Tues 31st August 2010
Oh my God I have been a bloody nightmare today.
You might think that after twenty one days I might just have got used to fasting during daylight hours. That I might just have it down to a tee. But I am beginning to see why we are advised to eat three times a day with healthy snacks in between. Because it makes us nicer people.
I woke up in a storming mood and proceeded to tell anyone who would listen just how bad that mood was. My patience with Baran has been hanging by a thread. My patience with myself was devoid of all thread. It was utterly threadless. I don’t know what’s got into me. Aside from the lack of nutrition and deficient salvational cups of tea one normally has in these circumstances, I don’t know what’s got into me.
And it’s been one of those days where I can’t tell if Baran is really being naughty or if he’s just getting a negative vibe from me. Probably a bit of both. For the first time since he entered the terrible twos territory, I have actually worried about what might be making my child so angry. He screamed when he dropped his Cheerios at breakfast, he screamed when I sang him ‘Twinkle Twinkle’, he screamed when I suggested we might go to Playzone and, in the end, he screamed if I even looked at him. And there’s me, the picture of calm and serenity on the outside but I, too, am screaming like a banshee on the inside.
This is where I wonder how the Muslim women do it. How do they cope with fifty seven children clutching to their skirts, at a time when they are gagging for a cuppa? And then suddenly, the communal living I witnessed in Eastern Turkey all seems to make enormous sense. They have each other. Mothers, sisters, aunties, cousins – they all live in startlingly close proximity, which I found incredibly stifling during my visit there, but now I can see what a precious support structure that really is. Not just during Ramazan, but all the time. They not only share cleaning, childcare, shopping and cooking, but also stories, laughter, worries and dreams. They prop each other up. By the time the husbands return home it’s chow time, but only after a day of mutual understanding with the girls. The sisterhood totally rocks.
But here’s the thing. I am doing this alone. I have probably already pointed this out as it seems to be my favorite fact to point out, but I don’t actually get to see my husband very much. He works late nights and sleeps the majority of the day, so my efforts to support him with Ramazan have, at times, been done in solitude. He’s aware I’m doing it and I think that very fact pleases him enormously, but we aren’t actually physically there for each other much at all. And, although most of my friends know I am undertaking this challenge and have been very interested and supportive, they are not going to put themselves through something so seemingly ridiculous now are they? Where is my sisterhood? I want a sisterhood!
It was a shame, then, that I was so exhausted by today’s tantrum-taming antics that I didn’t join the sisterhood of Nairn and attend my usual Zumba class. I just could not find the strength in me to shake my bootie on down. Instead I am happy to say that the tantrum-ridden toddler is tucked up in bed and I am tucked up in Mustafa’s sloppy tracksuit bottoms and jumper. Suddenly everything is as it should be. And it’s 8.21pm. Time to raid the fridge.
Tuesday 31 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Twenty
Mon 30th August 2010
Okay, so maybe that extra helping of dinner and supper was not justified last night. I seem to have forgotten the basic rule which Mustafa explained to me on Day One of Ramazan: Do not eat massive amounts of food all in one go simply because the sun has dipped down. Yes, you may feel you deserve it, yes you may be chomping at the bit for that sensation of taste to tickle your tongue once more, but your digestive system will simply not handle it. Plus, you’re missing the point of fasting.
So this morning I was dealing with the consequences. All my tummy parts were playing catch-up to cope with the outrageous amount of food I’d consumed and my head was thumping. Properly banging. I sat in the car in a sickly daze, waiting for Mustafa to finish some business at the kebab shop so we could go shopping. We were going to buy a few presents for Baran to give him at Bayram, the festival at the end of Ramazan. I had a list and everything.
But as I sat there, the sun slicing sharply across the windscreen, I spotted a big, fat hairy cat. I spotted it because it was crouching in the middle of the road and numerous cars had to keep slowing and dodging round it. What the heck was he doing? He had his head dropped close to the ground and his behind curved proudly in the air and he was looking, no staring, across the road. I followed his line of vision and saw the object of his desire. A seagull.
Now anyone who lives in or has even just been a visitor of Nairn, will know that the seagulls are not mere slips of a bird. They are monsters. The residents positively fear them. They are (and I am an animal lover remember) nasty, scratchy, swooping, grabbing, snatching, pooing, delinquent creatures who should have clocked up a million and one ASBOs by now. And this seagull, strutting along the wall in full view of our furry feline friend was certainly no exception.
And as I watched this stand-off, this sultry confrontation, it suddenly struck me that I am the cat. I am the cat! I spend all day every day crouching along the ground, my eyes on the prize, my behind in the air, getting ready to pounce and working out how and when to catch my food. What I am too stupid (I like to think I’m not fat and hairy as well) to see, is that this prize, this taunting feast, is way too big for me. If I am lucky enough to even get close to it, it will squawk, peck, flap and claw at me to within an inch of my life. It will end me. And flounce away as if nothing ever happened.
I’d like to tell you the cat and the seagull story ended well but, as I pulled away in the car, the cat was slinking along the edge of the wall and the last thing I saw in the wing mirror was a rapid flurry of fur and feathers. And Mustafa’s comment, “Stupid cat. He does this every day. He never remember seagull always win”, further reinforced my theory that I am the cat. This is day twenty, after all, and I still haven’t learned.
Okay, so maybe that extra helping of dinner and supper was not justified last night. I seem to have forgotten the basic rule which Mustafa explained to me on Day One of Ramazan: Do not eat massive amounts of food all in one go simply because the sun has dipped down. Yes, you may feel you deserve it, yes you may be chomping at the bit for that sensation of taste to tickle your tongue once more, but your digestive system will simply not handle it. Plus, you’re missing the point of fasting.
So this morning I was dealing with the consequences. All my tummy parts were playing catch-up to cope with the outrageous amount of food I’d consumed and my head was thumping. Properly banging. I sat in the car in a sickly daze, waiting for Mustafa to finish some business at the kebab shop so we could go shopping. We were going to buy a few presents for Baran to give him at Bayram, the festival at the end of Ramazan. I had a list and everything.
But as I sat there, the sun slicing sharply across the windscreen, I spotted a big, fat hairy cat. I spotted it because it was crouching in the middle of the road and numerous cars had to keep slowing and dodging round it. What the heck was he doing? He had his head dropped close to the ground and his behind curved proudly in the air and he was looking, no staring, across the road. I followed his line of vision and saw the object of his desire. A seagull.
Now anyone who lives in or has even just been a visitor of Nairn, will know that the seagulls are not mere slips of a bird. They are monsters. The residents positively fear them. They are (and I am an animal lover remember) nasty, scratchy, swooping, grabbing, snatching, pooing, delinquent creatures who should have clocked up a million and one ASBOs by now. And this seagull, strutting along the wall in full view of our furry feline friend was certainly no exception.
And as I watched this stand-off, this sultry confrontation, it suddenly struck me that I am the cat. I am the cat! I spend all day every day crouching along the ground, my eyes on the prize, my behind in the air, getting ready to pounce and working out how and when to catch my food. What I am too stupid (I like to think I’m not fat and hairy as well) to see, is that this prize, this taunting feast, is way too big for me. If I am lucky enough to even get close to it, it will squawk, peck, flap and claw at me to within an inch of my life. It will end me. And flounce away as if nothing ever happened.
I’d like to tell you the cat and the seagull story ended well but, as I pulled away in the car, the cat was slinking along the edge of the wall and the last thing I saw in the wing mirror was a rapid flurry of fur and feathers. And Mustafa’s comment, “Stupid cat. He does this every day. He never remember seagull always win”, further reinforced my theory that I am the cat. This is day twenty, after all, and I still haven’t learned.
Sunday 29 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Nineteen
Sun 29th August 2010
Day Nineteen of Ramazan! Does that sound like a substantially good effort to you? It felt good when I was in double figures but it feels even better now I’m closing in on twenty. I mean, twenty means I’m in the last third of the challenge. The last third before I claim back my precious food and drink related rituals. Only another twelve days of incessant napping and embarrassing growling tummy noises. Now I’m not one to wish my life away but please, for the love of God, please can it be arranged to make the next twelve days ultra-short, ultra-busy and ultra-interesting?
It might help if I actually left the house, which I have not done today other than to put the wheelie bin out. And even then I found I needn’t have bothered because a kindly neighbour had done it for me. It’s Sunday though, so not leaving the house is entirely allowed. Or even actively encouraged by my book. And if one is not going to leave the house all day then it is further encouraged to stay in one’s grotty pyjamas. Baran, bless him was decked out in a fleecey little tracksuit number, but his Mummy was quite happy in the finest pink pyjamas money can buy (or the finest Tesco can offer anyway).
But there was one thing wrong with this picture of domestic respite. Can you guess it? Comfort food and, more importantly, comfort drinks. The Eastenders omnibus does not have quite the same appeal without tea and biscuits. Bathtime for Mummy and Baran should surely be followed by treats a plenty. But no. Nothing of the sort. Instead it was important to focus on the beauty of spending time with my gorgeous little boy and thus discovering excellent new games such as: roll up the play mat to make a giant trumpet shape neither of us can lift; and see how much wet washing you can pile on your head before it all falls off in a sopping big mess. Nice.
Did I say there was only one thing wrong with today? Well, I’ve thought of a second. The cold. Now I am lucky enough to live in a beautiful big, airy flat but that luck runs out as soon as the winter approaches because it is extremely difficult - and expensive - to heat. But come on people. It’s August 29th! Please tell me today is not the start of Winter. All day I have listened to the Highland wind whistling through the gaps in our badly fitted windows, and all day I have flitted about from room to room, trying to figure out which one is the warmest. What I wouldn’t have done for a mug of steaming coffee or maybe a hot chocolate. I have been practically salivating over the very thought of it all day, which has not, I might add, helped with my new pyjama-chic image.
I have a theory about this. I need more body fat. Before I began this challenge it was unevenly distributed around my tummy area, but now (although I have not lost any actual weight, much to my disappointment) it seems to have deserted all other body parts completely. My tummy is cosy and snug but the rest of me needs an extra layer. Now that is something I never thought I’d be requesting: more body fat. But these are strange times and strange revelations are most definitely afoot.
Switching on the heating helped too, I must admit. But surely that extra helping of dinner was justified tonight? And a bit of supper before bed can be no bad thing. It’s Day Nineteen, I think I’ve bloody well earned it.
Day Nineteen of Ramazan! Does that sound like a substantially good effort to you? It felt good when I was in double figures but it feels even better now I’m closing in on twenty. I mean, twenty means I’m in the last third of the challenge. The last third before I claim back my precious food and drink related rituals. Only another twelve days of incessant napping and embarrassing growling tummy noises. Now I’m not one to wish my life away but please, for the love of God, please can it be arranged to make the next twelve days ultra-short, ultra-busy and ultra-interesting?
It might help if I actually left the house, which I have not done today other than to put the wheelie bin out. And even then I found I needn’t have bothered because a kindly neighbour had done it for me. It’s Sunday though, so not leaving the house is entirely allowed. Or even actively encouraged by my book. And if one is not going to leave the house all day then it is further encouraged to stay in one’s grotty pyjamas. Baran, bless him was decked out in a fleecey little tracksuit number, but his Mummy was quite happy in the finest pink pyjamas money can buy (or the finest Tesco can offer anyway).
But there was one thing wrong with this picture of domestic respite. Can you guess it? Comfort food and, more importantly, comfort drinks. The Eastenders omnibus does not have quite the same appeal without tea and biscuits. Bathtime for Mummy and Baran should surely be followed by treats a plenty. But no. Nothing of the sort. Instead it was important to focus on the beauty of spending time with my gorgeous little boy and thus discovering excellent new games such as: roll up the play mat to make a giant trumpet shape neither of us can lift; and see how much wet washing you can pile on your head before it all falls off in a sopping big mess. Nice.
Did I say there was only one thing wrong with today? Well, I’ve thought of a second. The cold. Now I am lucky enough to live in a beautiful big, airy flat but that luck runs out as soon as the winter approaches because it is extremely difficult - and expensive - to heat. But come on people. It’s August 29th! Please tell me today is not the start of Winter. All day I have listened to the Highland wind whistling through the gaps in our badly fitted windows, and all day I have flitted about from room to room, trying to figure out which one is the warmest. What I wouldn’t have done for a mug of steaming coffee or maybe a hot chocolate. I have been practically salivating over the very thought of it all day, which has not, I might add, helped with my new pyjama-chic image.
I have a theory about this. I need more body fat. Before I began this challenge it was unevenly distributed around my tummy area, but now (although I have not lost any actual weight, much to my disappointment) it seems to have deserted all other body parts completely. My tummy is cosy and snug but the rest of me needs an extra layer. Now that is something I never thought I’d be requesting: more body fat. But these are strange times and strange revelations are most definitely afoot.
Switching on the heating helped too, I must admit. But surely that extra helping of dinner was justified tonight? And a bit of supper before bed can be no bad thing. It’s Day Nineteen, I think I’ve bloody well earned it.
My Little Ramazan - Day Eighteen
Sat 28th August 2010
Fatigue has slapped a big white label on me reading ’She’s Mine’ so let’s keep this brief.
It’s been one of those days where you’ve got zilch planned and you’re wondering how to while away the hours. You know, as your stomach growls and your body feels like a lump of lead. Then suddenly you’re in the middle of a flurry of activity and you realise that spontaneity can still gatecrash an otherwise boring day and happily take over.
Baran awoke at an unthinkable hour this morning (which was very unlike him as he usually worships the modern marvel of a bed and a duvet). He spent an hour in our bed playing the highly amusing game of fake snoring and fake waking up approximately one hundred and eighty two times before demanding I get up to serve him breakfast. This I did on auto pilot, not really being tempted by the Weetabix and banana mush he ravenously chucked down his throat. I did however, wish that there was some form of shelter other than a café when I took him to the local park and it began to chuck it down. Mostly because the place was positively jumping with the smell of roasted coffee beans. And it was raining outside. And I was cold. And I needed some sort of hot beveragey type comfort.
So a hot water it was then. And a fruit shoot and a piece of carrot cake for the wee one. Yet again, he came up trumps.
How chuffed was I then, when my mate Jo rang and invited me to join her and her twin baby girls to a little trip out to Findhorn Community Foundation. Anything to escape this coffee-scented anguish. So we packed ourselves (and the incredible quantity of baby / toddler equipment) into her little white van and headed out, chased by rainclouds all the way.
It was lovely to amble about the Findhorn community. So interesting to see how people live in caravans, wooden shacks, stone huts as well as beautifully crafted wooden houses with velvety grass roofs. There was an incredible, sunshine-coloured eco house for sale and Jo and I seriously thought about looking into squatters’ rights. I think Baran would happily trade his bed and duvet for a sleeping bag on a floor with under-floor heating. As long as there was plenty of carrot cake on the go.
