I’m a pretty happy camper these days—happier than I’ve been in a
while. What has affected this marvelous
transformation, you may ask? (Although
perhaps not in those exact words.)
VACATION.
I am spending a week with an American friend, J. J teaches English here, and her husband R is
one of the doctors at Edna’s. While he
is out of the country I am staying with J in Half-London, a residential neighborhood
where many expats make their home, enjoying some time away from the
hospital. I’m still working, and in fact
I’m writing this at the hospital right now, but I come here in the morning and
go away in the evening, and that has made all the difference. I enjoy J’s company, and her home’s lack of
proximity to a mosque.
(I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but the sound of the prayer
calls here is like the caterwauling of cats in heat mixed with the blare of the
emergency broadcast test alarms that the nuclear power plant near my home in
Plymouth gives off every so often.
Anyone who so much as suggests to me that the cry of the Muzzenin can be
beautiful, an exotic melody from another culture and lifestyle, will suffer the consequences of their
stupid, thoughtless remark. And by
consequences, I mean I will throw a bean-bag at your head upon my return. A bean-bag filled with rage. And beans.)
