Observations on grief

I wrote these scattered thoughts over the last six months. It’s not a real post. There aren’t any grand conclusions. But this was how I felt as I struggled through the mourning process for my best friend. I publish these in the hope that somebody out there might go – ‘Me too’ and I’ll feel less alone.

The title of this post makes me feel like a scientist as opposed to the constantly crying person who regards any task (brushing my hair, washing, leaving the house) with an bone-deep exhaustion.

I’m not OK. Why was I expecting to be OK? Because I always have been. I have always coped and pushed the pain somewhere to be dealt with later. But those were rivers of pain and this in the sea. I cannot contain it.  I have to sit in the pain and being not OK for as long as it takes and it is horrible.

Grief is unpredictable. Look at me I think acting like nothing has happened. When I feel like a walking bruise. Like a bombed house during the Blitz, the walls are still intact but inside there is desolation.

There are good days and bad days. On good days I forget and it is blissful until I feel the nagging like a sore tooth. She’s gone and nothing and nobody will bring her back. On bad days I feel like the waves have dragged me under and I linger on the sea bed. Everything is muffled and dimmed, and nothing and nobody can reach me.

People try and help by offering platitudes. ‘She’s with the angels now.’ Well, why don’t we ask the fucking angels to give her back? Oh we can’t… is that because they are imaginary. ‘Celebrate her life don’t mourn her death.’ Are the two mutually exclusive? Can I not do both. ‘Lianne wouldn’t want you to feel this way.’OK, let’s take these in term. 1) Lianne is dead so we can never know what she would want. 2) Even so knowing her as I do, for the accepting loving individual she was she would want me to feel what I feel. 3) Finally and most importantly, it’s not about her anymore. It’s about me mourning the loss of my best friend the only way I can.

Somedays you will recognise that people say these things because they love you and that they do not want to see you in pain. Somedays the unwarranted advice will make you want to punch them in their fucking face. Don’t do that.

Empathy helps. In my experience it is the only thing that does. I remember sitting in my first counselling session talking about Lianne’s death and I said ‘I feel like I’m going mad. What’s wrong with me?’ And my therapist, god bless her said, ‘Your best friend has just died. Of course you feel awful. There is nothing wrong with you.’ I would have wept with relief if I hadn’t been weeping anyway.

Get a therapist.

There is no right way to grieve. Everybody grieves in their own way. And the way I do this is not the way other people have done this. That’s OK.

Grief is not linear, it’s not stages. Now months on I feel like I am moving out of the process but anything could pull me back under. I still miss her. I don’t think I’ll ever not.

Perception is all. The day of Lianne’s funeral was one of the most beautiful days of the summer. The sun shone so hard and the sky was so blue it almost hurt my eyes. But inside all I could feel was the crack as my heart broke into pieces. I expected the world to have changed, that there to be some outside sign that Lianne was missing. That’s the both simultaneously wonderful/cruel thing about grief the world keeps turning just the same. Only you have changed.

You get a free pass. Use it. Grieving allowed me to duck out of social arrangements, reinforce personal boundaries, wear random clothes, and lie in my bed eating cake for breakfast.

I have officially become the person that cries in my therapists reception room. Personal achievement unlocked!

It hurts. I didn’t know how much grief would hurt. But I know it wouldn’t hurt so much if I hadn’t loved her.

I can no longer watch Steel Magnolias or Beaches, especially fucking Beaches. Turning on the radio has been like playing Russian roulette damn you Queen and Lady Gaga. There is no logic to what shatters my composure.

This is one of the most beautiful letters I have read about grief. In particular I loved this quote:

Fate can’t have any more arrows in its quiver for you that will wound like these. Who was it said that it was astounding how deepest griefs can change in time to a sort of joy? The golden bowl is broken indeed but it was golden; nothing can ever take those boys away from you now.

This letter is also a lie, a kind lie from a place of love but a lie. Nobody can ever take Lianne away from me. She lived, she loved and she was golden however briefly she shone. And the fact that she is no longer here cannot take that away. But I do not believe fate’s arrow is empty for me. When somebody dies the veil is ruptured between worlds and you stare into the void, knowing that this is the first. If I am lucky and live a long and healthy life I will lose more people I love or be buried by them. This is the first blow. There will be others.

sorrow passes and we remain. Whether we want to or not.