It wasn’t so lovely to sit in yet another predominantly coffee-scented eating establishment. Ordinarily, I would have been delighted to have discovered the ‘Blue Angel’ café with its extensive range of organic food, fresh ingredients and beautifully described dishes (cream of rocket and cracked black pepper soup – imagine!). But today it was not fun. Exacerbated too, by Baran’s point blank refusal to eat a perfectly scrumptious looking (and smelling) slice of pizza. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a beautiful piece of pizza, and that’s saying something considering my husband crafts the stuff for a living. Honestly, the red onion, the oozy cheese, the finely chopped tomato and pretty red, yellow and green pepper sprinkled like confetti – how could anybody in their right mind refuse that? He proceeded to refuse it an approximate total of thirty seven times even as we walked around the park and it sat, wrapped lovingly in tin foil in the bottom of his buggy. What was up with this child?
I think he’s in on the whole thing. He gets it. He has found yet another way to test Mummy’s self control. This theory was reinforced when we returned home and he left his entirely acceptable dinner of pasta and sauce steaming enticingly on the table, in favour of a plastic croissant and a plastic broccoli floret in a plastic saucepan in his new plastic kitchen. Now tell me that’s not a boy who knows what he’s doing.
So, I’m sure you will agree that I deserved the humongous dinner I served myself tonight, carefully timed to enhance essential X Factor viewing. And I definitely deserved the handmade chocolates Jo so considerately presented to me. But before sleep takes over, I must make sure the remaining choccies are pushed far back into the depths of the fridge. Otherwise, in a sleepy, shuffle-toed stupor, a chocolate breakfast may suddenly seem overwhelmingly appealing in the morning. I think a plastic croissant is a safer bet.
Fatigue has slapped a big white label on me reading ’She’s Mine’ so let’s keep this brief.
It’s been one of those days where you’ve got zilch planned and you’re wondering how to while away the hours. You know, as your stomach growls and your body feels like a lump of lead. Then suddenly you’re in the middle of a flurry of activity and you realise that spontaneity can still gatecrash an otherwise boring day and happily take over.
Baran awoke at an unthinkable hour this morning (which was very unlike him as he usually worships the modern marvel of a bed and a duvet). He spent an hour in our bed playing the highly amusing game of fake snoring and fake waking up approximately one hundred and eighty two times before demanding I get up to serve him breakfast. This I did on auto pilot, not really being tempted by the Weetabix and banana mush he ravenously chucked down his throat. I did however, wish that there was some form of shelter other than a café when I took him to the local park and it began to chuck it down. Mostly because the place was positively jumping with the smell of roasted coffee beans. And it was raining outside. And I was cold. And I needed some sort of hot beveragey type comfort.
So a hot water it was then. And a fruit shoot and a piece of carrot cake for the wee one. Yet again, he came up trumps.
How chuffed was I then, when my mate Jo rang and invited me to join her and her twin baby girls to a little trip out to Findhorn Community Foundation. Anything to escape this coffee-scented anguish. So we packed ourselves (and the incredible quantity of baby / toddler equipment) into her little white van and headed out, chased by rainclouds all the way.
It was lovely to amble about the Findhorn community. So interesting to see how people live in caravans, wooden shacks, stone huts as well as beautifully crafted wooden houses with velvety grass roofs. There was an incredible, sunshine-coloured eco house for sale and Jo and I seriously thought about looking into squatters’ rights. I think Baran would happily trade his bed and duvet for a sleeping bag on a floor with under-floor heating. As long as there was plenty of carrot cake on the go.
It wasn’t so lovely to sit in yet another predominantly coffee-scented eating establishment. Ordinarily, I would have been delighted to have discovered the ‘Blue Angel’ café with its extensive range of organic food, fresh ingredients and beautifully described dishes (cream of rocket and cracked black pepper soup – imagine!). But today it was not fun. Exacerbated too, by Baran’s point blank refusal to eat a perfectly scrumptious looking (and smelling) slice of pizza. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a beautiful piece of pizza, and that’s saying something considering my husband crafts the stuff for a living. Honestly, the red onion, the oozy cheese, the finely chopped tomato and pretty red, yellow and green pepper sprinkled like confetti – how could anybody in their right mind refuse that? He proceeded to refuse it an approximate total of thirty seven times even as we walked around the park and it sat, wrapped lovingly in tin foil in the bottom of his buggy. What was up with this child?
I think he’s in on the whole thing. He gets it. He has found yet another way to test Mummy’s self control. This theory was reinforced when we returned home and he left his entirely acceptable dinner of pasta and sauce steaming enticingly on the table, in favour of a plastic croissant and a plastic broccoli floret in a plastic saucepan in his new plastic kitchen. Now tell me that’s not a boy who knows what he’s doing.
So, I’m sure you will agree that I deserved the humongous dinner I served myself tonight, carefully timed to enhance essential X Factor viewing. And I definitely deserved the handmade chocolates Jo so considerately presented to me. But before sleep takes over, I must make sure the remaining choccies are pushed far back into the depths of the fridge. Otherwise, in a sleepy, shuffle-toed stupor, a chocolate breakfast may suddenly seem overwhelmingly appealing in the morning. I think a plastic croissant is a safer bet.
Friday 27 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Seventeen
Fri 27th August 2010
A very exciting parcel arrived for me today. It came from that spiritual haven called Amazon.com and is a result of my wanting to undertake other activities which Ramazan fasting is supposed to direct you towards. I’ve already chosen personal reflection over prayer, as it suits me a whole lot better (and is inevitable when you’ve got nothing to do but be hungry all day). But the other thing Gold Star Muslims are supposed to do during the Ramazan period, is revise, re-read and re-learn by heart, the holy scripture of the Koran.
I didn’t think Allah or Mohammed would mind that I’m actually – for want of a better phrase – a ‘Koran virgin’ so I trawled Amazon.com for an English translation. There are many options. Beautifully illustrated versions, hardbacks, paperbacks, old English, new English, prose adaptations, fragmented descriptions. All sounding intensely mystical, intricate and informative. So I did it. I clicked my choice, entered my card details and felt very pious and dutiful whilst doing so. So you can imagine my excitement when the postie stuffed it through the letterbox this morning. My very first and very own holy book.
The Koran for Dummies.
Well I had to start somewhere didn’t I? All of the actual translations looked far too complicated for a malnourished full-time mum of a toddler to even hope to comprehend. And I feel comfortable with the label of a ‘Dummy’ on this topic. I really do. Maybe the label wouldn’t apply if it came to modern art or creative education or Bob the Builder song lyrics, but it most certainly applies when it comes to Islam. Say it clear, say it loud, I’m a dummy and I’m proud.
So, lots of lovely bedtime reading for me for the next fourteen nights. Mustafa is overjoyed with my new purchase. I didn’t have to hide it at the back of the wardrobe and bring it out surreptitiously on another day at all. He is pleased as punch almost as much as he was on the day I said I would join him in Ramazan. And it was worth being labeled a dummy just to see the smile on his face. He did, however, gently point out as I clutched my new book with both hands somewhere around the tummy area, that I should always carry it at chest level. Next to my heart. He said this is to show that its contents are intrinsically linked to your heart and your soul. “You think about it. Did you ever see a picture of a Muslim carry it below the heart?”
Good point. Well made. But other points to be made are: this is not exactly a Koran, merely a guide for ignorant waifs such as myself; and I don’t think I’ve ever really looked at a picture of a Muslim carrying a Koran, so how could I possibly comment? So, for now I will not comment, I will just scoop up my idiot’s guide each evening and ascend the stairs with it held close to my heart. It’s good, after all, to learn something new each day. Dummy or not.
A very exciting parcel arrived for me today. It came from that spiritual haven called Amazon.com and is a result of my wanting to undertake other activities which Ramazan fasting is supposed to direct you towards. I’ve already chosen personal reflection over prayer, as it suits me a whole lot better (and is inevitable when you’ve got nothing to do but be hungry all day). But the other thing Gold Star Muslims are supposed to do during the Ramazan period, is revise, re-read and re-learn by heart, the holy scripture of the Koran.
I didn’t think Allah or Mohammed would mind that I’m actually – for want of a better phrase – a ‘Koran virgin’ so I trawled Amazon.com for an English translation. There are many options. Beautifully illustrated versions, hardbacks, paperbacks, old English, new English, prose adaptations, fragmented descriptions. All sounding intensely mystical, intricate and informative. So I did it. I clicked my choice, entered my card details and felt very pious and dutiful whilst doing so. So you can imagine my excitement when the postie stuffed it through the letterbox this morning. My very first and very own holy book.
The Koran for Dummies.
Well I had to start somewhere didn’t I? All of the actual translations looked far too complicated for a malnourished full-time mum of a toddler to even hope to comprehend. And I feel comfortable with the label of a ‘Dummy’ on this topic. I really do. Maybe the label wouldn’t apply if it came to modern art or creative education or Bob the Builder song lyrics, but it most certainly applies when it comes to Islam. Say it clear, say it loud, I’m a dummy and I’m proud.
So, lots of lovely bedtime reading for me for the next fourteen nights. Mustafa is overjoyed with my new purchase. I didn’t have to hide it at the back of the wardrobe and bring it out surreptitiously on another day at all. He is pleased as punch almost as much as he was on the day I said I would join him in Ramazan. And it was worth being labeled a dummy just to see the smile on his face. He did, however, gently point out as I clutched my new book with both hands somewhere around the tummy area, that I should always carry it at chest level. Next to my heart. He said this is to show that its contents are intrinsically linked to your heart and your soul. “You think about it. Did you ever see a picture of a Muslim carry it below the heart?”
Good point. Well made. But other points to be made are: this is not exactly a Koran, merely a guide for ignorant waifs such as myself; and I don’t think I’ve ever really looked at a picture of a Muslim carrying a Koran, so how could I possibly comment? So, for now I will not comment, I will just scoop up my idiot’s guide each evening and ascend the stairs with it held close to my heart. It’s good, after all, to learn something new each day. Dummy or not.
Thursday 26 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Sixteen
Thurs 26th August 2010
Happy Middle of Ramazan to you! It is officially the sixteenth day of 2010’s Ramazan period which means it is the halfway day. That is why I am writing this halfway through the halfway day at precisely 12o’clock midday. May as well mark the occasion properly.
Plus I wanted to let you know what it feels like to be in the middle of a day of fasting.
Spiritually, emotionally, I guess I feel pretty good. I am proving to myself that I do have a tiny chink of self-discipline and it feels great to be supporting Mustafa at this very important time in the Muslim calendar. There is also something in Wikipedia’s theory about ‘redirecting the heart away from worldly activities’. I am thinking more about who I am, what I want, whether or not I’m achieving any of it, rather than whether to have that extra biscuit and what time to have dinner. I might not be in conversation with Allah, but I am in conversation with myself. Which, funnily enough, I believe is where God exists anyway (I’m not proclaiming to actually be God, by the way, I think he, she, it, resides in everyone).
On the down side I am very, very hungry. Ever had a massive meal on an evening and then wondered why your tummy’s growling like nobody’s business the next day? A little thing called metabolism. When you give your body a truck-load of food, it starts processing it, breaking it down, getting ready for the next truck-load. But when said truck does not appear, the result is a deep emptiness and a tummy-growling that gets close to nausea. I do feel slightly sick as I write this but due to the keyboard-based activity I think I am safe from a black-out for now.
I will touch wood here, but I am also aware that I have been very lucky during this challenge because nothing bad has happened to me. Aside from my two year old being, well, a two year old, I have not had to cope with anything emotionally taxing. I’m not one for ifs, buts and maybes, but a crisis right now would really throw a spanner in the works. Do Muslims continue to fast if there is a family crisis, for example? I’d like to think that any calamity like that would make the whole Ramazan thing pale in comparison. Surely you’d be allowed a cup of tea and a good meal to keep your strength up? But having said that, I’m not feeling the divinity of all this and if they truly are, then maybe they find it in themselves to keep slogging on.
Once again, I am humbled by my husband who found out a week ago that his mum is in hospital with a heart attack. This is her fourth attack and apparently it was touch and go for a while, but she’s definitely on the mend now. Because of our prison-like situation here in the UK, it would be very, very difficult for us to go over there and be there for her. This breaks my heart so imagine how Mustafa feels. That man is a trooper. And he has carried on with Ramazan through it all. Can you believe that? He hasn’t even had a drink to calm his nerves. And the funny thing is, I just know his mum will be proud.
I am fairly certain that if (touching wood again) anything like that happened within my family, I would not find it in myself to continue with fasting. Granted, I am one of those people who goes off their food when things are rock bottom, but I know the value of a cup of sugary tea during hard times. Pretty priceless I would say.
Well, enough of the macabre talk. I’ve got more important things to focus on. Like how to fill the next eight and a half hours without filling my belly. Note to self from this morning: do not re-stock the biscuit tin whilst fasting. It’s just plain torture.
Happy Middle of Ramazan to you! It is officially the sixteenth day of 2010’s Ramazan period which means it is the halfway day. That is why I am writing this halfway through the halfway day at precisely 12o’clock midday. May as well mark the occasion properly.
Plus I wanted to let you know what it feels like to be in the middle of a day of fasting.
Spiritually, emotionally, I guess I feel pretty good. I am proving to myself that I do have a tiny chink of self-discipline and it feels great to be supporting Mustafa at this very important time in the Muslim calendar. There is also something in Wikipedia’s theory about ‘redirecting the heart away from worldly activities’. I am thinking more about who I am, what I want, whether or not I’m achieving any of it, rather than whether to have that extra biscuit and what time to have dinner. I might not be in conversation with Allah, but I am in conversation with myself. Which, funnily enough, I believe is where God exists anyway (I’m not proclaiming to actually be God, by the way, I think he, she, it, resides in everyone).
On the down side I am very, very hungry. Ever had a massive meal on an evening and then wondered why your tummy’s growling like nobody’s business the next day? A little thing called metabolism. When you give your body a truck-load of food, it starts processing it, breaking it down, getting ready for the next truck-load. But when said truck does not appear, the result is a deep emptiness and a tummy-growling that gets close to nausea. I do feel slightly sick as I write this but due to the keyboard-based activity I think I am safe from a black-out for now.
I will touch wood here, but I am also aware that I have been very lucky during this challenge because nothing bad has happened to me. Aside from my two year old being, well, a two year old, I have not had to cope with anything emotionally taxing. I’m not one for ifs, buts and maybes, but a crisis right now would really throw a spanner in the works. Do Muslims continue to fast if there is a family crisis, for example? I’d like to think that any calamity like that would make the whole Ramazan thing pale in comparison. Surely you’d be allowed a cup of tea and a good meal to keep your strength up? But having said that, I’m not feeling the divinity of all this and if they truly are, then maybe they find it in themselves to keep slogging on.
