KSA, Mr Rochester and a thorny rose

There is change in the air folks! Later this year Allah willing I will ditch the oh-so familiar and yet unpredictable British weather for the relentless desert heat of the KSA.  As organised as I am I have compiled, constructed and organised lists for just about anything so I can be prepared for any eventuality. 

This change has been a long time coming.  It’s been something that I’ve wanted to do ever since I was a student, my aspirations to be a globetrotter and a world wise woman have now been replaced by the more realistic and practical “How will I ever fund my MSc without borrowing money?”  So there my answer lay bare, huddled behind an old long forgotten dream.  A tax free haven and paid for everything else, so all I should worry about are my itchy fingers and insatiable appetite to jump on a plane to a distant dreamland.

 Yesterday I had a triumphant moment in the kitchen.  Whilst watching the 2006 BBC version of Jane Eyre on my laptop I had spent almost two hours hunched over the stove stirring a dark and murky concoction bubbling away almost feeling like a witch huddled over her cauldron.  When my ‘Aha!’ moment arrived almost simultaneously with Jane Eyre’s impassioned declaration of her undying love to Mr. Rochester in the pouring rain (Toby Stephens makes a delicious Mr. Rochester).  The smell emanating from the pan was unmistakeable, the tip of my tongue burning with a droplet I couldn’t resist sampling.  With a litre and a half of apple juice, a tablespoon of lemon juice, a ¼ teaspoon of cinnamon, 4 cardamom cloves and a 100g of sugar I had managed to bring my childhood in the suburbs of Holland to a place that I never imagined I’d ever find myself.  Lest I get too nostalgic I’ll just come out with it.  My latest culinary discovery was recreating something we called appelstroop (or apple butter in other cultures) in Dutch, loosely translated into English it means apple syrup though the consistency and colour is more of Marmite but the taste couldn’t be further removed.  A tangy yet sweet dark apple concentrate best eaten on toasted and buttered Frisian roggebrood (pumpernickel bread).  I promised to leave some for Warda to sample when she comes over on Sunday, but with every spoonful I spread on each slice of toast (and sneakily eat straight out of the jar) I increasingly feel that that I may have to go back on my word.  Anyway if worst come to worst, I’ll just recount the vivid memories of our childhood eating the appelstroop has brought back in a bid to distract from my zealous appetite for Dutch foods.

Naturally no post is complete without a rant.

Aptly named after a thorny stemmed flower her personality reflects none of the pleasant parts you would associate with her name.   Complicated she is not, but after all is said and done the twisted mother-daughter nature of our relationship is something psychoanalysts would marvel over.    And no, she is not a family member, not even related distantly, we don’t move in the same social circles, and our personalities couldn’t be further removed.  She is in fact a colleague (if you could call it that).

Shapely bottom glued to the seat of the chair, eternally with a cup of tea in one hand and a digestive ready to be dunked in the other.  Her mouth spewing a barrage of critical comments hurled in my direction, when she is not calling me a “good girl” for locating notes for tomorrow’s biopsies, or demanding I massage her aching shoulders (I’m serious folks!).  When she does manage to extricate herself from the chair she occupied the first four hours of her shift she complains of creaking knees, stiff ankles and painful feet.  She adamantly puts it down to old age, refusing to believe that any other normal human being would have some difficulty in mobilising after spending a 6th of their day in a semi comatose upright state.  Her inbred laziness doesn’t actually bother me; I can get through a day perfectly without her input.  The constant and relentless haranguing leaves me wanting to strap her onto her chair and subjecting her to torture similar to what that poor bloke Alex went through in A Clockwork Orange.  Anytime she hears Beethoven’s  9th Symphony or even thinks of saying anything non-essential to me the inevitable will happen..... 

I’ve actually explained to her plenty of times that her behaviour is bothering me she pats me on the shoulder as if I am a bobble headed child with Down’s and says “oh I’ve upset you.”  Then I and the rest of the team will have to hear her account of how I falsely accused her of upsetting me.  God Almighty!!!!

Sometimes I wonder whether she may have Asperger’s syndrome , the lack of understanding of other people’s feelings highly indicates so but unfortunately the characteristic high IQ usually associated with Asperger’s is sadly lacking,  it might have been a redeeming quality in her case... the only redeeming quality.