Dearest HWSNBN

Dearest HWSNBN,

Happy nine-year anniversary! Just writing those words, I feel so old like an ancient relic. But it doesn’t feel like it’s been nine years. I can remember as if was yesterday being that girl sitting in a dingy club wishing with every fibre of her being that the boy sitting next to her would just kiss her. And when that kiss happened, it was worth the wait. You were worth the wait. Almost a decade on you still give me butterflies.

 

I have nightmares sometimes and the most terrifying one even worst than the ferret man (*shudders*) is the ‘what ifs’. What if I hadn’t gone to Sussex? What if I hadn’t lived in Park Village in the house next door to you? What if I hadn’t become friends with Sam? What if I had skipped graduation? What if I hadn’t gone out that fateful night nine years? What if  I had never met you. These thoughts terrify me because you have utterly and inexorably changed my life for the better. I can’t imagine who I would be without you but I know I would be lesser, less happy, less grounded and less me.

My love for you grows everyday until I wonder how my body can contain it. Thank you for loving for me. Thank you for making this year despite all the sadness the best year of my life by marrying me. Nine months ago I vowed  ’to love you til the seas run dry, until the sun grows cold and the stars grow old. And if there is another life beyond this, I will love you there too.’ I still mean every word and I always will.

Happy anniversary HWSNBN and here’s to another year with you. I can’t wait,

love me xxx

20 things to do when it snows. Aka how to survive snowmaggedon

I wrote this in January, just as the cold weather started to thaw and thought I’d save it for next year. But then the unthinkable happened SNOWMAGGEDON, in March? As a true Brit I know that I can get a least a fortnight’s worth of small talk out of this. Brilliant.
Ahem. This isn’t the only reason I love snow. Snows turns me into a big kid. Yes, I know it’s inconvenient. Yes, I worry about the old people. But because we live in a country where we have proper snow, perhaps once or twice a year it is always thrilling me. Whether it is the Blitz spirit of people struggling on it public transport. Or the kids playing in the park. I love the way snow transforms the landscape immediately, folding over houses and fields like a white blanket. The familiar is rendered unfamiliar, almost uncanny by the stark whiteness. I love the way the snow catches in your eyelashes melting them into starfish shapes. I love how when the wind blows, the flurries look like vapor twisting like smoke from a genie’s bottle.

I love it all so much I have created the definitive what to do when it snows list!

2o things to do when it snows

Get up really early because the light outside your bedroom is different.

Pull back the curtains swiftly so the white light blinds you.

SNOWDAY! Do the snowday dance! Source

Check the weather. Is this a tiny flurry or are we in for blizzard time? 100 per cent chance of snow? Hell yes. (Avoid BBC weather, they lie. ‘Light sleet my arse. It’s like the Day after Tomorrow in out there!’)

Update facebook. Friends may not have windows, they need to know the precipitation levels where you are.

Turn the heating up really high, strip down to your indies and enjoy the incongruence of staring out at cold when you are boiling.

Check your food cupboards. Imagine having to survive on some dried quinoa and kidney beans. Thank god when the local corner shop is open and instead your surviving on cadburys and wotsits.

Bake. Something about the cold always sends me into nesting mode and we always have the ingredients for a victoria sponge.

Wrap up warm. You want to be so roasting you have to unbutton yourself. The key is layers, layers, layers. Plus tucking your trousers in your socks to avoid the old snow in the wellies dilemma.

Snow angel time. Press your body evenly into the snow otherwise you’ll get a bum angel. Nobody wants a bum angel.

Make something out of snow. Think outside the box on the one, kids. Anybody can build a snowman but can they build an anatomically correct snowman, a snowcat or an igloo (my project of choice).

Leave tracks. Choose your spot wisely. You’re looking for a patch of untouched virgin snow. Take a step. Ease into it. Then another. What animal left these tracks?

Start a snowball fight. Particularly with a group of kids who are not your match in size or intellect or HWSNBN… BURN! Rules? There are no rules…

Take lots of pictures so you can annoy your friends later with pictures of your snowy antics.

Make a snowmade slushie: get snow and add sugar syrup and food colouring. Avoid the yellow snow though…

Drive in the snow after dark (if its safe.) The snow falling against a background of black looks like the opening credits of Star Wars.