Once again, I am humbled by my husband who found out a week ago that his mum is in hospital with a heart attack. This is her fourth attack and apparently it was touch and go for a while, but she’s definitely on the mend now. Because of our prison-like situation here in the UK, it would be very, very difficult for us to go over there and be there for her. This breaks my heart so imagine how Mustafa feels. That man is a trooper. And he has carried on with Ramazan through it all. Can you believe that? He hasn’t even had a drink to calm his nerves. And the funny thing is, I just know his mum will be proud.
I am fairly certain that if (touching wood again) anything like that happened within my family, I would not find it in myself to continue with fasting. Granted, I am one of those people who goes off their food when things are rock bottom, but I know the value of a cup of sugary tea during hard times. Pretty priceless I would say.
Well, enough of the macabre talk. I’ve got more important things to focus on. Like how to fill the next eight and a half hours without filling my belly. Note to self from this morning: do not re-stock the biscuit tin whilst fasting. It’s just plain torture.
Wednesday 25 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Fifteen
Weds 25th August 2010
Flip, I am hungry. I’m sitting here in my very quiet kitchen now that Baran has been bathed, fed, watered and put to bed and I am filling the last thirty-four minutes and twenty-seven seconds before feast time. That’s if you can call Doritos and hummus a feast. I’m not sure that you could when it’s not accompanied by a large, cold glass of Pinot Grigio. But hey ho.
Last night I chanced a potential black-out situation by attending my usual Zumba class. Now that I’m drinking water again, I thought it might be possible to get through a whole exercise class without any real danger. And it was possible. I leapt about to the Latino beat, shimmied my ass like nobody’s business and did not – not once – feel like there might be a fainting situation. So all good there.
But was it? Because this morning I read an article on the BBC website called ‘An Idiot’s Guide to Ramadan’, written by Adam Yosef. When asked about people’s inherent need to exercise regularly, Adam stated that Ramazan should ‘always be placed first as it is no doubt of greater benefit’. He said that it was cool to fast and exercise if you really felt the need, but that if a choice arose, Ramazan should always get the thumbs up. Hence the miraculous energy of the Turkish footballers Mustafa told me about on Day Six. I suppose if you’re playing footie with God then you find the energy from somewhere.
So why didn’t I use Ramazan as the perfect excuse to get out of Zumba for a few weeks? Isn’t that what any normal person would do? The answer, though I hate to admit it, is that I am vain. Vain as vain can be. That little fitness class is the only slither of exercise I get each week (aside from zapping about after a toddler), and I cherish it. It makes me feel good because it gets the endorphins going. But it also makes me feel like I’ve done my bit for my body. If the baby belly will not shift even though I am flinging it about to the Latino beat, then it’s really not my fault. If, however, I don’t get my Zumba fix, then the baby belly may grow out of all proportion and that will be my fault.
Can I just state here that I realize when it comes to the topic of one’s own body image, most people have a severely distorted perception of reality. I am no exception. But my perception is my perception and must not be underestimated. If it usually gets me eating five-a-day then it can be no bad thing. If it gets my ass to zumba every week then great. If it gets me choosing a conscience-free body-sculpting opportunity over an internationally approved spiritual journey such as Ramazan, then what does that say about me? As I said, vain as vain can be.
But I will not be too hard on myself. I must remember that I am a most excellent wife and I am only human. If Zumba is my worst vice then I think we can all relax, it’s hardly a code red. Now where are those Doritos?
Flip, I am hungry. I’m sitting here in my very quiet kitchen now that Baran has been bathed, fed, watered and put to bed and I am filling the last thirty-four minutes and twenty-seven seconds before feast time. That’s if you can call Doritos and hummus a feast. I’m not sure that you could when it’s not accompanied by a large, cold glass of Pinot Grigio. But hey ho.
Last night I chanced a potential black-out situation by attending my usual Zumba class. Now that I’m drinking water again, I thought it might be possible to get through a whole exercise class without any real danger. And it was possible. I leapt about to the Latino beat, shimmied my ass like nobody’s business and did not – not once – feel like there might be a fainting situation. So all good there.
But was it? Because this morning I read an article on the BBC website called ‘An Idiot’s Guide to Ramadan’, written by Adam Yosef. When asked about people’s inherent need to exercise regularly, Adam stated that Ramazan should ‘always be placed first as it is no doubt of greater benefit’. He said that it was cool to fast and exercise if you really felt the need, but that if a choice arose, Ramazan should always get the thumbs up. Hence the miraculous energy of the Turkish footballers Mustafa told me about on Day Six. I suppose if you’re playing footie with God then you find the energy from somewhere.
So why didn’t I use Ramazan as the perfect excuse to get out of Zumba for a few weeks? Isn’t that what any normal person would do? The answer, though I hate to admit it, is that I am vain. Vain as vain can be. That little fitness class is the only slither of exercise I get each week (aside from zapping about after a toddler), and I cherish it. It makes me feel good because it gets the endorphins going. But it also makes me feel like I’ve done my bit for my body. If the baby belly will not shift even though I am flinging it about to the Latino beat, then it’s really not my fault. If, however, I don’t get my Zumba fix, then the baby belly may grow out of all proportion and that will be my fault.
Can I just state here that I realize when it comes to the topic of one’s own body image, most people have a severely distorted perception of reality. I am no exception. But my perception is my perception and must not be underestimated. If it usually gets me eating five-a-day then it can be no bad thing. If it gets my ass to zumba every week then great. If it gets me choosing a conscience-free body-sculpting opportunity over an internationally approved spiritual journey such as Ramazan, then what does that say about me? As I said, vain as vain can be.
But I will not be too hard on myself. I must remember that I am a most excellent wife and I am only human. If Zumba is my worst vice then I think we can all relax, it’s hardly a code red. Now where are those Doritos?
My Little Ramazan - Day Fourteen
Tues 24th August 2010
Well, Ramazan has brought Mustafa and I to our first conflict situation. Not a conflict of the plate throwing and sleeping on the sofa variety, but a quiet conflict of disappointed glances and long silences. And, as we all know, sometimes that can be worse.
The good thing is that we’ve finally been reunited. This reunion involved stretching out in front of the TV at a late hour, arming ourselves with tea and biscuits and watching a trashy film. As per usual our movie viewing was punctuated by mini-chats and remarks about the day. You know the kind of thing. Business is slow. Rain in August is unfair. The toddler ate a crayon. But then Ramazan cropped up. As we’ve been little more than passing ships in the night, and as Mustafa knew I’d had a lady problem which meant I had to drink water, he’d assumed that I had stopped Ramazan altogether. “You drink water sweetheart, there is no point. That is not point of Ramazan”.
He said I could, if I wanted, build up a kind of Ramazan debt, meaning I could pay back those days of non-fasting at a later date, after the Ramazan period. He says it happens all the time. If a person gets ill for example, but they still want to complete their sacred ritual, they can wait until they are ship-shape again and choose exactly when and where they want to do it. And they don’t have to do it in a continuous succession of days, they can dot them about or string them together however they fancy. “We can do together,” Mustafa explained, “We can choose days after Ramazan.”
Forgive me if this didn’t cause a feeling of excitement to well up inside of me. The suggestion was just not floating my boat. I mean, how kind of Allah to provide people with this lending facility, a kind of interest free Ramazan overdraft. But I don’t bank with Allah, do I? I’m a Lloyds TSB girl and that overdraft is already being happily utilized.
If I’m honest, right from the start, I’ve thought going without water is just plain madness. But, as the ever loving wife, I gave it a go, just to understand what my husband was going through. And, as I expected, it was plain madness. Not only did it cause nasty bacteria to form in my precious bladder and give me horrendous peeing issues, but it made me feel terrible. Lethargic, moody, prone to headaches and lacking any spark I might usually have. I did not feel my inner soul was being cleansed, I did not feel my heart was being purified. If anything, there was some actual resentment going on. And waking eighteen times a night to down tumblers of water, not to mention the frequency of night time toilet trips, was not doing me any favours either.
And I have a little boy who still needs mummy’s attention. A little boy who still wakes up at the same hour and still has an unrivalled amount of energy. So how do you continue to be Super Mum without regular hydration? The answer is, you don’t.
I explained to Mustafa that I am still demonstrating self discipline. I am not indulging in tea, coffee, fizzy pop, or any other non-essential beverage. I have even ditched the cranberry juice. It’s water all the way. And food does not feature in my day at all, aside from serving it up for my son. I understand that if an actual genuine Muslim were to turn round and announce he/she was going to drink water during Ramazan, that it would absolutely not be accepted. But here I am, a girl of my own individual faith, finding my own individual way, and this is the best I can do.
It reminds me of the time I was visiting Mustafa’s home town in Eastern Turkey during the time of Winter Bayram, a Turkish festival which involves slaughtering a sheep, cooking it, eating it, and offering it to poor families. Now, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I’m a vegetarian and vegetarians are not a recognized breed in Eastern Turkey, as you may have guessed. Considering he’d been with me for approximately two years by this point, I did not understand what was going through Mustafa’s head when he assumed I’d be there for the ritual slaughtering of the sheep. And this Ramazan thing, really, raises the same point. I am interested in the religion, I support my husband in his faith, but I will never be able to go all the way.
So now we’re about halfway through the Ramazan calendar, I think I have found the way in which I want to press forward. And that’s the beauty of being the master of your own faith. I can decide on my own rituals, my own sacred commitments. And because I was forced to sing the hymn ‘Water of Life’ to the inexplicable tune of ‘Rupert the Bear’ during school assemblies as a child, I will choose that as my compromise. Water of Life.
Well, Ramazan has brought Mustafa and I to our first conflict situation. Not a conflict of the plate throwing and sleeping on the sofa variety, but a quiet conflict of disappointed glances and long silences. And, as we all know, sometimes that can be worse.
The good thing is that we’ve finally been reunited. This reunion involved stretching out in front of the TV at a late hour, arming ourselves with tea and biscuits and watching a trashy film. As per usual our movie viewing was punctuated by mini-chats and remarks about the day. You know the kind of thing. Business is slow. Rain in August is unfair. The toddler ate a crayon. But then Ramazan cropped up. As we’ve been little more than passing ships in the night, and as Mustafa knew I’d had a lady problem which meant I had to drink water, he’d assumed that I had stopped Ramazan altogether. “You drink water sweetheart, there is no point. That is not point of Ramazan”.
He said I could, if I wanted, build up a kind of Ramazan debt, meaning I could pay back those days of non-fasting at a later date, after the Ramazan period. He says it happens all the time. If a person gets ill for example, but they still want to complete their sacred ritual, they can wait until they are ship-shape again and choose exactly when and where they want to do it. And they don’t have to do it in a continuous succession of days, they can dot them about or string them together however they fancy. “We can do together,” Mustafa explained, “We can choose days after Ramazan.”
Forgive me if this didn’t cause a feeling of excitement to well up inside of me. The suggestion was just not floating my boat. I mean, how kind of Allah to provide people with this lending facility, a kind of interest free Ramazan overdraft. But I don’t bank with Allah, do I? I’m a Lloyds TSB girl and that overdraft is already being happily utilized.
If I’m honest, right from the start, I’ve thought going without water is just plain madness. But, as the ever loving wife, I gave it a go, just to understand what my husband was going through. And, as I expected, it was plain madness. Not only did it cause nasty bacteria to form in my precious bladder and give me horrendous peeing issues, but it made me feel terrible. Lethargic, moody, prone to headaches and lacking any spark I might usually have. I did not feel my inner soul was being cleansed, I did not feel my heart was being purified. If anything, there was some actual resentment going on. And waking eighteen times a night to down tumblers of water, not to mention the frequency of night time toilet trips, was not doing me any favours either.
And I have a little boy who still needs mummy’s attention. A little boy who still wakes up at the same hour and still has an unrivalled amount of energy. So how do you continue to be Super Mum without regular hydration? The answer is, you don’t.
I explained to Mustafa that I am still demonstrating self discipline. I am not indulging in tea, coffee, fizzy pop, or any other non-essential beverage. I have even ditched the cranberry juice. It’s water all the way. And food does not feature in my day at all, aside from serving it up for my son. I understand that if an actual genuine Muslim were to turn round and announce he/she was going to drink water during Ramazan, that it would absolutely not be accepted. But here I am, a girl of my own individual faith, finding my own individual way, and this is the best I can do.
It reminds me of the time I was visiting Mustafa’s home town in Eastern Turkey during the time of Winter Bayram, a Turkish festival which involves slaughtering a sheep, cooking it, eating it, and offering it to poor families. Now, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I’m a vegetarian and vegetarians are not a recognized breed in Eastern Turkey, as you may have guessed. Considering he’d been with me for approximately two years by this point, I did not understand what was going through Mustafa’s head when he assumed I’d be there for the ritual slaughtering of the sheep. And this Ramazan thing, really, raises the same point. I am interested in the religion, I support my husband in his faith, but I will never be able to go all the way.
So now we’re about halfway through the Ramazan calendar, I think I have found the way in which I want to press forward. And that’s the beauty of being the master of your own faith. I can decide on my own rituals, my own sacred commitments. And because I was forced to sing the hymn ‘Water of Life’ to the inexplicable tune of ‘Rupert the Bear’ during school assemblies as a child, I will choose that as my compromise. Water of Life.
Monday 23 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Thirteen
Mon 23rd August 2010
Today has been the day of getting things done. I have filed bank statements, paid bills, made calls, swept floors, washed dishes and been to the doctors. And no, not about the lady problem, but about my scabby thumb. This scab horror has been caused by the severe eczema I suffer from on my hands, which usually flares up at times of stress and worry. Stressed? Worried? Me? I’ve just eaten a Mullerice after twenty four hours of fasting, I’m in bloomin’ paradise.
I have also finally retrieved my husband. I brought him out of Dracula mode and we actually spent twenty minutes together today before he had to dash off to the world of kebabs and chicken goujons. Someone has to keep the people of Nairn satiated.
We are only thirteen days into Ramazan but already the start of it seems like a distant memory. Where are our romantic late-night meals? Where is the excitement? The togetherness? The purpose? I don’t have Allah to answer to, only myself. And every time my toddler has yet another meal without his mummy joining him, I do wonder if this isn’t all just a bit too difficult.
But, bearing in mind I could probably win first prize in a contest for optimism during hard times (I get it from my mother), I have to remind myself of this: It is supposed to be a challenge. Challenges are hard in ways we don’t expect, but, ultimately, we will learn something from it. So, this begs the question, what am I learning?
1.) That dehydration causes a million horrible things to happen to your body and mind and we could all be a lot more grateful for the clean water that pours from our taps.
