“The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold.” Lord Byron might not have thought it at the time but The Destruction of Sennacherib is kind of like the school holidays, except my wolves are in sheep’s clothing and the state of the living room looks worse. My brain has been overtaken by useless quotes (a coping mechanism), but any poetry that comes to mind seems to revolve around the theme of ruin and devastation. It is when I start quoting Sylvia Plath that things have gotten truly grim. When not in some aesthetic trance the challenge lies in planning something to keep the little wolf pups from chewing on the furniture.
Having recruited a friend to stay for the holidays, the family sped off to meet her at the Larnaca Hangar (Airport), where security is as watertight as a sieve. (On my first trip to Cyprus I actually went looking for the customs officials, and asked them if they wanted to check my bags. The “go away you freak” look is universal by the way.) In a display of hospitality, the children created greeting signs for our visitor.
My eldest dutifully crafted a ‘welcome’ card. The youngest, currently obsessed with monkeys, took ten minutes to come up with a kung-fu chimp and the phrase ‘Hi, I like primates’. I am sure it was most reassuring to all incoming passengers with Darwinian sensibilities to know that they, and their ancestors, were genetically approved of by my son. Given that his t-shirt read “I’m a bit nuts. Wind me up and watch me go”, this was probably just as well.
We took our visitor to the Eleon pool in Nicosia. Some strange cultural mismatch meant that I expected most people to swim or play in the pool.
It was as calm as a David Hockney. Apparently the water is merely a backdrop of an excuse to put tiny strips of cloth onto tiny strips of flesh. My protruding stomach attracted more attention than desired and I have suspicions that most people were torn between harpooning me or rubbing me down with wet sponges and leading me safely back to sea.
One small triumph was visual confirmation that lack of body size does not mean lack of cellulite. Hip hooray, a straw to which I can cling.
I have discovered the joys of the Nicosia Racing Club. A friend’s beloved horse was racing so, being a woman of faith, I placed a little bet and clambered into the stands. It was not exactly Ascot darling, sitting on those steps. As a child, my mother had always told me not to sit on concrete because it gave you piles, “Piles of what?” I would ask. None of my fellow punters seemed to mind as the ‘piles’ seemed to consist of discarded betting books which cushioned their backsides.
Like swimming pools, rubbish bins appear to be purely decorative. The visitor had the opportunity to extend her English as did my youngest. I am hoping that when he next sees his father he can confidently say “I like a little flutter on the gee gees” and his maths skills have developed sufficiently to calculate odds. Both are attributes I find important in a four year old.
I caught up later in the week with the horse that had firmly dashed our financial dreams on the Nicosia race track. I demanded my money back; the horse looked sheepish. While on the farm, my children rode a quiet young filly who was easily coerced with carrots. Her mother obviously failed to warn her never to take vegetables from strangers. The four-year-old struck a pose that would make any jockey proud, calling “Faster, faster!” Now that was the spirit that we needed to see earlier in the week!
Not so easily beguiled by the equine element was the elder son who was more interested in the size of the “apples” the horse produced. Different strokes, I guess.
Submitting to curiosity, the visitor and I went to check out the maternity ward in which I, shortly, hope to deliver. Expecting to be shown vacant rooms, it was somewhat disturbing to amble in on sleeping mothers and visiting families.
More disconcerting was the view through the curtains in the delivery room. When someone pays for ‘private’ hospital care they must surely expect all aspects to be private. It was too much of a gruesome reminder of what lies ahead.
All credit to the nursing staff, however, for the regimental display in the nursery. By some small miracle the babies were simultaneously asleep; a feat which I hope to emulate. I suspect it may be a cruel joke to lull new mothers into a false sense of optimism and that half of the occupants were actually dolls.
Around nine more weeks of holidays to go… I’m thinking of that cheery bloke, Tennyson. “Half a league, half a league, half a league onward, all in the Valley of Death rode the six hundred.” I’m a bit nuts. Wind me up and watch me go.