Finally when you are so cold you barely feel your extremities go back inside. Feel the thaw as your fingers start to regain sensation.

Make hot chocolate like your gran used to make it.

Create a blanket nest and grab an appropriately themed old kids book. My favourites the Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe or the Wolves of Willoughby Chase. Don’t make me choose!

Stare out at the snow.

Sadly, I’ve buggered my back. So my snowday consists of lying on the floor staring out at the sky. If your snowday is better than mine let me live vicariously through you in the comments.

Limbo

So far, 2013 has been very tough. I only realised just how tough it had been when the pressure alleviated and I felt like I could breathe again.

In early January I found out that somebody I love most in this world was seriously ill and it could be cancer. All I could think was not again, I can’t watch somebody else I love die. The universe cannot possibly be this cruel. While knowing that the universe is exactly this capricious and cruel.

I hardly told anybody. I was worried that if I spoke the words it would make it real. Even telling my best friends was so difficult. When I plucked up the courage to tell my counsellor, after 30 minutes of babbling about nothing, she cried with me. She knew better than anybody how devastating this would be.

I am not somebody who embraces uncertainty and unknowing. I am a bit of a control freak (with weekly, monthly, yearly and five yearly plans). But living in limbo seemed easier than hearing the worst. I dreaded the test results day. I lied to myself that I was coping well until I had a crying fit about our fridge breaking and realised it was nothing to do with the fridge at all.

We got the results and it wasn’t cancer but something else. Yes, he would need treatment but he was going to be OK. That night I slept better than I had in months. When I went for a walk the next day although nothing externally had changed, everything had. I was no longer living in limbo and the relief was amazing. The storm has passed but it has left its mark. So I am going to hug the people I love very tightly, as if it might be the last time. I am going to breathe in and out until the anxiety lessens. I am going to live, fully and deeply and so should you.

 

DIY: how to make a stained glass candle holder

This is my best friend Ros.

She likes glitter and rainbows, and Rainbow Brite. Ros is camper than a bag of spanners and I love her dearly.

As we’re both broke we’ve started a twice-yearly tradition of crafting each other presents. It started when I collected together a jar full of baby advice for her baby shower. Then she gave me a memory jar full of things she had collected from my wedding. It was my turn.

The issues I often have with browsing Pinterest in search of inspiration is all of the DIY posts always require something expensive and obscure I never actually have. Which negates the whole point of crafting as it’s meant to be a) cheap and b) efficient, using up something you already have. It was a dull and grey January and all I had was an overdraft and a handful of rainbow coloured Quality Street wrappers too beautiful to throw away. Finally my gluttony pays off! I decided to combine rainbows and glitter (Ros’ favourite things) and make a stained glass candle holder.

How to make a stained glass candle holder

What you need:

Quality Street wrappers
A jam jar (I love Bonne Mamon ones)
Glitter glue
Scissors
A candle

What to do

1. Flatten the Quality Street wrappers. Don’t worry if they are a bit wrinkled, it adds to the faux glass effect.

2. Cut the wrappers into four strips by cutting them in half and then in half again

3. Get the glitter glue and depending on the effect you are after either draw a line down the inside of the jar or spread the glitter glue evenly across the glass.

4. Choose a strip of wrapper and stick it to the glass.

5. Keep doing this until the jar is covered evenly.

6. Wait for the glue to dry

7. Add a candle (glueing it in place if the bottom of the jar is curved). And voila, you’re very own stained glass candle holder.

You may end with hands like you’ve been giving Edward Cullen a wank but frankly them’s the crafting breaks. Look at me Ma, I can be a crafting blogger!

Other things I have made this month, for my other bestie Debs include:

Salt caramels (that tasted more like salty tablet but was very yummy)

Ribena vodka (add sugar and blackcurrants to vodka. Let it stew for as long as possible. Swig.)

Comic book D (well, I say I made… but really I sat there with the bits until HWSNBN took over.)

Another five things ticked off my Make 100 lovely things on my life list.

Sand, tombs, pharoah’s revenge: minimooning in Egypt

NB: I wrote this last year and never published it because I forgot. Better late than never.

First of all this post is dedicated to my travel adviser and Egyptologist Karen, whose fantastic recommendations really helped make our minimoon special.