2.) That food is ace. Simple but true. Let’s thank the heavens for that too.
3.) That some of my daily food and drink related rituals are nonsensical but some of them are justified and good.
4.) That I am able to discipline myself. I am, I am, I am.
5.) That my husband, although prone to epic sleeping bouts, is wonderful, warm, humble and devoted. He will never ask too much of me.
6.) That I am a bloody excellent wife.
Considering all of the above, perhaps I can find a new sense of enthusiasm for tomorrow morning. I just didn’t really imagine that the challenge I’d be facing would be a waning desire to do this. I thought it would be the hunger pangs, the dry mouth, the dizzy spells (which are all pretty nasty, by the way). I thought that a cacophony of physical symptoms would be my biggest problem but actually, unexpectedly, it’s the mental commitment.
Let’s look at the maths:
Devoted wife + Muslim husband = Undertaking Ramzan together in harmony
Devoted wife – Muslim husband = Undertaking Ramazan separately
Undertaking Ramazan separately = Lost passion for the cause
Ah, now that adds up. So the answer to the formula is to reunite Devoted Wife and Muslim Husband for longer than twenty minute time slots starting tomorrow. I didn’t get a ‘B’ in GCSE Maths for nowt you know.
Today has been the day of getting things done. I have filed bank statements, paid bills, made calls, swept floors, washed dishes and been to the doctors. And no, not about the lady problem, but about my scabby thumb. This scab horror has been caused by the severe eczema I suffer from on my hands, which usually flares up at times of stress and worry. Stressed? Worried? Me? I’ve just eaten a Mullerice after twenty four hours of fasting, I’m in bloomin’ paradise.
I have also finally retrieved my husband. I brought him out of Dracula mode and we actually spent twenty minutes together today before he had to dash off to the world of kebabs and chicken goujons. Someone has to keep the people of Nairn satiated.
We are only thirteen days into Ramazan but already the start of it seems like a distant memory. Where are our romantic late-night meals? Where is the excitement? The togetherness? The purpose? I don’t have Allah to answer to, only myself. And every time my toddler has yet another meal without his mummy joining him, I do wonder if this isn’t all just a bit too difficult.
But, bearing in mind I could probably win first prize in a contest for optimism during hard times (I get it from my mother), I have to remind myself of this: It is supposed to be a challenge. Challenges are hard in ways we don’t expect, but, ultimately, we will learn something from it. So, this begs the question, what am I learning?
1.) That dehydration causes a million horrible things to happen to your body and mind and we could all be a lot more grateful for the clean water that pours from our taps.
2.) That food is ace. Simple but true. Let’s thank the heavens for that too.
3.) That some of my daily food and drink related rituals are nonsensical but some of them are justified and good.
4.) That I am able to discipline myself. I am, I am, I am.
5.) That my husband, although prone to epic sleeping bouts, is wonderful, warm, humble and devoted. He will never ask too much of me.
6.) That I am a bloody excellent wife.
Considering all of the above, perhaps I can find a new sense of enthusiasm for tomorrow morning. I just didn’t really imagine that the challenge I’d be facing would be a waning desire to do this. I thought it would be the hunger pangs, the dry mouth, the dizzy spells (which are all pretty nasty, by the way). I thought that a cacophony of physical symptoms would be my biggest problem but actually, unexpectedly, it’s the mental commitment.
Let’s look at the maths:
Devoted wife + Muslim husband = Undertaking Ramzan together in harmony
Devoted wife – Muslim husband = Undertaking Ramazan separately
Undertaking Ramazan separately = Lost passion for the cause
Ah, now that adds up. So the answer to the formula is to reunite Devoted Wife and Muslim Husband for longer than twenty minute time slots starting tomorrow. I didn’t get a ‘B’ in GCSE Maths for nowt you know.
Sunday 22 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Twelve
Sun 22nd August 2010
Never, since I started all this Ramazan tomfoolery, have I written my daily record before sundown. I’m not sure why. I suppose that all of my energy has been poured into distracting myself from the task right up until that crucial time when I can indulge in basic nutrition again. So usually my belly is nice and full and my mood has significantly improved by the time I sit down to write. But because the variety’s the spice of life (or because I’m bored and don’t know what else to do), I’m writing this in the final countdown to feeding time.
And just in case you’re wondering, my lady problem is beginning to disappear thank you very much. Looks like the cranberry juice and water have done the trick. So that’s the good news. But the bad news is, that since yesterday morning when I began to allow myself fluids again, my stomach has been positively roaring with hunger throughout the majority of the day. Before this, I was beginning to master the daytime ritual of a foodless existence. But now, it’s breaking me. It really is. I am tempted to look it up in a medical dictionary – does drinking water kick-start your metabolism? Does it make your tummy expect that food is next on the agenda? Am I messing my tummy about? Will it ever forgive me and can we ever rebuild our relationship? Is there a future for us? Please, for the love of chocolate related foodstuffs, please say that there is.
Maybe couple counseling would help.
Speaking of couples, where the flip is my husband of late? Since my friend Jenny came to visit (she left today, probably much to her appetite’s relief) we have done little other than cross paths. His kebab shop has been mega busy and on weekends he works ridiculously late shifts at a local pub. Full points for bread-winning but nil points for basic communication with wife. It appears that he has chosen to live a vampire-like existence. He is awake when I’m sleeping (at the proper hour for sleeping, I might point out) and asleep when I’m expected to bound about with our energetic son and perform all domestic tasks. Funny that, when we’re in the middle of a ritual that allows the consumption of food and drink only in hours of darkness. Correct me if I’m wrong, but the element of challenge there seems to be lacking somewhat.
Right now though, I don’t give a monkey’s ass. It’s 8.44pm, the oven has pinged and there’s a feast to devour. Yum.
Never, since I started all this Ramazan tomfoolery, have I written my daily record before sundown. I’m not sure why. I suppose that all of my energy has been poured into distracting myself from the task right up until that crucial time when I can indulge in basic nutrition again. So usually my belly is nice and full and my mood has significantly improved by the time I sit down to write. But because the variety’s the spice of life (or because I’m bored and don’t know what else to do), I’m writing this in the final countdown to feeding time.
And just in case you’re wondering, my lady problem is beginning to disappear thank you very much. Looks like the cranberry juice and water have done the trick. So that’s the good news. But the bad news is, that since yesterday morning when I began to allow myself fluids again, my stomach has been positively roaring with hunger throughout the majority of the day. Before this, I was beginning to master the daytime ritual of a foodless existence. But now, it’s breaking me. It really is. I am tempted to look it up in a medical dictionary – does drinking water kick-start your metabolism? Does it make your tummy expect that food is next on the agenda? Am I messing my tummy about? Will it ever forgive me and can we ever rebuild our relationship? Is there a future for us? Please, for the love of chocolate related foodstuffs, please say that there is.
Maybe couple counseling would help.
Speaking of couples, where the flip is my husband of late? Since my friend Jenny came to visit (she left today, probably much to her appetite’s relief) we have done little other than cross paths. His kebab shop has been mega busy and on weekends he works ridiculously late shifts at a local pub. Full points for bread-winning but nil points for basic communication with wife. It appears that he has chosen to live a vampire-like existence. He is awake when I’m sleeping (at the proper hour for sleeping, I might point out) and asleep when I’m expected to bound about with our energetic son and perform all domestic tasks. Funny that, when we’re in the middle of a ritual that allows the consumption of food and drink only in hours of darkness. Correct me if I’m wrong, but the element of challenge there seems to be lacking somewhat.
Right now though, I don’t give a monkey’s ass. It’s 8.44pm, the oven has pinged and there’s a feast to devour. Yum.
Saturday 21 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Eleven
Sat 21st August 2010
Well, things in my little world of Ramazan took an interesting turn today. It’s been nagging away at me – or should I say burning away – for the last couple of days, but I chose to ignore it in fear of appearing to be a bad non-Muslim wife of a Muslim. But today, during my morning ablutions, I had to face facts. I had a lady problem.
The ladies among you will sympathetically piece the evidence together and work out exactly what I mean. The gentlemen among you will flit across these paragraphs and work out roughly what I mean, without asking any further questions. The perverse among you will want sordid details – well you’re not getting them. We all know the score and we all know it’s just not nice. Self inflicted perhaps, but just not nice.
So today I had to come to my own satisfactory compromise. Mustafa, being the ever-loving husband, just wants me to be well and therefore relieved me of all Ramazan requirements. Meaning I could gorge myself silly and get back in touch with those good old friends Ben and Jerry. But just hold on a cotton-picking second. Was this not all about supporting my husband in his sacred ritual? Was this not about sharing the challenge together? And what’s more, have I learned anything about discipline yet? I just don’t feel ready to throw in the towel.
Plus there’s another twenty blogs in me yet.
So I decided to allow myself water again. And cranberry juice to help remedy this unfortunate situation. I cannot tell you how much easier this day has been as a result. Yes, there have been hunger pangs a plenty but my energy levels would rival those of Mr Tumble himself. And not only that, but I have reached Super Mum status again. Tantrums have been at a minimum, three square meals have been presented and eaten, play fights on the floor have made an appearance once again and all of the dishes are done. No, not just done, gleaming. Plus we had our first ever trip to the funfair. There’s nothing like whirling round on a yellow MDF aeroplane, fearing for one’s life and shouting ‘Flyeeeee’, especially when it’s the first time Baran has ever said that word. I think I’ll go to sleep tonight hearing it.
It really is amazing what proper hydration can do for the body. Okay, so it’s no secret that we need water just as much as we need oxygen, but isn’t it incredible that we dick about day to day, going from one thing to the next, completely and absolutely taking for granted the miracle that is the human body? Give us air and we breathe. Give us light and we flourish. Give us water and we thrive. Give us love and we . . . randomly undertake unthinkable challenges that inflict rather nasty peeing issues.
And because my body was on such an all time high from overdosing on water and cranberry juice, my mind was on serious ‘to-do list’ overdrive. Efficiency just isn’t the word. Most of my day (funfair aside) was focused around my friend Jenny and I getting our little ones into bed in time for the uninterrupted viewing of the X Factor. Not only did we achieve that, but the sweet potato wedges were sizzling away and all other accompanying dishes were chilling in the fridge ready for their unveiling at precisely 8.48pm. I was incredibly proud of myself when all of the food was beautifully displayed on the coffee table with exactly one minute to go. And when Simon Cowell said “That’s the best thing I’ve seen all day, you’re in” I did imagine he was speaking to me.
It was only when Jenny looked at me like I’d laid plates of fried snot on the table and asked me what I was doing that I sensed Mr Cowell might have meant someone else. I looked at my watch. 7.47pm. Pants.
So, because I had already decided this was about supporting my husband, demonstrating love and – the biggie – discipline, I sat back and watched Jenny tuck in whilst I waited for another hour and one minute. Not as excruciating as you might think. I had, after all, experienced ‘excruciating’ several times in the bathroom today. And I had my cranberry juice.
Well, things in my little world of Ramazan took an interesting turn today. It’s been nagging away at me – or should I say burning away – for the last couple of days, but I chose to ignore it in fear of appearing to be a bad non-Muslim wife of a Muslim. But today, during my morning ablutions, I had to face facts. I had a lady problem.
The ladies among you will sympathetically piece the evidence together and work out exactly what I mean. The gentlemen among you will flit across these paragraphs and work out roughly what I mean, without asking any further questions. The perverse among you will want sordid details – well you’re not getting them. We all know the score and we all know it’s just not nice. Self inflicted perhaps, but just not nice.
So today I had to come to my own satisfactory compromise. Mustafa, being the ever-loving husband, just wants me to be well and therefore relieved me of all Ramazan requirements. Meaning I could gorge myself silly and get back in touch with those good old friends Ben and Jerry. But just hold on a cotton-picking second. Was this not all about supporting my husband in his sacred ritual? Was this not about sharing the challenge together? And what’s more, have I learned anything about discipline yet? I just don’t feel ready to throw in the towel.
Plus there’s another twenty blogs in me yet.
So I decided to allow myself water again. And cranberry juice to help remedy this unfortunate situation. I cannot tell you how much easier this day has been as a result. Yes, there have been hunger pangs a plenty but my energy levels would rival those of Mr Tumble himself. And not only that, but I have reached Super Mum status again. Tantrums have been at a minimum, three square meals have been presented and eaten, play fights on the floor have made an appearance once again and all of the dishes are done. No, not just done, gleaming. Plus we had our first ever trip to the funfair. There’s nothing like whirling round on a yellow MDF aeroplane, fearing for one’s life and shouting ‘Flyeeeee’, especially when it’s the first time Baran has ever said that word. I think I’ll go to sleep tonight hearing it.
It really is amazing what proper hydration can do for the body. Okay, so it’s no secret that we need water just as much as we need oxygen, but isn’t it incredible that we dick about day to day, going from one thing to the next, completely and absolutely taking for granted the miracle that is the human body? Give us air and we breathe. Give us light and we flourish. Give us water and we thrive. Give us love and we . . . randomly undertake unthinkable challenges that inflict rather nasty peeing issues.
And because my body was on such an all time high from overdosing on water and cranberry juice, my mind was on serious ‘to-do list’ overdrive. Efficiency just isn’t the word. Most of my day (funfair aside) was focused around my friend Jenny and I getting our little ones into bed in time for the uninterrupted viewing of the X Factor. Not only did we achieve that, but the sweet potato wedges were sizzling away and all other accompanying dishes were chilling in the fridge ready for their unveiling at precisely 8.48pm. I was incredibly proud of myself when all of the food was beautifully displayed on the coffee table with exactly one minute to go. And when Simon Cowell said “That’s the best thing I’ve seen all day, you’re in” I did imagine he was speaking to me.
It was only when Jenny looked at me like I’d laid plates of fried snot on the table and asked me what I was doing that I sensed Mr Cowell might have meant someone else. I looked at my watch. 7.47pm. Pants.
So, because I had already decided this was about supporting my husband, demonstrating love and – the biggie – discipline, I sat back and watched Jenny tuck in whilst I waited for another hour and one minute. Not as excruciating as you might think. I had, after all, experienced ‘excruciating’ several times in the bathroom today. And I had my cranberry juice.
Friday 20 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Ten
Fri 20th August 2010
A few things have occurred to me today. Whoever invented Ramazan didn’t have any screws loose, despite what us modern-living Westerners might think. I have identified three enormous benefits to participating in this seemingly nonsensical ritual.
