Stop right there.<br />Let’s analyse this common scenario on television and movies for a moment. Would anyone in their right mind dish someone’s dinner and put it on the table before they arrive in the house? Because I’m thinking even if you have a date with the Incredible Timekeeping Man/Woman who always arrives at exactly the time he/she says he/she will arrive, he/she might still have a little something to do before dinner like washing hands, making a phone call or going to the bathroom. What if they want to have a little wine before dinner? What if on their way in, a neighbour starts talking to them?<br />The way I see it, it’s she/he who has done the wrong thing here. She/he has not only wasted all the food, but also finished all the wine. And now we’re supposed to feel sorry for her/him too?! No way.<br />If I were him/her I would give her/him a good telling off. If you can’t understand why I think what she/he has done is so stupid, let’s change this scenario a little for you. Let’s replace dinner with a baby or a puppy. Let’s say in the film, he/she was supposed to have come home at 7 O’clock to look after the baby/puppy so the other person could have a rest or go out. He/she arrives three hours late to find that she/he is sleeping with earplugs in (so not to be disturbed by the cries of the baby/puppy)/has gone out already and the baby/puppy is hungry and badly in need of a change/walk.<br />Again some might think this is an extreme example but I’m sure people felt exactly the same way when someone decided that animals should have rights (and a little further back,) that humans should have rights. So now what’s wrong with saying that foods should have rights?<br />The fact of the matter is that day by day, the food we eat has less and less nutrition in it on account of us overworking the soil so much. Apparently these days most of us (even the ones with a balanced diet) need supplements simply because there are a lot less vitamins in our food than there once was. But we still don’t think that food needs to be treated with respect.<br /><br />There are always discussions about all the violence in movies and the effects of this on the society. Ok I agree; violence is bad. People die from violence. But every year masses of people are also dying from hunger while others are given standing ovations for stamping on éclairs.<br />It’s funny how it no longer seems to be acceptable to have a hero or heroine in a movie who smokes but it’s absolutely fine to have someone in a movie take one bite from an apple and throw the rest sexily in the bin or to have Brad Pit in Ocean’s Eleven, take one bite of a burger and then for no apparent reason, throw the rest away.<br />‘No food has been wasted during the making of this film’ that’s what I would like to see at the end of a blockbuster movie one of these days.<br />I would probably fight for this if I was a tad less lazy but unfortunately I’m more of a talker than a doer and so my height of Respect Food Campaign will probably be to glare disapprovingly at guests who leave food on their plates and maybe if I have a child one day, teach him/her to respect food too.Shirinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05187290541060892058noreply@blogger.com13