I’ve always wanted to visit Egypt but never thought we would be able to afford it. But we got a great deal by waiting until a week before the wedding to book our minimoon. Plus it was such an exciting contrast to wedding planning which I was so over at this point. Frak, a year and a half of planning, instead google some places. Decide to go to Luxor. Book it. Less than a week later land in Luxor. Brilliant! I ace at planning holidays.

Due to University commitments, we decided to save our honeymoon to Cuba til next year. But we still wanted to take a week to decompress and unwind. HWSNBN and I can rarely afford to travel abroad so I really wanted our minimoon to be epic. Hot, relaxing yet also an opportunity to stretch our cultural horizons: Egypt was perfect. Plus it gave me the opportunity to cross Africa off my continents list and you know how I feel about crossing things off lists.

So the two days after getting married we boarded the plane to Egypt. The plane was so deserted that once it took off we could have sat with a row each. (We didn’t obviously, we were on honeymoon and contractually obliged to be ridiculously lovedy dovey at all times.) Although summer is traditionally the slower season (too hot for the tourists) this was my first sign of how much the Arab spring plus the recession in the UK was effecting Egypt’s tourism. The lady we sat next regularly visiting Egypt a couple of times a year and said both Thompson and Easyjet now only flew once of week instead of the half a dozen flights they used to charter a couple of years ago. She was amazing helpful and gave us the lowdown on what to do and what do avoid, how to haggle and the most common scams to avoid.

The case of the missing suitcase

We landed just as the sun set affording us a beautiful view of the brightly coloured lights of Luxor crowded either side of the black expanse of the Nile. As we walked down the plane steps the heat hit me like a blow. Nothing can prepare you for how hot Egypt is. The kind of arid heat that dries your sweat before it even has a chance to cool your body. It’s not the hottest place I’ve been to, that would be Alice Springs Australia. Or the most uncomfortably hot, step forward Bali, Indonesia. But Egypt was definitely in the top three hottest places Rowan has visited.

At the airport as we queued to buy our visas, some rather frantic Egyptians wandered up and down the queues holding up clipboards with different names on them, including ours. As I went to step forward HWSNBN motioned me back. The plane lady has already warned us about the visa scam where you are taken aside to buy your visa from a special (read: expensive) visa desk. After we bought our visas we identified ourselves to the transfer guy. He was incensed. ‘You bought the wrong visa. You will have to buy another from my friend.’ We insisted we were fine. ‘You will not get into the country.’ We did.

As we queued at the baggage carousel the Scammy Transfer Guy was STILL insisting we had got the wrong visas. HWSBN quickly found his case but although there was a suitcase that looked very similar to mine, mine was not to be seen. With a sinking feeling HWSNBN, I and the Scammy Transfer Guy stared at the suitcase that was not my case making its lonely way around the concourse. I should at this point tell you about the argument HWSNBN and I had when packing. This is not unusual as I get unaccountably vicious whenever I have to pack. I am a bad packer. I hate it. When we went travelling HWSNBN backpack consisted of neatly folded items with things he needed in a hurry like boots or an anorak towards the top of the pack. Mine was a jumbled chaotic mess which slowly decreased in size as I left items scattered behind me like the slowest undressing race ever throughout Australia and New Zealand. Which lead to me having to unpack and pack my backpack every night as I could never find anything (because it was either a) lost forever in the red dust or b) crumpled at the bottom of my pack). Anyway I digress, the argument started because HWSNBN advised me to pack a change of clothes in case my bag got lost. Because I am a bad packer, I ignored HWSNBN’s advice. All I had in my hand luggage was my passport, wallet, an eye mask, bottle of water, four books, trashy magazine and gum. This was going to be the best Project Runway challenge ever!