1.) Genius Money Saving Technique
When I was scratting about in my purse today to find money for an admission fee to the Black Isle Wildlife Park, I realised something not just improbable but seemingly impossible. The money I’d put in there at the start of the week was still there! Exactly the same scuffed up notes. Exactly the same pool of pennies. Can you believe it? That means I‘ve gone a whole five days without spending anything. What’s more, the same ‘big shop’ I’d done just before Ramazan was mostly still evident in my fridge, freezer and cupboards. I’ve done no silly topping up. No silly purchasing of ‘essentials’ inexplicably omitted from the shopping list. The emptiness of my belly is, in turn, facilitating the fullness of my purse. Maybe the coalition should consider passing a Ramazan law in order to solve the world economic crisis. Let’s face it, stranger laws have been passed.
2.) Genius Time Saving Technique
When you are denying yourself in such a way as this, you do have a tendency to wish the hours away. Anyone who has ever watched the clock will tell you that this approach does, indeed, make it go fifty times slower. So today, when I asked my friend Jenny what time it was, I assumed the volume of activity we had undergone so far would have brought us almost to toddler bedtime. But no. 2pm was her reply. How did these hours keep magically appearing? Was Paul McKenna in on all of this? And why can’t I find these extra hours when I actually want them? So, there you have it. Ramazan is a genius time saving device proven to conjure up extra hours.
3.) Genius Exercise Avoidance Technique
I think you may, by now, be familiar with my special skill for naps, or ‘power sleeps’ as I prefer to call them. But as well as this total inertia, I have also successfully avoided all forms of exercise since Ramazan started. I am usually partial to a bit of yoga. And a bit of Zumba, which many of you will know is a crazy dance aerobics inspired by salsa, samba and African tribal dance. But on account of the sweat I am likely to produce during either of these exercises, I think it is only safe to avoid them during the fasting period at all costs. And probably for a while afterwards too, just until I get my body adjusted. And then I’ll have to ease myself back in gently because I don’t want to pull something. Maybe it’s better I avoid them until after Christmas. You see? Perfectly legitimate genius exercise avoidance technique.
So, in conclusion, I think Muslims just might be onto something here. Either that or I’m just pissed off I didn’t get an ice cream at the wildlife park today, and I’m trying to find justification for my actions. I think I’ll sleep on it.
A few things have occurred to me today. Whoever invented Ramazan didn’t have any screws loose, despite what us modern-living Westerners might think. I have identified three enormous benefits to participating in this seemingly nonsensical ritual.
1.) Genius Money Saving Technique
When I was scratting about in my purse today to find money for an admission fee to the Black Isle Wildlife Park, I realised something not just improbable but seemingly impossible. The money I’d put in there at the start of the week was still there! Exactly the same scuffed up notes. Exactly the same pool of pennies. Can you believe it? That means I‘ve gone a whole five days without spending anything. What’s more, the same ‘big shop’ I’d done just before Ramazan was mostly still evident in my fridge, freezer and cupboards. I’ve done no silly topping up. No silly purchasing of ‘essentials’ inexplicably omitted from the shopping list. The emptiness of my belly is, in turn, facilitating the fullness of my purse. Maybe the coalition should consider passing a Ramazan law in order to solve the world economic crisis. Let’s face it, stranger laws have been passed.
2.) Genius Time Saving Technique
When you are denying yourself in such a way as this, you do have a tendency to wish the hours away. Anyone who has ever watched the clock will tell you that this approach does, indeed, make it go fifty times slower. So today, when I asked my friend Jenny what time it was, I assumed the volume of activity we had undergone so far would have brought us almost to toddler bedtime. But no. 2pm was her reply. How did these hours keep magically appearing? Was Paul McKenna in on all of this? And why can’t I find these extra hours when I actually want them? So, there you have it. Ramazan is a genius time saving device proven to conjure up extra hours.
3.) Genius Exercise Avoidance Technique
I think you may, by now, be familiar with my special skill for naps, or ‘power sleeps’ as I prefer to call them. But as well as this total inertia, I have also successfully avoided all forms of exercise since Ramazan started. I am usually partial to a bit of yoga. And a bit of Zumba, which many of you will know is a crazy dance aerobics inspired by salsa, samba and African tribal dance. But on account of the sweat I am likely to produce during either of these exercises, I think it is only safe to avoid them during the fasting period at all costs. And probably for a while afterwards too, just until I get my body adjusted. And then I’ll have to ease myself back in gently because I don’t want to pull something. Maybe it’s better I avoid them until after Christmas. You see? Perfectly legitimate genius exercise avoidance technique.
So, in conclusion, I think Muslims just might be onto something here. Either that or I’m just pissed off I didn’t get an ice cream at the wildlife park today, and I’m trying to find justification for my actions. I think I’ll sleep on it.
My Little Ramazan - Day Nine
Thurs 19th August 2010
Six days of fasting and today brought my first real dizzy spell. I say that like I’m expecting many more. Which I’m not, especially considering the preposterous amount of garlic bread I ate this evening which could nourish any normal person for several months. But today’s dizzy spell, as I was sauntering down Nairn High Street in a my-child’s-at-nursery-for-the-morning type way, caught me unawares. It was totally out of the blue. Or maybe not. I decided to look at the facts. Could it be caused by:
a.) The fact that my body had not been fed and watered for at least 12 hours?
b.) The excitement of my little boy’s first ever morning at nursery school?
c.) The heat (okay, the ever so slightly tepid temperature) of Nairn High Street?
d.) The sleep pattern interrupted by constant alarm calls to wake and drink large quantities of water?
e.) All of the above?
Regardless of the cause, I did not like feeling dizzy. Not one little bit. Given my already pale complexion, it does not become me. Anyway, I managed to ward off any threat of room-spin with some deep yoga breaths and strategic lying down on the sofa. You know, just to liven things up a bit. Always been the life and soul, me.
And as if that wasn’t enough for one day, when I joyfully picked Baran up from his first ever trip to nursery (where, can I just point out, I was told he’d been an angel all morning), he decided today was National Tantrums Day. Or National Tantrums in Public Day. Or, more accurately, National Tantrums in Public Resulting in Minor Injuries to Ensure Mother Looks Like Neglectful Parent Day. I won’t bore you with the whos, the whys and the hows, just trust me when I say that walls, lamp posts and a herd of passing tourists do not mix well with a toddler in a fury.
At least my toddler wasn’t the only one in a fury. My friend Jenny’s little girl had her first name and surname bellowed out on at least one occasion and any of us who have ever experienced childhood, know that that means real trouble. Jenny and I collapsed back into my flat at the end of National Whatever Toddlers Bloody Well Like Day, grasping for a DVD, any DVD, that might buy us a few moments of peace. And just as I was pondering over how on earth I could find a refreshment that would not have to pass the lips, but still offer maximum satisfaction (impossible, by the way), my Auntie swooped in with a bottle of cold white wine for her and Jenny. Ouch.
So when the little angels were finally tucked up in bed, and the sun had gone down, I had to use my last scrap of willpower to not reach for the bottle too. Mustafa was at work, therefore not around to offer me his usual supportive glances and kind words. Instead I concentrated on the sweet simplicity of cold water. And, to be fair, after this amount of fasting, that’s what my body really wanted.
Oh, and just to set the record straight, Jenny would like to point out that she is a loving mother of a gorgeous two and a half year old girl and would not – as yesterday’s blog might suggest – ever use copious amounts of wine as a regular device to aid relaxation.
She prefers a Pimms.
Six days of fasting and today brought my first real dizzy spell. I say that like I’m expecting many more. Which I’m not, especially considering the preposterous amount of garlic bread I ate this evening which could nourish any normal person for several months. But today’s dizzy spell, as I was sauntering down Nairn High Street in a my-child’s-at-nursery-for-the-morning type way, caught me unawares. It was totally out of the blue. Or maybe not. I decided to look at the facts. Could it be caused by:
a.) The fact that my body had not been fed and watered for at least 12 hours?
b.) The excitement of my little boy’s first ever morning at nursery school?
c.) The heat (okay, the ever so slightly tepid temperature) of Nairn High Street?
d.) The sleep pattern interrupted by constant alarm calls to wake and drink large quantities of water?
e.) All of the above?
Regardless of the cause, I did not like feeling dizzy. Not one little bit. Given my already pale complexion, it does not become me. Anyway, I managed to ward off any threat of room-spin with some deep yoga breaths and strategic lying down on the sofa. You know, just to liven things up a bit. Always been the life and soul, me.
And as if that wasn’t enough for one day, when I joyfully picked Baran up from his first ever trip to nursery (where, can I just point out, I was told he’d been an angel all morning), he decided today was National Tantrums Day. Or National Tantrums in Public Day. Or, more accurately, National Tantrums in Public Resulting in Minor Injuries to Ensure Mother Looks Like Neglectful Parent Day. I won’t bore you with the whos, the whys and the hows, just trust me when I say that walls, lamp posts and a herd of passing tourists do not mix well with a toddler in a fury.
At least my toddler wasn’t the only one in a fury. My friend Jenny’s little girl had her first name and surname bellowed out on at least one occasion and any of us who have ever experienced childhood, know that that means real trouble. Jenny and I collapsed back into my flat at the end of National Whatever Toddlers Bloody Well Like Day, grasping for a DVD, any DVD, that might buy us a few moments of peace. And just as I was pondering over how on earth I could find a refreshment that would not have to pass the lips, but still offer maximum satisfaction (impossible, by the way), my Auntie swooped in with a bottle of cold white wine for her and Jenny. Ouch.
So when the little angels were finally tucked up in bed, and the sun had gone down, I had to use my last scrap of willpower to not reach for the bottle too. Mustafa was at work, therefore not around to offer me his usual supportive glances and kind words. Instead I concentrated on the sweet simplicity of cold water. And, to be fair, after this amount of fasting, that’s what my body really wanted.
Oh, and just to set the record straight, Jenny would like to point out that she is a loving mother of a gorgeous two and a half year old girl and would not – as yesterday’s blog might suggest – ever use copious amounts of wine as a regular device to aid relaxation.
She prefers a Pimms.
Thursday 19 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Eight
Weds 18th August 2010
My friend Jenny has just arrived and she is mortified. Unfortunately, I was so wrapped up in my own twisted premonitions in the run up to Ramazan that I failed to predict how Jenny might feel about all of this. Especially as she has undertaken the epic task of bringing her two and a half year old daughter on the journey from Preston to Inverness. Especially as she and I will be spending the next few days with two toddlers and finding a multitude of ways to entertain them. Especially as her usual early evening pick-me-up would involve at least one large glass of Chardonnay and one large piece of cake. As I said, she’s mortified.
Obviously, there’s nothing stopping Jenny from giving her body the necessary nourishment. I don’t mind if she flips open the biscuit tin in my presence. We do, after all, have approximately eleven years of friendship based on nattering over shared pastries, cups of tea, and, of course, mutual alcohol consumption. And although I am technically allowed to eat and drink anything after sundown, that ‘anything’ definitely does not include alcohol. Mustafa and I decided at the start of this that we could quite easily go one month without any alcohol in the house. But how is it going to make Jenny feel? How did I not think of this before? And how, you might ask, are we possibly going to watch X Factor on Saturday night without sharing the joy that is wine, chips and dips? Well, like I said, she’s mortified.
Nevertheless, she has the graciousness to have shown some interest and she joined us in our evening feast tonight which – although wineless – was really enjoyable. Oh, and remember what I said about not missing any foods in particular? Forget that. Garlic bread. That’s what it’s all about. Methinks tomorrow will entail a trip to the Co-op to rid them of their garlic bread stock. Baguettes, flatbreads, dough balls – I don’t care as long as it’s oozing with that beautiful garlic elixir of life.
I will, however, arise at 4am tomorrow to ensure toothpaste, floss and Listerene has reached every possible crevice in my mouth. Then, hopefully, Jenny and her little girl will not immediately jet back to Preston if only to get away from the horror that is my breath. Because then, you know, I would be mortified.
My friend Jenny has just arrived and she is mortified. Unfortunately, I was so wrapped up in my own twisted premonitions in the run up to Ramazan that I failed to predict how Jenny might feel about all of this. Especially as she has undertaken the epic task of bringing her two and a half year old daughter on the journey from Preston to Inverness. Especially as she and I will be spending the next few days with two toddlers and finding a multitude of ways to entertain them. Especially as her usual early evening pick-me-up would involve at least one large glass of Chardonnay and one large piece of cake. As I said, she’s mortified.
Obviously, there’s nothing stopping Jenny from giving her body the necessary nourishment. I don’t mind if she flips open the biscuit tin in my presence. We do, after all, have approximately eleven years of friendship based on nattering over shared pastries, cups of tea, and, of course, mutual alcohol consumption. And although I am technically allowed to eat and drink anything after sundown, that ‘anything’ definitely does not include alcohol. Mustafa and I decided at the start of this that we could quite easily go one month without any alcohol in the house. But how is it going to make Jenny feel? How did I not think of this before? And how, you might ask, are we possibly going to watch X Factor on Saturday night without sharing the joy that is wine, chips and dips? Well, like I said, she’s mortified.
Nevertheless, she has the graciousness to have shown some interest and she joined us in our evening feast tonight which – although wineless – was really enjoyable. Oh, and remember what I said about not missing any foods in particular? Forget that. Garlic bread. That’s what it’s all about. Methinks tomorrow will entail a trip to the Co-op to rid them of their garlic bread stock. Baguettes, flatbreads, dough balls – I don’t care as long as it’s oozing with that beautiful garlic elixir of life.
I will, however, arise at 4am tomorrow to ensure toothpaste, floss and Listerene has reached every possible crevice in my mouth. Then, hopefully, Jenny and her little girl will not immediately jet back to Preston if only to get away from the horror that is my breath. Because then, you know, I would be mortified.
Tuesday 17 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Seven
Tues 17th August 2010
Breaking news! I got through an entire morning session of Parent and Toddlers without participating in the oh so important ritual of gossip, coffee and biscuits. Well, maybe the gossip got a bit of a look-in but the coffee and biscuits most definitely did not. I suspect some mums got a secret enjoyment out of chomping their Kit-Kats in my personal vicinity, but for the most part, people were considerate and unexpectedly interested in what I was doing. You wouldn’t think leaving out two basic components of your day could cause such a riot, but apparently it can.
Mostly, people talked about what they would miss if they were to undertake something like Ramazan. Chocolate was top of the list. Sweets, biscuits, cakes, and I believe somebody mentioned crunchy nut cornfakes. But here’s the thing. I don’t miss anything. I really don’t. The other night I took my little boy to the shop just before his bedtime so I could purchase something really scrumptious as my first treat at sundown. Whilst Baran made a stampede towards the Fruit Corners (now there is a boy who knows what he wants), I floated down the aisles like a lost soul. I wanted something to leap out at me and make my taste buds tingle in anticipation. I wanted my mouth to water at the very sight of a particular delicacy. Granted, the Co-op does not exactly offer a vast choice of gastronomical delights, but you’d think a whole day without food would encourage some kind of desire to well up inside of me.
