SPECIAL SERVICES AND A HAPPY ENDING
October 27th
So, after a whistle stop North American tour during which I nearly succeeded in having Sheetal and Hanan arrested in Tampa, Hanan nearly got us both arrested sending DVDs to the White House, and I went underwear shopping with Lisa Ray in Toronto, we landed back in London for 24 hours before seeing what mayhem we could wreak on Portugal. But wait, I hear you cry. We heard about the Florida cop and the DC cab driver, but what’s with Lisa Ray and the underwear? I know. After Toronto I gave you a heartfelt and meaningful encapsulation of the emotional landscape of our visit with Lisa, when what we all really wanted was to talk about bras and panties. OK, stop pleading, I’ll tell you how it happened.
We were wandering up the road with Lisa to have lunch when she spied an Apple store.
‘I want to get you something for your birthday, Shamimi,’ she said, pulling me inside. I declined politely, I chained myself to trees in protest, but she was adamant.
‘My present is being here with you,’ I said. She regarded me with all the baleful suspicion that this reply deserved and continued to drag me around pointing out things I might like. As a Libran, I cannot commit to buying a newspaper without thinking about it for an hour or so, so I was quite distressed.
‘I don’t want to buy things I don’t need,’ I insisted.
‘OK, then what do you need?’
The only thing I had come to North America determined to buy was underwear. It’s easier, somehow, and cheaper, frankly. A gleam hit my eye.
‘I need bras,’ I said.
Hanan saw through my evil plan as if my mind was cellophane. ‘You just want to be able to blog that Lisa Ray bought you underwear.’
Maybe I did. Is that such a bad thing? Wouldn’t you brag about that? Exactly.
Cut to the next day. Lisa and Shamim occupy adjoining changing rooms while outside Hanan runs with a trolley through the aisles and sweeps large black T shirts into it by the armful. Now that I was faced with myself wearing nothing but a (very lovely) new bra and my old jeans, in a huge mirror with frighteningly bright lighting, my bravado was seeping away. Next door, Lisa tried on tops then whipped open my curtain.
‘How’re the bras?’
I sucked my stomach in and hastily put on my clothes. ‘Perfect. I feel very uplifted.’
And so I did, and the uplifted feeling from my excellent birthday presents lasted all the way to the British Airways counter en route to Portugal. We checked in without incident (if you don’t count the kids trying to check themselves in as luggage on the baggage belt) and as we turned away to leave the counter a young woman stepped up smartly and flashed her badge.
‘Ms Kattan? Ms Sarif? Special Services. Step this way please.’
SPECIAL SERVICES?? STEP THIS WAY?? I’ve seen Hollywood spy movies, I’m a director for goodness sake! This was it. This was code. They’d discovered that I didn’t know Hanan’s favourite colour, that our life together was a sham, and we were being deported. That we had actually lived together for 13 years and were British citizens on British soil temporarily slipped my mind. All I knew was that we were headed to Guantanamo, and that orange jumpsuits didn’t suit me, no matter how sexy my bra.
Elaine had by now introduced herself with great charm (my first inkling she might not be with the CIA) and we followed her to security where with several crisp flashes of her badge, we sailed through. Of course, my Britishness meant I would rather be shipped to a hellhole than actually ask what was happening, but luckily I was travelling with Hanan, Interrogator Extraordinaire. She asked a few questions and Elaine told us her job was to help people who travel often with British Airways and also celebrities (with a nod to me) through the airport. Obviously I immediately thought that she had mistaken me for Angelina Jolie (stop laughing, I’ll do the jokes) but it turned out she knew ‘The World Unseen’ and ‘I Can’t Think Straight’, and was there to make sure the director and producer were looked after. Now I could relax about it, I took a moment to feel like a rock star and enjoy the attention. The boys eyed our escort uncertainly.
‘Is she coming with us to Portugal?’ the younger one asked.
Frankly, as we were led to the business class lounge, I thought that would not be a bad idea. Sadly Elaine had a lot more work to do and had to leave us there. But I want to thank her for making our day, and also allowing me to leave you with this gem of wisdom. You never know when you’re going to be in a first class lounge, or strip-searched in a prison, but either way, it pays to have good underwear.
August 15th 2009
We spent the day hiking the other day. Ah, the smell of wild grass and Swiss wildflowers, a chance to discover ‘The World Unseen’ for real, the pungent aroma of cow dung and and delicate scent of...croissants. Yes, folks, this was no ordinary hike. Backpacks and dried fruit are so 'last decade'. We hiked (as we do everything where Hanan is involved) with style and with real food. It began when we dropped off the boys for a day at summer camp. We dropped them right by a bakery and it would have been churlish not to buy pain au chocolat, so we did. I regretted inhaling these as soon as we began a wild ride up the mountain in a vehicle the size of Texas. Why do they make cars so big in a country with such small roads? Hanan's habit of fiddling while driving (with the radio, with a nail file, with packets of sweets) is sometimes endearing, sometimes admirable (how does she unwrap sweets, change CDs, make a list and drive all at once?) but on hairpin mountain bends it is simply terrifying.
However, we arrived, in one piece, and parked up at a little restaurant at the top. I jumped out, ready to set off up the trail towards our date with Mother Nature. 'Shall we have a hot chocolate first? Since we're here?' Hanan asked. We sat and snorted liquid chocolate which helped ease the motion sickness nicely. And then we set off. Three and a half minutes into the hike, Hanan stopped and took off her (our) backpack. 'We should re-hydrate' she advised whipping out a bottle of Evian. We re-hydrated. Two minutes later, she stopped again, to re-apply sunblock.
'Isn't this a little excessive?' I ventured.
'Do you want to married to someone with wrinkles like chasms?'
'Er...no. I mean, yes. I mean, I don't mind either way.'
I decided to keep quiet and just hike. When my wife was ready. Off we went again. After twenty minutes (and three more water breaks) we reached a tiny village with 15 chalets, no electricity but one (you guessed it) restaurant.
'All this exercise is making me hungry,' Hanan said.
All this exercise? I was wishing I'd gone for a run before we'd left. I'd had more exercise flicking channels on TV. This must be what it's like hiking in Beverley Hills or Mayfair. We stopped. Hanan ordered a cappuccino and a croissant and was met by blank stares. There was only one breakfast and it was 4 slabs of bread, 2 slabs of butter, 2 hunks of Swiss cheese and a trough of homemade jam.
We hiked on, for a full 30 minutes and then Hanan started looking for shade and a place to sit down. We sat and I watched with misgiving as she started rummaging in the backpack. I was sure she had firewood, matches and a spit-ready chicken in there. But no, out came an ominously large wad of paper and two pens. I tried not to look alarmed.
'I thought this would be a good place to do our goals', she said.
Goals? I thought. My goal is to walk fast enough to get my heart rate past that of a ninety-year-old's. But, alas, that was not what she meant. So we sat and wrote out our goals for the year. I left out 'taking Sundays off' as I didn't want to antagonise a woman who hadn't eaten for 15 minutes...finally, we were done. Our first goals were remarkably similar. To lose weight and get fitter. With that in mind, we hiked the 20 minutes back to the same (the only) restaurant, and just asked for 'lunch'. Up came plates of rosti (grated, fried potatoes) layered with bacon and slathered with melted cheese. Hanan looked at me.
'What about our goal?' she asked.
'Let's start tomorrow.' I said and tucked in...
Newsletter Signup