So we stood there: me minus my suitcase and HWSNBN valiantly trying not to say I told you so. At which point we were approached by Helpful Airport Guy. We explained the situation. ‘Ticket. Passport’ I handed both over. He examined them and then the suitcase. ‘This is your suitcase?’ No, it was very similar but it was not. Scammy Transfer Guy asked the same question. ‘It looks like mine but it’s not.’  Airport Guy asked again. ‘This is not my suitcase’. He checked the tickets against the suitcase. He checked again. Finally he pronounced ‘Madame this is not your suitcase.’ I concurred. In a whirl of activity Helpful Airport Guy disappeared with the bag that was not my bag and my passport. Fifteen minutes later, I was officially beginning to freak out. It was late night, I was hot and sticky after travelling all day and the Scammy Transfer guy was still blabbering at us about how we went to the wrong visa desk, and I had no luggage and now no passport. (Because I am S.M.R.T. Who gives their passport away to a random airport official? Kids don’t do that.) I made a decision. I could cry here in the middle of the airport or I could go to the toilet, calm down, and maybe as if by magic when I got somebody would have found my suitcase. When I emerged like a guardian angel Helpful Airport Guy was there. ‘Come with me’ We followed him outside and there was my bag and a rather stoned looked bag abductor who would have gotten a shock when he opened the suitcase and found maxi dresses instead of megadeath t-shirt. I was so relieved I could have hugged Helpful Airport Guy. I settled for shaking his hand lots as HWSNBN gave him a large tip.

Our first hour in Egypt for me defined the two sides of the Egyptian people. The vast majority were warm, welcoming and went out of their way to be helpful. But because of poverty, desperation and in some cases greed, you had to be careful of being scammed. It’s really sad that the latter tend to make you so suspicious of the intentions of the former.

Rules of the road

Then tightly clutching my suitcase (‘We will never be parted again, baby.’) we were hustled into the mini bus taking us from the airport to our hotel. As the Scammy Transfer Guy tried to convince HWSNBN that we should use him for all trips, uh nope. I got chatting to the lovely L and V, friends who were holidaying together. In the mini bus was the first time I got a glimpse of Egyptian traffic which was terrifying. In Luxor as part of the traffic calming measures there are speed bumps. Egyptian drivers solution to this dilemma is to swerve over to the other side of the road into the path of the oncoming traffic avoiding the speed bump and then swerve back. Headlights are used sparingly, to flash other drivers, the street lights relied upon to see by. Hooting party buses passed us both sides light up to look like a disco ball/wideboys dream that charter people too and from the villages. Horns are tooted to say a) hello b) goodbye c) get out the road d) all the time. If you asked d) you’d be right! In the middle of the grassy verge between lanes of traffic sat groups of men, smoking hookah and debating. I couldn’t help but notice conspicuous in their absence were the women.

Our mini-moon haven

Our hotel was on the edge of Luxor away from the hassle of the town. We passed the lines of taxis queued outside and drove into this green haven on the banks of the Nile. It was the perfect oasis of calm I needed to relax and unwind recommended by the lovely Karen. Now as everybody who is newly married knows one of the benefits is being able to drop the H-bomb with impunity. I had already told the airport clerk, lady sitting next to me on the plane, the air hostess, Helpful Airport Guy, Scammy Transfer Guy and L and V. But when it came time for me to check in I started to get a bit embarrassed. If I said that we were on honeymoon would it make it too obvious I was angling for an upgrade. But HWSNBN was nudging me ‘We’re on honeymoon.’ I not so casually dropped into conversation with the receptionist. ‘Yes, there is a note on our system.’ Karen has already taken care of this for us. This is because Karen is officially awesome. Just like that we were upgraded to a suite and as we were all inclusive we also got blue plastic wrist bands to wear. I felt like royalty albeit with questionable taste in bracelets.

We dumped our bags in our room and headed for the buffet at the restaurant. Despite being close to last servings the food was plentiful each night themed around a different cuisine. Predictably English night was the worst. I was worried beforehand whether there would be enough choice as HWSNBN is coeliac and I am vegetarian. Yes, we are officially the couple you least want to invite to dinner. But there was lots of different options. The chef even made special dishes for HWSNBN. AMAZEBALLS. After dinner we flopped at Carters Bar. I being sadly unable to hold my liquor chose water. HWSNBN opted for a series of cocktails the size of his head. There we were regaled to some truly odd renditions of popular songs by the weird singer caterwauling. Including our first dance song (SQUEE!) Then it was time for bed. (In one of the best beds I’ve ever slept in. I wanted to take it home with me)

Nile cruise

Our first day we had one plan to acclimatize ourselves to the heat. This was the theory at least. Later in the week we realised the only way to get shit done in Egypt was wake up mega early, do stuff, then retire back to hotel when it hit the mid 40′s at around 10am As we had arrived late at night we really wanted to see Luxor during the day and locate ourselves geographically. Our hotel had twice daily shuttle buses into town and a shuttle boat. We picked the boat and sat on it all the way into the centre of Luxor and then back to the hotel (much to the captain’s confusion). It was perfect seeing Egypt from abroad the Nile. The ibis birds pecking among the reeds, which was so exciting as I had only seen them in hieroglyphs before. Small children cooling themselves by splashing each other in the Nile. Most people seemed to get around by water taxi’s like ours. White boats with brightly painted details called amazing names like Midnight bliss, Desert night and my personal favourite Titanic! It was so deserted our captains even allowed HWSNBN to take the wheel for a while.