What I have noticed though, is that when I do eat or drink something at the permitted hour, I am thoroughly, thoroughly grateful for it. And I don’t just mean in a fleeting way. Or in a way that just makes you feel better about yourself for a moment. I mean deeply grateful. And I’m not pretending that what I’m doing is particularly hard compared to what millions of people in this world have to go through. But in my own little world, my own little bubble, I am beginning to feel a deep sense of gratitude towards things I have always taken for granted. And whoever is providing it, God, Allah or the spotty teenaged till attendant at the Co-op, he totally rocks.
And incase you’re wondering, I opted for a Milky Bar. Mmmm.
Breaking news! I got through an entire morning session of Parent and Toddlers without participating in the oh so important ritual of gossip, coffee and biscuits. Well, maybe the gossip got a bit of a look-in but the coffee and biscuits most definitely did not. I suspect some mums got a secret enjoyment out of chomping their Kit-Kats in my personal vicinity, but for the most part, people were considerate and unexpectedly interested in what I was doing. You wouldn’t think leaving out two basic components of your day could cause such a riot, but apparently it can.
Mostly, people talked about what they would miss if they were to undertake something like Ramazan. Chocolate was top of the list. Sweets, biscuits, cakes, and I believe somebody mentioned crunchy nut cornfakes. But here’s the thing. I don’t miss anything. I really don’t. The other night I took my little boy to the shop just before his bedtime so I could purchase something really scrumptious as my first treat at sundown. Whilst Baran made a stampede towards the Fruit Corners (now there is a boy who knows what he wants), I floated down the aisles like a lost soul. I wanted something to leap out at me and make my taste buds tingle in anticipation. I wanted my mouth to water at the very sight of a particular delicacy. Granted, the Co-op does not exactly offer a vast choice of gastronomical delights, but you’d think a whole day without food would encourage some kind of desire to well up inside of me.
What I have noticed though, is that when I do eat or drink something at the permitted hour, I am thoroughly, thoroughly grateful for it. And I don’t just mean in a fleeting way. Or in a way that just makes you feel better about yourself for a moment. I mean deeply grateful. And I’m not pretending that what I’m doing is particularly hard compared to what millions of people in this world have to go through. But in my own little world, my own little bubble, I am beginning to feel a deep sense of gratitude towards things I have always taken for granted. And whoever is providing it, God, Allah or the spotty teenaged till attendant at the Co-op, he totally rocks.
And incase you’re wondering, I opted for a Milky Bar. Mmmm.
Monday 16 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Six
Mon 16th August 2010
Right, I’d like to start by saying that Ramazan has positively torn apart any daily routine I might have previously had. Some of that tearing has been good. Pretty, origami-type tearing with neat edges and beautiful folds. Some of that tearing has been horrific. Ripped apart in disrespectful fistfuls. Let’s start with the crappy tearing.
Dry mouth. Short temper. Mood swings. All of these have been bad but, also to be expected considering the distinct lack of sustenance. But god knows I did not expect such an overwhelming sense of tiredness. Yes, I know, it’s my own silly fault for offering to support my husband in his crazy fasting ritual. Nobody actually invited me to join in, after all. But I didn’t know Ramazan would turn everything upside down, now did I?
Imagine this: you get up early in the morning to tend to a demanding (but equally gorgeous) two year old boy. You do all the mummy-type things expected of you throughout a typical day: preparing meals, offering snacks, trips to the park, building tower blocks, learning the words to Bob The Builder, cleaning, dish-washing, nappy-changing . . . you get the general gist. But, your life really begins after sundown. Which at this time of year in the Highlands, is approximately 9pm. So, at a time when I would usually be winding down with a good book or a bit of Gok Wan, I’m flitting about the kitchen, preparing food, downing glasses of juice, eating said food and subsequently washing more dishes, preparing more food (midnight feast) and welcoming my husband home from work. To all intents and purposes, I am a housewife caught in a typical 5o’clock flurry. Only it’s not 5o’clock, it’s midnight. And there’s still a blog to write.
I. Am. Knackered.
And then, whilst I’m scrubbing a frying pan to within an inch of its life, my husband proceeds to tell me that it is now the time of year for the Turkish football league to start and all the players will be participating in Ramazan. Yes they will be practicing and training and playing in 45 degree heat, but still they will stick to their cause. They don’t need food and water. They don’t get ill or tired. In fact, my husband has never heard of anybody getting ill or tired during Ramazan. Really? I think, as I grip the handle of the frying pan. Well be careful Mustafa because there’s a first time for everything . . .
But, to give him his dues, he did get half the day off work today so I could have a nap before dinner time. He did go to the shop and buy me three bunches of flowers. He did – and has done since I agreed to go ahead with this – kiss me (on the cheek) at every available opportunity. He is positively oozing gratitude which reminds me why I’m doing this in the first place. This is the best present I could have given him. Support, love, interest and understanding – all wrapped up in a big grumpy, empty-bellied parcel.
And about that beautiful, origami-tearing apart of my schedule. Okay so I’m tired. Okay so my body feels noticeably heavier (not lighter, as I’d secretly hoped). But I am earning some wonderful moments out of this. Tonight, for example, we awaited the arrival of my auntie who is staying with us for a few days and swanned about the kitchen together, preparing a gorgeous meal, with soft music playing and candles lit everywhere. Last night, for example, we wrapped ourselves in a duvet, lay in front of the telly and had a feast of tea and biscuits. Then there’s the total euphoria of drinking our first glass of water together at 9pm. What an incredible thing to share. It might sound ridiculous that a glass of water could bring such romance, excitement and gratitude into a relationship. But there it is.
These are moments usually found during special occasions which, in all fairness I suppose Ramazan is. And maybe today, that’s what I’m beginning to see. This is a special occasion and it is a special thing to share. As one of my friends put it in an e-mail to me today: ‘I have to tell you how thoughtful and loving your gesture is. Love is about sharing, respecting each other, doing things as a couple and showing how much you care for one another.’ I’ve printed this message out and pinned it on my wall so I can see it every day. Next time I’m wondering what the heck I’ve got myself into, this will be a firm reminder.
Right, I’d like to start by saying that Ramazan has positively torn apart any daily routine I might have previously had. Some of that tearing has been good. Pretty, origami-type tearing with neat edges and beautiful folds. Some of that tearing has been horrific. Ripped apart in disrespectful fistfuls. Let’s start with the crappy tearing.
Dry mouth. Short temper. Mood swings. All of these have been bad but, also to be expected considering the distinct lack of sustenance. But god knows I did not expect such an overwhelming sense of tiredness. Yes, I know, it’s my own silly fault for offering to support my husband in his crazy fasting ritual. Nobody actually invited me to join in, after all. But I didn’t know Ramazan would turn everything upside down, now did I?
Imagine this: you get up early in the morning to tend to a demanding (but equally gorgeous) two year old boy. You do all the mummy-type things expected of you throughout a typical day: preparing meals, offering snacks, trips to the park, building tower blocks, learning the words to Bob The Builder, cleaning, dish-washing, nappy-changing . . . you get the general gist. But, your life really begins after sundown. Which at this time of year in the Highlands, is approximately 9pm. So, at a time when I would usually be winding down with a good book or a bit of Gok Wan, I’m flitting about the kitchen, preparing food, downing glasses of juice, eating said food and subsequently washing more dishes, preparing more food (midnight feast) and welcoming my husband home from work. To all intents and purposes, I am a housewife caught in a typical 5o’clock flurry. Only it’s not 5o’clock, it’s midnight. And there’s still a blog to write.
I. Am. Knackered.
And then, whilst I’m scrubbing a frying pan to within an inch of its life, my husband proceeds to tell me that it is now the time of year for the Turkish football league to start and all the players will be participating in Ramazan. Yes they will be practicing and training and playing in 45 degree heat, but still they will stick to their cause. They don’t need food and water. They don’t get ill or tired. In fact, my husband has never heard of anybody getting ill or tired during Ramazan. Really? I think, as I grip the handle of the frying pan. Well be careful Mustafa because there’s a first time for everything . . .
But, to give him his dues, he did get half the day off work today so I could have a nap before dinner time. He did go to the shop and buy me three bunches of flowers. He did – and has done since I agreed to go ahead with this – kiss me (on the cheek) at every available opportunity. He is positively oozing gratitude which reminds me why I’m doing this in the first place. This is the best present I could have given him. Support, love, interest and understanding – all wrapped up in a big grumpy, empty-bellied parcel.
And about that beautiful, origami-tearing apart of my schedule. Okay so I’m tired. Okay so my body feels noticeably heavier (not lighter, as I’d secretly hoped). But I am earning some wonderful moments out of this. Tonight, for example, we awaited the arrival of my auntie who is staying with us for a few days and swanned about the kitchen together, preparing a gorgeous meal, with soft music playing and candles lit everywhere. Last night, for example, we wrapped ourselves in a duvet, lay in front of the telly and had a feast of tea and biscuits. Then there’s the total euphoria of drinking our first glass of water together at 9pm. What an incredible thing to share. It might sound ridiculous that a glass of water could bring such romance, excitement and gratitude into a relationship. But there it is.
These are moments usually found during special occasions which, in all fairness I suppose Ramazan is. And maybe today, that’s what I’m beginning to see. This is a special occasion and it is a special thing to share. As one of my friends put it in an e-mail to me today: ‘I have to tell you how thoughtful and loving your gesture is. Love is about sharing, respecting each other, doing things as a couple and showing how much you care for one another.’ I’ve printed this message out and pinned it on my wall so I can see it every day. Next time I’m wondering what the heck I’ve got myself into, this will be a firm reminder.
My Little Ramazan - Day Five
Sun 15th August 2010
And so the mood swings kick in. How on earth does that husband of mine leap about the kitchen in sheer delight that his stomach has been empty all day when I can’t even muster a smile? When it gets to sundown, I become a very serious person indeed. I could rival my son with his intensely dramatic I-must-have-my-own-way-immediately frowns and no-one must get in my meal-preparing path. I need orange squash and I need it now. I need pasta and I need it now. I need chocolate and I need it, like, ten hours ago!
Maybe I’m missing the divine element of all this. I mean, I don’t believe that a God is asking me to do all this fasting stuff so is that why I’m just not getting it yet? I have to admit I am secretly proud that I have managed to get through my second day of fasting with no envelope-licking or other incidents whatsoever, but is that slither of pride going to be enough to keep me going for the rest of the month?
And I am exhausted. It’s to be expected I suppose. But for some reason I just didn’t imagine it. I imagined dashing about as per usual with a bit of a rumbly belly but I didn’t for a second think I wouldn’t be able to complete my daily activities. Today has consisted of a vast amount of lying down. We took Baran to the beach and – due to the sheer lack of ice cream – I had to have a lie down. We all went home for a nap which, as you can imagine, involves lying down. Baran point-blank refused to sleep (why, today of all days?) so I took him downstairs, put on CBeebies and made a bed of cushions on the floor for us both to lie down. What on earth is happening to me?
And then there was the never-ending walk to the park. Yet again I decided to keep Baran up later than usual so I could kill time until sundown. After the agonizing task of serving up sausages, rice and peas for his dinner and enjoying the greatness of Mr Tumble on CBeebies, Baran and I ventured outside again. I thought a short walk would do us both good.
A short walk? Oh my god, I have never had to call on such powers of inner strength and persistence as I did today. Let me get this straight. My son is wonderful. He lights up my life and I think he is absolutely the bee’s knees. But bloody hell could a person – two years old or not – ever, in a million years, walk slower than him? I am not kidding, he had to stop and inspect every single crevice in every single wall, every single petal on every single flower, every single letterbox on every single door. Then there’s the things he couldn’t reach but gave it a go anyway: the tops of the trees, the tops of lampposts, telegraph wires, clouds, birds, the moon. By the time we got to the park I was all washed out and – you guessed it – I had to lie down.
The slow walk back was almost as painful until inspiration hit me. Bribery! “Come on sweetheart, if you walk very nicely and very quickly with mummy, you can have a snack from the shop before we go home.” That did the trick. Which, to be honest, really peed me off. It meant he knew what he was doing all along and wasn’t simply being a sweet little thing who didn’t know any better. He is not stupid, my son. And he had a Thomas the Tank Engine chocolate lolly and I didn’t. Unfair.
So I’m not enjoying the grouchy thing. I’m not enjoying being moody and touchy and very short of patience. It’s not the best concoction of personal qualities when raising a toddler. Needless to say, if it gets much worse, I will have to rethink the whole Ramazan thing. My son is number one and he needs a patient, enduring, tolerant mother. And, preferably, a mother with a full belly.
And so the mood swings kick in. How on earth does that husband of mine leap about the kitchen in sheer delight that his stomach has been empty all day when I can’t even muster a smile? When it gets to sundown, I become a very serious person indeed. I could rival my son with his intensely dramatic I-must-have-my-own-way-immediately frowns and no-one must get in my meal-preparing path. I need orange squash and I need it now. I need pasta and I need it now. I need chocolate and I need it, like, ten hours ago!
Maybe I’m missing the divine element of all this. I mean, I don’t believe that a God is asking me to do all this fasting stuff so is that why I’m just not getting it yet? I have to admit I am secretly proud that I have managed to get through my second day of fasting with no envelope-licking or other incidents whatsoever, but is that slither of pride going to be enough to keep me going for the rest of the month?
And I am exhausted. It’s to be expected I suppose. But for some reason I just didn’t imagine it. I imagined dashing about as per usual with a bit of a rumbly belly but I didn’t for a second think I wouldn’t be able to complete my daily activities. Today has consisted of a vast amount of lying down. We took Baran to the beach and – due to the sheer lack of ice cream – I had to have a lie down. We all went home for a nap which, as you can imagine, involves lying down. Baran point-blank refused to sleep (why, today of all days?) so I took him downstairs, put on CBeebies and made a bed of cushions on the floor for us both to lie down. What on earth is happening to me?
And then there was the never-ending walk to the park. Yet again I decided to keep Baran up later than usual so I could kill time until sundown. After the agonizing task of serving up sausages, rice and peas for his dinner and enjoying the greatness of Mr Tumble on CBeebies, Baran and I ventured outside again. I thought a short walk would do us both good.
A short walk? Oh my god, I have never had to call on such powers of inner strength and persistence as I did today. Let me get this straight. My son is wonderful. He lights up my life and I think he is absolutely the bee’s knees. But bloody hell could a person – two years old or not – ever, in a million years, walk slower than him? I am not kidding, he had to stop and inspect every single crevice in every single wall, every single petal on every single flower, every single letterbox on every single door. Then there’s the things he couldn’t reach but gave it a go anyway: the tops of the trees, the tops of lampposts, telegraph wires, clouds, birds, the moon. By the time we got to the park I was all washed out and – you guessed it – I had to lie down.
