wrestling within a web of cotton candy

After last night’s amorous tussle, it was hard waking up this morning to shop for lunch. I had recurrent dreams of having done the shopping and saw myself in the kitchen preparing the food. My goodness all those knives! And the maid was making hamburger patties with smiley faces in them drawn with slices of green pepper. She says when in Kuwait, one must eat like Kuwaitis and so serves the driver beef and does not tell him what kind of meat it is and it is all very well. She is a practical person and because she controls the kitchen, the rest of the staff are under her mercy.
Away from my dreams, and into my car. Oh the wonder of driving on a Friday morning! Dare I share this secret? The roads are so congestion free you could probably drive to the border of Saudi and back in an hour and stop on the way for breakfast. Oh? Is that an exaggeration? I’m entitled to a bit of fantasy today. I still have a bit of fairy dust blowing around me from last night.

At the ATM machine, a Sudanese woman is having problems. She wants to deposit cash and the machine won’t take it. I try to assist but the machine won’t accept her card. A man nearby suggests: put in the cash first. We both look at him as though he has made an inane remark. I walk out and the woman follows and I turn around and burst out laughing with her as we recall the man’s suggestion.

In the market, he fish monger flashes a faint smile of recognition. I select the fish and while he cleans it, I pick up the necessary vegetables. I need cucumbers and they are four cartons for one dinar but when I look inside, they are covered in white mold so I turn away. Suddenly in the quiet hub of the market, a loud roar. Aaaawhm. I look around. It definitely sounded like a yawn. Who on earth yawns like that so loudly? Around me Kuwaiti men dressed in crisp dishdashas shop for their homes. Women in black abayas, faces devoid of make up, shop for today’s lunch.

And then again! Aaaaahm. Yaaaaawwwn. Oh! It is one of the Chinese men..the older one. He roars out his yawns unabashedly. The younger man walking behind him passes by and I get a whiff of his just out of bed body odor. I can barely suppress my smile.

I go back to pick up the fish and as I pass the Saudi watermelons, the Bangladeshi assistant asks me: Raggi, Mama?

I smile and shake my head: La, shukran.

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