This was our second glimpse that everything was not right in Egypt. Along the banks derelict cruise boats were parked up in lines, their windows empty and shuttered. Later that afternoon with V and L  we formed a plan to visit the no-hassle market (hah). To get off the boat you had to walk across other people’s boats in one long chain to the shore ‘helped’ by a mob of little kids. On another occasion when making our way across the bridge of boats I stepped in the Nile. Ewh!  We stopped briefly to refresh ourselves at the Winter Palace which was like something out of Agatha Christie novel. Before deciding to walk the ten minutes to the no hassle market.

This was a mistake; a) it was very hot, b) pavements in Egypt as cracked strewn with rubble and with kerbs not built for my squat little legs c) as tourists in the down season and with the current political problems we might as well have been wearing signs that said Hassle Me! Immediately we were mobbed by taxi drivers/ horse carriage drivers/ felucca and street sellers. The noise as they tried to attract our attention was incredible. In the middle of this hubbub we were approached by Fake Gardener from our Hotel who advised us to get a taxi to visit the no hassle market and to find the cigars HWSNBN was desperately hankering after. Later I realised we were recognisable from our all inclusive wrist bands (each hotel had a different coloured wrist band) and this was a classic scam. Exhausted we negotiated a price and were off. Except not to our destination but to a shop where Fake Gardener also got a commission, then again not to the market but a pharmacy.

Every time we stopped crowds of children as young as four gathered begging for money or food, which was so tough. By this point we were getting really fed up and asked us to take us back to the Winter Palace. A block or so away the taxi driver said that as it had been over an hour (actually it was 40 minutes I had been timing it) the price of the ride 2 quid (already more than we had been told to pay) to 60 quid. Proportional not. We all got out of our taxi’s and started walking while the taxi driver and Fake Gardener followed us shouting at HWSNBN as he tried to negotiate. In the end he threw at tenner at the taxi driver and fake gardener who had started shouting at each other while we ran into the Winter Palace. We hid inside while the driver lurked outside and made threatening gestures at us until the mini bus came. Looking back I can see at as an adventure but at the time I was so worried for our safety. Back at the hotel we learnt our experience was not unusual. Another couple at our hotel went outside the hotel once to visit the market. Rookie mistake, visiting an Egyptian souk as a westerner is like wearing a sign reading: hassle me, I am a rich tourist. They came back and refused to leave the hotel for the rest of the week. An attitude I really didn’t understand: why visit Egypt is you’re not going to see the tombs, the temples, the Nile? (Not only did I see the Nile I fell into it, because I am starring in my own chick lit book.)

Pharoah’s revenge

On our second day HWSNBN got Pharoah’s revenge. Before we went we had read lots of advice such on avoiding salad, fruit, and ice, and to only drink sealed bottled water and be obsessive about hand sanitising. And we were. But in the end every European person we met got Pharoah’s revenge sooner or later, what mattered where the degrees. And HWSNBN in typical all or nothing style got Pharoah’s revenge so badly he was placed on a drip. The hotel were amazing organising a Dr, negotiating a fixed price and sorting the Dr out  when he mysteriously tripled the price. Yeah, the doctor tried to scam us.

So the second day he spend in bed only emerging for the El Mouled Festival a traditional night of Egyptian food and entertainment (whirling dervish! Belly dancers!) on the lawns by the side of the Nile.

Karnak temple

The first thing you need to understand about Karnak temple is that it was built for the pharaoh’s living god’s and is built to suitably godlike proportions.

We visited for the sound and light show in the evening where the temple and hieroglyphics was lit up while a cheesey 80′s voiceover played.

Shutting out the voiceover just the size and scale of Karnak is awe-inspiring. And I would definitely return.