The slow walk back was almost as painful until inspiration hit me. Bribery! “Come on sweetheart, if you walk very nicely and very quickly with mummy, you can have a snack from the shop before we go home.” That did the trick. Which, to be honest, really peed me off. It meant he knew what he was doing all along and wasn’t simply being a sweet little thing who didn’t know any better. He is not stupid, my son. And he had a Thomas the Tank Engine chocolate lolly and I didn’t. Unfair.
So I’m not enjoying the grouchy thing. I’m not enjoying being moody and touchy and very short of patience. It’s not the best concoction of personal qualities when raising a toddler. Needless to say, if it gets much worse, I will have to rethink the whole Ramazan thing. My son is number one and he needs a patient, enduring, tolerant mother. And, preferably, a mother with a full belly.
Saturday 14 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Four
Sat 14th August 2010
The fourth day of Ramazan for all eagerly participating Muslims and the first day for me, a non-religious but very curious wife of one of the said participating Muslims. I am here. I am still alive. I have gotten through my first ever day of nil-by-mouth activity and I am still in the land of the living.
So, today I managed to: serve my son three meals without pinching anything, visit a friend for coffee and refuse the coffee offered to me, get over the 2o’clock hump without any refreshments whatsoever and remember to refrain from licking my fingers when cleaning up a spilled yoghurt. How then, bearing in mind my long list of tremendous accomplishments, did I manage to fall at one critical hurdle? How could I permit such a disaster to occur? Where was my commitment, my loyalty to the cause? What on earth was I thinking?
I licked an envelope.
I couldn’t help it! The friend I went to visit this morning has an adorable new baby girl and I was simply completing the customary gesture of a congratulatory card. But as soon as I’d done it, as soon as I’d licked the offending paper trim, I realised my mistake. I sat at the kitchen table waiting to be struck down. I cowered under what I imagined to be the dark storm clouds of God’s fury, waiting for a lightning bolt, an earthquake or perhaps a monsoon. But then I remembered I don’t really believe in God and that even if there is one, He’s probably got better things to do than slate me for licking a fancy pink envelope. Or so you’d hope.
Then I realised I had a whole new envelope-related problem. The taste! Uh! I’d forgotten how disgusting the glued edges can taste. And I couldn’t even have a little drink to get rid of the bitterness in my mouth. Not even a sip of water. Now that was the real tragedy. I had to wait until 9o’clock tonight – or 9.05pm to be precise – when the Scottish sun decided to disappear behind the Moray Firth.
But I did it. I waited. I developed a mouth like a stale Ryvita but I did it. My two year-old, much to his excitement, was allowed to stay up an hour and a half later than usual just to give me something to do other than fantasize about a slap-up meal and a gallon of chilled water. I think we watched his entire collection of Bob The Builder DVDs, coloured in every single page of his colouring book and even invented a fantastic new game: count the tassles on the ends of the rug and make them dance to a variety of improvised songs. I suggest you go out and get a rug with tassles. It really is a pleasant way to pass an afternoon.
So when the golden hour came I have to say I was far more interested in a huge glass of orange squash than any food you could have offered up. I ate because I felt it was kind of necessary, but I drank because of the sheer thrill of it. As I write this now I feel adequately fed and watered and the revolting envelope taste has vanished from mouth and memory. Mustafa, when he got home from work, explained to me that if you happen to lick your fingers or anything else due to a genuine slip of the mind, then it is actually acceptable. I will therefore not be struck down for the envelope incident. Good to know.
And tomorrow – finally – Mustafa is not working a double night shift so I might actually get to sit down and discuss some of these Ramazan shenanigans with him. He’s on a roll after four days and I’m a mere beginner so we should have some notes to compare. I’ll just have to make sure we don’t put the notes in an envelope. Thank goodness blogs are paperless.
The fourth day of Ramazan for all eagerly participating Muslims and the first day for me, a non-religious but very curious wife of one of the said participating Muslims. I am here. I am still alive. I have gotten through my first ever day of nil-by-mouth activity and I am still in the land of the living.
So, today I managed to: serve my son three meals without pinching anything, visit a friend for coffee and refuse the coffee offered to me, get over the 2o’clock hump without any refreshments whatsoever and remember to refrain from licking my fingers when cleaning up a spilled yoghurt. How then, bearing in mind my long list of tremendous accomplishments, did I manage to fall at one critical hurdle? How could I permit such a disaster to occur? Where was my commitment, my loyalty to the cause? What on earth was I thinking?
I licked an envelope.
I couldn’t help it! The friend I went to visit this morning has an adorable new baby girl and I was simply completing the customary gesture of a congratulatory card. But as soon as I’d done it, as soon as I’d licked the offending paper trim, I realised my mistake. I sat at the kitchen table waiting to be struck down. I cowered under what I imagined to be the dark storm clouds of God’s fury, waiting for a lightning bolt, an earthquake or perhaps a monsoon. But then I remembered I don’t really believe in God and that even if there is one, He’s probably got better things to do than slate me for licking a fancy pink envelope. Or so you’d hope.
Then I realised I had a whole new envelope-related problem. The taste! Uh! I’d forgotten how disgusting the glued edges can taste. And I couldn’t even have a little drink to get rid of the bitterness in my mouth. Not even a sip of water. Now that was the real tragedy. I had to wait until 9o’clock tonight – or 9.05pm to be precise – when the Scottish sun decided to disappear behind the Moray Firth.
But I did it. I waited. I developed a mouth like a stale Ryvita but I did it. My two year-old, much to his excitement, was allowed to stay up an hour and a half later than usual just to give me something to do other than fantasize about a slap-up meal and a gallon of chilled water. I think we watched his entire collection of Bob The Builder DVDs, coloured in every single page of his colouring book and even invented a fantastic new game: count the tassles on the ends of the rug and make them dance to a variety of improvised songs. I suggest you go out and get a rug with tassles. It really is a pleasant way to pass an afternoon.
So when the golden hour came I have to say I was far more interested in a huge glass of orange squash than any food you could have offered up. I ate because I felt it was kind of necessary, but I drank because of the sheer thrill of it. As I write this now I feel adequately fed and watered and the revolting envelope taste has vanished from mouth and memory. Mustafa, when he got home from work, explained to me that if you happen to lick your fingers or anything else due to a genuine slip of the mind, then it is actually acceptable. I will therefore not be struck down for the envelope incident. Good to know.
And tomorrow – finally – Mustafa is not working a double night shift so I might actually get to sit down and discuss some of these Ramazan shenanigans with him. He’s on a roll after four days and I’m a mere beginner so we should have some notes to compare. I’ll just have to make sure we don’t put the notes in an envelope. Thank goodness blogs are paperless.
Friday 13 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Three
Fri 13th August 2010
Day Three of Ramazan and my husband is positively gleeful. He bounds home from work as if he’s a distant relative of Mr Motivator. He skips round the kitchen preparing food for himself, tossing salad, frying Turkish sausage, splitting eggs into hot oil. He eats it with all the enthusiasm of a toddler with a bowl of ice cream. What the flip is going on? Usually I have to trick him into even making a cup of tea. Where has the new-found passion for culinary activity come from? Hunger, perhaps?
But no, I don’t think it is hunger. I think he’s actually in his bloody element. He (and forgive me for the dramatic intensity of the following phrase) is serving his God. He is performing a ritual which not only earns Muslim brownie points, but also opens up a communication, a conversation, a chat, no less, with the Divine One. At least that’s what seems to be happening.
Through his actions (i.e. not eating or drinking or swearing or kissing or smoking) during the day, Mustafa is opening himself up. He is showing his God his commitment, his ability to be disciplined, his gratitude for a healthy, happy existence. He’s saying “Hey Almighty One, look at me. I bloody love you, I do!”. He seems more relaxed. He seems more at ease. He seems more empowered. Could that ever be a bad thing?
I must remind myself that it’s only Day Three and Mustafa’s nicotine withdrawal has not yet kicked in. Will he really be so empowered when he’s gagging for a draw? But no matter which way I look at it, and no matter what happens from now, I am secretly impressed by my husband. He works in a kebab shop for twelve hours a day for goodness sake (I know, the stereotyping is hilarious). How can he not at least sneak a chip or an onion ring? Would Allah really object to that?
Regardless of my awe, Mustafa is happy with his efforts and seems to be basking in the glory of Ramazan. Good for him. The question now is, can I do the same? I have a weekend coming up with absolutely nothing planned other than entertaining my two-year-old. No exciting activities to distract myself from the task I will be undertaking. No appointments to break up the day. Unless, of course, you count stamping in puddles and changing outstandingly dirty nappies. Hmmm. Maybe that is enough to curb my appetite.
Anyway, I have reached the end of the last day of my period and have celebrated by inviting my friend Jo over and sharing a giant takeaway from Mustafa’s kebab shop. Plus many delicious chocolates with many cups of tea. We have sworn to celebrate the end of Ramazan in true non-Muslim style, i.e. something fuelled by plenty of Chardonnay. Jo has also offered her help and support during the fasting period and I wonder if she knows what she’s let herself in for. Does she really want to become a live-in nanny under the employment of a constantly sleeping mother? Sleep has always been my fondest form of escape.
Right now, I’m playing with the idea of getting up before 4.23 tomorrow morning so I can have breakfast and brush my teeth. Not liking that idea so far. I can see how it would work with a whole family rising to gather round a morning meal. Squinted eyes, whispered banter and hungry hands grabbing precious food, the sun teasing gently behind clouds outside. I can’t see how it’s going to work for me. Rising alone (Mustafa is impossible to wake up), blurred vision, stubbed toes, pouring fruit cordial on my Weetabix. Nope, I think I’m best going to bed armed with a jug of water and a couple of biscuits.
So, I’m armed and ready for the night ahead. Let’s hope the morning brings me strength, courage and naturally high levels of hydration. Goodnight.
Day Three of Ramazan and my husband is positively gleeful. He bounds home from work as if he’s a distant relative of Mr Motivator. He skips round the kitchen preparing food for himself, tossing salad, frying Turkish sausage, splitting eggs into hot oil. He eats it with all the enthusiasm of a toddler with a bowl of ice cream. What the flip is going on? Usually I have to trick him into even making a cup of tea. Where has the new-found passion for culinary activity come from? Hunger, perhaps?
But no, I don’t think it is hunger. I think he’s actually in his bloody element. He (and forgive me for the dramatic intensity of the following phrase) is serving his God. He is performing a ritual which not only earns Muslim brownie points, but also opens up a communication, a conversation, a chat, no less, with the Divine One. At least that’s what seems to be happening.
Through his actions (i.e. not eating or drinking or swearing or kissing or smoking) during the day, Mustafa is opening himself up. He is showing his God his commitment, his ability to be disciplined, his gratitude for a healthy, happy existence. He’s saying “Hey Almighty One, look at me. I bloody love you, I do!”. He seems more relaxed. He seems more at ease. He seems more empowered. Could that ever be a bad thing?
I must remind myself that it’s only Day Three and Mustafa’s nicotine withdrawal has not yet kicked in. Will he really be so empowered when he’s gagging for a draw? But no matter which way I look at it, and no matter what happens from now, I am secretly impressed by my husband. He works in a kebab shop for twelve hours a day for goodness sake (I know, the stereotyping is hilarious). How can he not at least sneak a chip or an onion ring? Would Allah really object to that?
Regardless of my awe, Mustafa is happy with his efforts and seems to be basking in the glory of Ramazan. Good for him. The question now is, can I do the same? I have a weekend coming up with absolutely nothing planned other than entertaining my two-year-old. No exciting activities to distract myself from the task I will be undertaking. No appointments to break up the day. Unless, of course, you count stamping in puddles and changing outstandingly dirty nappies. Hmmm. Maybe that is enough to curb my appetite.
Anyway, I have reached the end of the last day of my period and have celebrated by inviting my friend Jo over and sharing a giant takeaway from Mustafa’s kebab shop. Plus many delicious chocolates with many cups of tea. We have sworn to celebrate the end of Ramazan in true non-Muslim style, i.e. something fuelled by plenty of Chardonnay. Jo has also offered her help and support during the fasting period and I wonder if she knows what she’s let herself in for. Does she really want to become a live-in nanny under the employment of a constantly sleeping mother? Sleep has always been my fondest form of escape.
Right now, I’m playing with the idea of getting up before 4.23 tomorrow morning so I can have breakfast and brush my teeth. Not liking that idea so far. I can see how it would work with a whole family rising to gather round a morning meal. Squinted eyes, whispered banter and hungry hands grabbing precious food, the sun teasing gently behind clouds outside. I can’t see how it’s going to work for me. Rising alone (Mustafa is impossible to wake up), blurred vision, stubbed toes, pouring fruit cordial on my Weetabix. Nope, I think I’m best going to bed armed with a jug of water and a couple of biscuits.
So, I’m armed and ready for the night ahead. Let’s hope the morning brings me strength, courage and naturally high levels of hydration. Goodnight.
Thursday 12 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Two
Thurs 12th August 2010
Welcome to the second day of my non-fasting, fasting ritual. Yet again I have spent the day eating and drinking to my heart’s content, despite valiant efforts to cut down in preparation for when the fasting properly begins. Well, maybe the efforts weren’t quite as valiant as they could have been. Well, maybe the effort wasn’t actually as effort-full as it could have been. Okay, so I haven’t really tried at all but the thought was definitely there.
For a second.
I’ll tell you about the philosophy I am going with. Bearing in mind I will begin my own little Ramazan in a matter of days (or maybe even hours, depending on Mother Nature), I have decided to eat like a Queen. Why should I start denying myself oh-so-lovely things when I will be going without for a full month? Plus I did a big shop the other day. Nobody can keep their stomach empty once a big shop has been done. Surely that is common knowledge.
Other than that my day has been fairly non-eventful. My little one has been at the Childminder’s all day so I have had the wonderful sanctuary that is a quiet home to work and play in. I say work and play because that’s what it feels like to do my kind of work. I am a writer, an artist and – because I can’t think of a less pretentious title – a creative education specialist. I do creative stuff with different types of people, basically. And, when there is no paid work on the go, I paint or write to my little soul’s content. And that is what I have been doing today. Continuing work on a novel I started four – count them, four – years ago. No, it is not an epic to rival War and Peace, I just happen to have done a load of other stuff in the middle of its creation such as get married, have a baby, live in three different countries and get over a bout of unfathomable depression.
My novel is going to be fab. It’s going to be wonderful. It’s going to be (and has been) a bloody big challenge but I am determined to finish it. I have a love-hate relationship with working on it but do you know what helps me cope and carry on? Biscuits. Tea and biscuits. Tea and coffee and biscuits. And maybe even a slice of cake. The trips to the kitchen are almost as frequent as the terrible metaphors I write but that doesn’t stop me from doing either of them.