Misogyny in action

One of the only upsides about Egyptian attitudes towards women is that HWSNBN got hassled by streetsellers, taxi drivers, barman while I was ignored. I found it very difficult. In the taxi back from Karnak with L and V the taxi driver asked HWSNBN ‘Are these your wives?’ Like Papa Lazarou, except less funny. With all other women and the majority of the men being so covered up I did begin to feel conscious of my body. I do feel it is important to be respectful and did cover up outside of the hotel, which many tourists didn’t (hotpant lady I am talking to you). But as a feminist I do have issues about the assumptions that underlie this cultural practice. Without getting too political if you are so incited by a glimpse of my ankles really you’re the one with the problem not me. End rant/

Balloons We’d never been on a hot air balloon. So we decided to take a (relatively) sedentary exploration by air before we took on the Valley of the Kings the next day. We got up at 4.30am and were taken in a mini bus into Luxor.  There we boarded a boat over to the West Bank (ai!), then a mini bus to a large dusty airfield. It was still dark the Nile slide like silk past the boat. Breakfast was a delicious Arab Twinkie. (American’s explain the big deal about Twinkie’s to me, because I do not get it). In the ‘airfield’ the balloons lay their brightly coloured discarded carcasses lying in the sand. Our pilot, who was amazing, let off a kids balloon to see about air direction. The reason they fly so early is because later in the day it gets too hot for the balloon to rise. With the extra heat provided by the burner in the centre of the balloon even at 5am in the morning I was sweating.

As the balloon made it’s swaying process upwards I watched the ground drop away from us. Below were hundreds of discarded blue bottles littering the entrances to the tombs like black sunken eyes in the bronze hills. Ahead were the sandy hills cradling the Valley of the Kings, behind the Nile snaking between the green and verdant fields and eastern Luxor. From above you could really see why Egyptian towns were tied to the Nile and the fertility it provided. My favourite thing was the noted Egptologist Carter’s house sat alone on a hill.  If you do one thing when visiting Luxor take a balloon ride. It was absolutely magical.

An hour later we began out descent heading down into the fields as our pilot tried to steer us between telegraph poles and towards the road. Bracing ourselves in the landing position we overshot hitting the edge of the road before crashing into some bushes the basket tipping on it’s side. As we regained our breathe and the balloon guys wrapped up the balloon I noticed we’d created an Egyptian traffic jam of two guys with the donkey and a beaten up car. In celebration of not dying in a bush the ballooners tempted HWSNBN and me into a honeymooner dance. Then it was back to hotel for breakfast and bed at 7.30am.

Towel animals

It started with a swan accessorised with Egyptian cigarettes. As the days progressed the towel animals got more and more elaborate. On our last day we gave the biggest tip if only to make the uncanniness stop.

Egypt is…

The uncanny delay of the morning prayers floating over from the West Bank to the East Bank

Baking searing heat that saps the will from your bones. The heat arising from the hot stones like an embrace.

Palm trees

The slow, slumberous beauty of the Nile

The beautiful calligraphy of written arabic

Drunk foreigners cackling in the pool

Every evening before dinner we would sit in the Sundowner bar watching the sun set over the Theban hills. Twilight seemed to last about five seconds as the light levels drop from seeringly bright to pitch black. At night the Valley of the Kings was lit up with an unearthly green light and every night I would think three days til I can see the tomb’s, two days, one day.

Valley of the kings

We’ve visited the Mummification Museum (GROSS) and the Luxor Museum (FASCINATING) it was time for the Valley of the Kings. (NB, they don’t let you take your camera inside hence the lack of tomb pics). Unfortunately the day we went was the day I came down with Pharaoh’s revenge. Ugh. Now if you have every been to Valley of the Kings you will know that it one of the worst places to feel ill. Apart from the tombs, recesses cut into the hill, it’s just a valley snaking between the hills and a corrugated shack under which all the Europeans huddle in the shade. One of the fellow guides said come 2pm even he is dripping sweat in the Valley of the Kings.  

But all I had ever wanted was to see the tombs and by golly was I going to do this. We had a guided tour with a fantastic Egyptologist who talked us through the history. Basically the tombs were built in the Middle Period after the Early period equivalent (the Pyramids outside Cairo) had been deciminated by grave robbers. To the ancient Egyptians the pyramids was the connection between mortality and immortality. The valley was chosen because of a pyramid shaped mountain and contained the tombs of the kings, queens, nobles and my favourite the craftsman.