What am I going to do when my little Ramazan challenge stops me from indulging in writing pit-stops? Will the novel-writing come to a stand still? Will I give up on it entirely? Will I put it away in a drawer and forget about it forever, thus denying the world the life-enhancing impact it would have had on millions of readers had I just been given a caffeine and sweet pastry supply?
I’m starting to feel woozy. Maybe a biscuit would help.
Welcome to the second day of my non-fasting, fasting ritual. Yet again I have spent the day eating and drinking to my heart’s content, despite valiant efforts to cut down in preparation for when the fasting properly begins. Well, maybe the efforts weren’t quite as valiant as they could have been. Well, maybe the effort wasn’t actually as effort-full as it could have been. Okay, so I haven’t really tried at all but the thought was definitely there.
For a second.
I’ll tell you about the philosophy I am going with. Bearing in mind I will begin my own little Ramazan in a matter of days (or maybe even hours, depending on Mother Nature), I have decided to eat like a Queen. Why should I start denying myself oh-so-lovely things when I will be going without for a full month? Plus I did a big shop the other day. Nobody can keep their stomach empty once a big shop has been done. Surely that is common knowledge.
Other than that my day has been fairly non-eventful. My little one has been at the Childminder’s all day so I have had the wonderful sanctuary that is a quiet home to work and play in. I say work and play because that’s what it feels like to do my kind of work. I am a writer, an artist and – because I can’t think of a less pretentious title – a creative education specialist. I do creative stuff with different types of people, basically. And, when there is no paid work on the go, I paint or write to my little soul’s content. And that is what I have been doing today. Continuing work on a novel I started four – count them, four – years ago. No, it is not an epic to rival War and Peace, I just happen to have done a load of other stuff in the middle of its creation such as get married, have a baby, live in three different countries and get over a bout of unfathomable depression.
My novel is going to be fab. It’s going to be wonderful. It’s going to be (and has been) a bloody big challenge but I am determined to finish it. I have a love-hate relationship with working on it but do you know what helps me cope and carry on? Biscuits. Tea and biscuits. Tea and coffee and biscuits. And maybe even a slice of cake. The trips to the kitchen are almost as frequent as the terrible metaphors I write but that doesn’t stop me from doing either of them.
What am I going to do when my little Ramazan challenge stops me from indulging in writing pit-stops? Will the novel-writing come to a stand still? Will I give up on it entirely? Will I put it away in a drawer and forget about it forever, thus denying the world the life-enhancing impact it would have had on millions of readers had I just been given a caffeine and sweet pastry supply?
I’m starting to feel woozy. Maybe a biscuit would help.
My Little Ramazan - Day One
Weds 11th August 2010
Today is the first day of Ramazan (or Ramadan) for Muslims everywhere. As in all over the world. So worldwide, today, millions of people have been fasting. Not just resisting your staple three meals a day, mind you, but resisting anything at all passing the lips during sunlit hours. Regardless of temperature, lifestyle, planned (or unplanned) activities, Muslims, if they’re worth their salt, should not be eating, drinking, kissing, sipping or swallowing.
My husband is Muslim. The very fact that I am not Muslim would lead you to assume that he is, most definitely, a Muslim of the very modern variety. He has his God and cherishes the relationship they have but he does not push it on anyone else. He also enjoys the occasional beer, smokes like a trooper, has no prayer mat or any idea which way faces Mecca at any given time. And yes, he is devoid of any suspect backpacks or lethal chemical weapons. He is a Muslim in a very subtle, innocent and generally not-bothering-anyone-else type way.
But this year, for the first time in our four year relationship, he is taking part in Ramazan. He’s done it plenty of times before. Despite his ultra modernity, he is actually from South Eastern Turkey, a part of the world clinging proudly to its religious and cultural roots. His Mum and Dad have recently been on the once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage, he has approximately fifty seven nieces and nephews with a variety of Koran-inspired names, and every single member of his family undoubtedly knows which way faces Mecca because they bow down to it four times a day every day. I know because I have seen it. I have been in a room with his family so many times now that it feels like the most normal thing in the world when, mid-conversation, the majority of the women get up, flip out a random mat and start muttering sacred words. I mean, nobody bats an eyelid. The kids keep zipping about even though Mum’s doing her thing and then when it’s all over the conversation carries on right where it left off. At least that’s what I assume. I can’t understand a word.
Anyway, all that seems like a distant dream now because Mustafa (that’s his name – could it be any more Muslim?) and I haven’t seen his family in about a year and a half. We had been living in Turkey and had our beautiful baby boy there (his name’s Baran, meaning ‘Rain’ so appropriately devoid of religious connotations), but moved to the UK when the fear of God ran through us that the National Service might split us up. Mustafa has, funnily enough, never yet seen the merit in being part of a highly dangerous operation such as the Turkish armed forces but we always knew it would catch up with him. But what the heck, we went ahead and fell in love, got married, built a love nest and had a bambino anyway, gleefully hoping the laws on National Service might change. You know, just for us. Alas, for some reason this did not occur and we found ourselves in the middle of a highly complicated, highly expensive and highly intrusive visa application process. Oh joy.
Well it wasn’t all bad because the visa application was, thank the Lord (or Allah, if you prefer), successful. And, just because we never do anything the easy way, we decided to move not to the North East of England where I am originally from and have a multitude of wonderful friends and family, but to the Highlands of Scotland. How do you shock a Muslim? Stick him on a snowy Scottish beach in the middle of the worst winter the UK has seen in thirty years. Gets them every time.
Yes the winter was dreadful. Yes Mustafa learned new English swear words very quickly. Yes we have struggled financially, emotionally and physically to adapt to this remote and downright cold environment. But we are together. And that is what we wanted, after all. Our little boy – who is growing up at an astonishing rate – has his mummy and daddy right where he wants them. In the palm of his hand.
So that’s it in a nutshell. Holiday romance, love, marriage, love nest, baby, meeting the in-laws, army panic, visa panic, winter from Hell, homelessness, financial mess, finally pulling it all together and now, Ramazan.
I think it was a good few months ago that Mustafa and I were chatting late one night about philosophy (our vice, I’m afraid. We do tend to go a bit hippy shit sometimes). He was telling me about Ramazan and all of the reasons why Muslims fast at this time and how he hoped to complete the full thirty one days this year. What with the wine (ironic, eh?), the chat and the general bloody loveliness of the man, I somehow uttered the words, “do you want me to do it with you this year?”. A pulse of terror blipped through my body before he dipped his head, looked up at me tenderly and said, “That would be good.”
All terror melted away when he said that because I could see by the look on his face and by the way his body had practically melted with relief, that I had offered to do something incredibly special for him. In that moment I knew he would never have actually asked me to do it. He wanted me to want it. And right then I did. I really did. Because I wanted him to know that although I would probably never join him in his religion, I did respect his beliefs and wanted to show honest support and interest in what made him tick.
Since then, needless to say, I’ve had a few doubts. Can I really go without food and drink from sunrise to sunset every day for a month? There are a few ways I could get out of it. You cannot or should not participate in fasting if you are a.) pregnant (no chance, his late-night work shifts mean I have hardly seen Mustafa over the past two weeks to exchange a glance never mind anything else), b.) ill (does eczema count?), c.) a child (erm, haven’t been asked for ID in a shop since I was, well, seventeen) d.) on your period. Yes! Success! I am on my period! Thank you Mother Nature for arranging my monthly agony and irrational emotions slap bang at the start of Ramazan. Who says you’re not a girl’s best friend?
But, as luck would have it, Mother Nature is not that clever because it doesn’t stop me from participating at all. Mustafa explained that once the painters have gone, (my phrase, not his) I am allowed to have a thorough scrub in the shower and start the very next day. Yey. Can you feel the joy in the air?
So although this is the first day of Ramazan, and although I have not actually done anything out of the ordinary yet, I have started keeping a record. Not sure why. I just thought, rather like any first-time experience, it might be nice to look back on. You know, look back on the hunger pains, the dry mouth, the dizzy spells and the black-outs. Something to show the grandchildren.
I guess it started last night. Mustafa and I shared a meal that I had spent three hours cooking. After he got home from work at midnight we sat round the table and savoured the aromatic taste of aubergines cooked with tomatoes, garlic and cinnamon. He, I assume because I haven’t actually seen him yet today, has spent the day fasting. I, on the other hand, have savoured the aromatic tastes of fruit toast, egg sarnie, salt and vinegar crisps, Quorn nuggets, salad and ice cream. Again, thank you Mother Nature.
Maybe tomorrow, or maybe the next day will be my time. Whatever happens I promise you this. I will record it. I will write it, weep it, laugh it, or maybe even eat it if it gets that bad. All I can say is, watch this space.
Today is the first day of Ramazan (or Ramadan) for Muslims everywhere. As in all over the world. So worldwide, today, millions of people have been fasting. Not just resisting your staple three meals a day, mind you, but resisting anything at all passing the lips during sunlit hours. Regardless of temperature, lifestyle, planned (or unplanned) activities, Muslims, if they’re worth their salt, should not be eating, drinking, kissing, sipping or swallowing.
My husband is Muslim. The very fact that I am not Muslim would lead you to assume that he is, most definitely, a Muslim of the very modern variety. He has his God and cherishes the relationship they have but he does not push it on anyone else. He also enjoys the occasional beer, smokes like a trooper, has no prayer mat or any idea which way faces Mecca at any given time. And yes, he is devoid of any suspect backpacks or lethal chemical weapons. He is a Muslim in a very subtle, innocent and generally not-bothering-anyone-else type way.
But this year, for the first time in our four year relationship, he is taking part in Ramazan. He’s done it plenty of times before. Despite his ultra modernity, he is actually from South Eastern Turkey, a part of the world clinging proudly to its religious and cultural roots. His Mum and Dad have recently been on the once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage, he has approximately fifty seven nieces and nephews with a variety of Koran-inspired names, and every single member of his family undoubtedly knows which way faces Mecca because they bow down to it four times a day every day. I know because I have seen it. I have been in a room with his family so many times now that it feels like the most normal thing in the world when, mid-conversation, the majority of the women get up, flip out a random mat and start muttering sacred words. I mean, nobody bats an eyelid. The kids keep zipping about even though Mum’s doing her thing and then when it’s all over the conversation carries on right where it left off. At least that’s what I assume. I can’t understand a word.
Anyway, all that seems like a distant dream now because Mustafa (that’s his name – could it be any more Muslim?) and I haven’t seen his family in about a year and a half. We had been living in Turkey and had our beautiful baby boy there (his name’s Baran, meaning ‘Rain’ so appropriately devoid of religious connotations), but moved to the UK when the fear of God ran through us that the National Service might split us up. Mustafa has, funnily enough, never yet seen the merit in being part of a highly dangerous operation such as the Turkish armed forces but we always knew it would catch up with him. But what the heck, we went ahead and fell in love, got married, built a love nest and had a bambino anyway, gleefully hoping the laws on National Service might change. You know, just for us. Alas, for some reason this did not occur and we found ourselves in the middle of a highly complicated, highly expensive and highly intrusive visa application process. Oh joy.
Well it wasn’t all bad because the visa application was, thank the Lord (or Allah, if you prefer), successful. And, just because we never do anything the easy way, we decided to move not to the North East of England where I am originally from and have a multitude of wonderful friends and family, but to the Highlands of Scotland. How do you shock a Muslim? Stick him on a snowy Scottish beach in the middle of the worst winter the UK has seen in thirty years. Gets them every time.
Yes the winter was dreadful. Yes Mustafa learned new English swear words very quickly. Yes we have struggled financially, emotionally and physically to adapt to this remote and downright cold environment. But we are together. And that is what we wanted, after all. Our little boy – who is growing up at an astonishing rate – has his mummy and daddy right where he wants them. In the palm of his hand.
So that’s it in a nutshell. Holiday romance, love, marriage, love nest, baby, meeting the in-laws, army panic, visa panic, winter from Hell, homelessness, financial mess, finally pulling it all together and now, Ramazan.
I think it was a good few months ago that Mustafa and I were chatting late one night about philosophy (our vice, I’m afraid. We do tend to go a bit hippy shit sometimes). He was telling me about Ramazan and all of the reasons why Muslims fast at this time and how he hoped to complete the full thirty one days this year. What with the wine (ironic, eh?), the chat and the general bloody loveliness of the man, I somehow uttered the words, “do you want me to do it with you this year?”. A pulse of terror blipped through my body before he dipped his head, looked up at me tenderly and said, “That would be good.”
All terror melted away when he said that because I could see by the look on his face and by the way his body had practically melted with relief, that I had offered to do something incredibly special for him. In that moment I knew he would never have actually asked me to do it. He wanted me to want it. And right then I did. I really did. Because I wanted him to know that although I would probably never join him in his religion, I did respect his beliefs and wanted to show honest support and interest in what made him tick.
Since then, needless to say, I’ve had a few doubts. Can I really go without food and drink from sunrise to sunset every day for a month? There are a few ways I could get out of it. You cannot or should not participate in fasting if you are a.) pregnant (no chance, his late-night work shifts mean I have hardly seen Mustafa over the past two weeks to exchange a glance never mind anything else), b.) ill (does eczema count?), c.) a child (erm, haven’t been asked for ID in a shop since I was, well, seventeen) d.) on your period. Yes! Success! I am on my period! Thank you Mother Nature for arranging my monthly agony and irrational emotions slap bang at the start of Ramazan. Who says you’re not a girl’s best friend?
But, as luck would have it, Mother Nature is not that clever because it doesn’t stop me from participating at all. Mustafa explained that once the painters have gone, (my phrase, not his) I am allowed to have a thorough scrub in the shower and start the very next day. Yey. Can you feel the joy in the air?
So although this is the first day of Ramazan, and although I have not actually done anything out of the ordinary yet, I have started keeping a record. Not sure why. I just thought, rather like any first-time experience, it might be nice to look back on. You know, look back on the hunger pains, the dry mouth, the dizzy spells and the black-outs. Something to show the grandchildren.
I guess it started last night. Mustafa and I shared a meal that I had spent three hours cooking. After he got home from work at midnight we sat round the table and savoured the aromatic taste of aubergines cooked with tomatoes, garlic and cinnamon. He, I assume because I haven’t actually seen him yet today, has spent the day fasting. I, on the other hand, have savoured the aromatic tastes of fruit toast, egg sarnie, salt and vinegar crisps, Quorn nuggets, salad and ice cream. Again, thank you Mother Nature.
Maybe tomorrow, or maybe the next day will be my time. Whatever happens I promise you this. I will record it. I will write it, weep it, laugh it, or maybe even eat it if it gets that bad. All I can say is, watch this space.
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