Outside the entrance to the tombs is a diagram of the topology and the tombs burrowing beneath them showing you the scale of the work. Even the priests didn’t know where previous tombs were and often tombs had to be abandoned because they accidentally bisected other older tombs. As a anti-graverobber strategy it failed as all except Tutankum tomb was ransacked. One of the reasons they believe his tomb wasn’t discovered was because another tomb was built over the top of it, effectively hiding the tomb. In fact Carter only discovered the tomb by accident. One of his water jugs cracked in the heat and the mule got stuck in the mud. As they dug the mule out they discovered some steps. Digging down further they found an unbroken seal. Carter telegrammed his sponsor and waited 21 days to open the tomb! When they did, legend says they were so overwhelmed by the gold they tore Tutankamun’s body to pieces

Back to the tombs you were allowed to visit three and not allowed to take photos inside. I can’t really describe what it was like descending into the cool darkness. It felt unreal, that we were finally able to see the brightly coloured paintings, drawings and burial chambers I had always dreamt of. Inside some of the tombs was early Christian graffiti. My awe was slightly lessened by the Egyptian guy who looking for a tip started pointing things out on the walls like a game of say what you see. Except he was  touching the walls. Dude, no! 

After this, we stopped at the Valley of the Workers. Rameses the I created this village to stop the workers returning to their homes on the East Bank and gossiping instead they were segregated in their own village on the West Bank. On their monthly day off they would build their own tombs. There was something very joyous about the bright colours and images on a stone mason and his wife surrounded by their prize possessions. These tombs were a claustrophobics nightmare. Think a tiny tunnel with small steps that even I, Queen of the Shortarses had to crouch down. It was the highlight of our trip.

Bye, bye Egypt.

It was time to go home With a weird sense of completeness as we checked our baggage we ran into Helpful Airport guy. ‘My friends’ he said embracing us and with a beckoning finger we skipped the security queues and boarding queues and we whisked onto the plane. For a moment I totally felt like a rock star.

This was our first trip to Egypt and I hope not our last. I would definitely return.

Rowan watches: The Lizzie Bennet Diaries

It’s been 200 years since Pride and Prejudice was first published. 200 years of ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife’, of Bridget Jones and Mark Darcy, of zombie fighting Bennet’s, of Colin Firth emerging dripping from that lake and that fountain and ‘you must allow me to tell you how much I ardently admire and love you.’ SQUEE.

My name’s Rowan and I’m a Jane Austen addict. I’ve read all her books even Northanger Abbey ugh. And although my personal favourite remains Persuasion for it’s lost lovers reunited and proto feminist message (‘Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. . . the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything.’ You go Anne!) I will always adore Pride and Prejudice.

I first read Pride and Prejudice as a teenager and wanted to be Lizzy Bennet with her fine eyes and muddy petticoat. I watched the BBC adaption every Sunday with my family, never missing an episode. Girls nights would be characterised with repeated watchings of Pride and Prejudice. Ros and I have watched it so often I know every word. I even watched it on the morning of my wedding.

And now I’m addicted to the Lizzie Bennet Diaries and you should be too.

The best adaptations are the ones that allow you to reexamine the original with fresh eyes. Like Clueless with Jane Austen’s Emma on the perils of matchmaking or Ten things I Hate about You feminist reworking of the Taming of the Shrew. In this modern day vlog series Lizzie Bennet is an American (fetch the smelling salts!) graduate student fending off her marriage obsessed mother. Enter stage left William Darcy: socially awkward, stick in the mud, hipster? Pemberley is no longer a stately home but a digital media company. Charlotte doesn’t acccept a marriage proposal but a job offer from Mr Collins. And Lydia’s downfall is less about eloping and more about a sex tape.

As Lizzie’s biweekly video diaries develop you see the different characters and become aware through the acting out of scenes of how unreliable her narrative might be. Part of the pleasure is the anticipation of knowing the twists but not how they play out. The world is fully realised with tweets, tumblr messages and alternative vloggers such as Lydia giving a pathos filled look into her downfall.

Watch it. I guarantee you’ll enjoy it.