I spy something beginning with 'P'...

Mohamed wasn't even a name, Jesus had yet to walk this earth, the mighty Colosseum of Rome was just a patch of earth, the Athenian Parthenon wasn't even an idea and the English were busy playing in wet mud when the Pharaohs were erecting monumental temples of gargantuan and unprecedented proportions. The technology used was so far ahead of its time that historians and archaeologists are still scratching their heads in aware and confusion. And so were we.

The temple above is in Abu Simbel and was built by Ramses II as a birthday present and expression of love to his wife Nefertari. Two things: first, everyone told us it was him, but my suspicions are that he had a few hundred thousand minions to do it for him. But what do I know. Second, an expression of love? When Ju heard this, I could see her melt, and so began her love affair with a man who died thousands of years ago. Whenever she heard yet another tale of how great and masterful Ramses II was, I would catch her look at me and she would deflate a little. This was probably due to the fact that a) I hadn't yet built her a temple to express my love b) I hadn't single handedly defeated a rampaging Nubian army... not yet anyway c) I was making her stay in flea ridden youth hostels d) I had made numerous attempts to sell her in exchange for a couple of camels to street ruffians and e) my face was pink and blistering with sunburn.

As those of you who have had the pleasure to accompany my wife to a museum can testify, Ju is very methodical in her approach. Even if she were in the International Museum of Accounting and Tax Returns, she would insist on thoroughly reading every panel, scrutenise every display and committing to memory even the blandest of information. This will take hours and even if she admits to not being interested in what she is reading, she'll keep reading just in case something interesting pops up. Perhaps this is why she remains my dutiful wife despite not being as wonderful as Ramses II, she is possibly waiting for me to either say something interesting or build her a temple. (Well, Cheri, it is my birthday very soon, so you might want to stop reading Private Eye and get your hammer and trowel out and start building something quick, if you don't want to get caught by time).

As for me, I would simply stare ahead and try to make sense of what was in front of me... with absolutely no success what so ever. (That's not quite true: you did painfully understand the very graphic engravings of the generals who cut the penises of their victims to help the countings at the end of a battle.)

Those of you with ultra sharp vision may detect a Ju at the bottom of this magnificent temple. We found it absolutely incredible that these structures were built, completely forgotten, re-discovered, totally dismantled (due to the Nile Dam project), moved a hundred metres up some hills and re-built to the exact same specifications. To this day, Egyptians remain utter nutters.

Our favourite of the Egyptian gods was Horus. Horus, the all seeing hawk. For some reason, he reminded me of my old school head teacher. Horus had that way of making me feel gut renchingly guilty for absolutely no identifiable reason. When passing his suspicious gaze, I would want to confess everything, only I had nothing to confess. (Even the lack of temple building for your wife?)

Another one of those Ju's looking completely content. If you look closely, you can visibly see her head being larger than previous posts due to her brain size increasing by approximately 37 percent. (May I also point out the fact that this photo took a lot of effort. Please note the total absence of tourists on the picture. Extremely rare phenomenon, a temple without tourists. It's a 6 o'clock in the morning job. No rest for the wicked.)

Egypt was a country of intrigue and its history is not simply vivid and gobsmacking but totally humbling. The food, as you now know, was far from gobsmacking and that's why we then went to New York...

Egypt - but no temples.

A little bit like this cat's creepy eyes, Egypt is a country of extreme contrast. Magnificent monuments a thousand years before their time stand out against a country crippled by archaic and outdated infrastructures. Natives who go out of their way to help you and are generous to the point of embarrassment stand in the shadows of those who aggressively demand money for the most minute of reasons. Sun drenched sand so dry that it doesn't even stick to your skin can be found hundreds of meters away from the Nile's fertile and moist soil.

There are, however, some things where contrasts do not exist, such as the food. Now, I don't usually like making sweeping statements, but one thing that was a source of profound and heart felt sorrow was Egypt's culinary talent. I cannot remember a single meal that I enjoyed or one that my digestive tract didn't punish me for eating. The raw ingredients are superb. Plenty of fresh vegetables, aromatic spices and tender meats. The cooks on the other hand, well, I never saw them but based on the dishes I ate, I think I can only describe them as follows: Imagine a 16th century village idiot who has just smashed his head on a large rock and is slightly more confused than usual. Now inject him with a cocktail of methamphetamine, cat urine and rancid whale blubber. Put him in a kitchen that is so filthy even the cockroaches are going on strike. Blindfold him, spin him round forty times and tie his fingers up with elastic bands and put them in a pair of socks. Then ask him to unleash his creative fury and cook a delicious meal. Only, the meal won't be delicious. It will be a pile of miscellaneous mush that is so unappetising it makes you want to die instantly. Don't come to Egypt for the food. In fact, bring your own.

Asides from the food, Egypt proved to be a highly enjoyable experience and the people were friendly enough. They would greet us with an array of welcomes ranging from 'hey you, come here' to 'lucky man, how many camels for your wife?'. On more than one occasion I would attempt to enter the initial phase of negotiation and demand at least three camels in exchange for my Ju. I am not sure who was more afraid; Ju at the prospect of having her husband sell her for such a lowly sum to some miscellaneous and smelly street seller; the miscellaneous and smelly street seller at the prospect of having to follow up on something intended as a joke and then being forced to marry a fiery tempered Frenchie; or me at the multiple dilemmas of importing three camels into the United Kingdom of Great Britain. In the end, the street sellers always found a way out and even my pleas of giving them camels to take my wife, they would politely decline and move on to an easier target.

As you can see, these two photos are of natives in their native habitat.

Despite initial thoughts, this is not a native and it is in fact my Ju. She is on top of Mount Sinai after a night long trek up this glorious peak. Glorious in the sense of its biblical significance and the panorama from the windswept summit. Not so glorious are the twenty thousand other 'pilgrims' and, the ten thousand camels carrying them up there and the thirty thousand tons of steaming camel turds. Despite that, the sunrise over the Sinai range were a truly memorable experience and possibly one of the most spectacular sights I have had the fortune to witness.

The above photos were taken while doing a desert trek. The colours were amazing, the sky was clear, the heat was ferocious and our guides very friendly.

As a break from the dust, the heat, the dirt and the hustle and bustle of Egypt's streets, we decided on a little Nile Cruise. One hundred other Englishmen decided on the same thing. The above photo is 4pm tea time on our boat. Note, the structure and order of this queue. Patience and fairness is the name of the game. The Egyptians, however, have a slightly different method of queueing to the British. Quite simply, it is a free for all where the biggest, loudest and pushiest individuals get served first.

If you ever spend time in Egypt: find a queue, a cool drink, some monkey's nuts (not the literal ones) and watch. The English tourists would form a nice, neat and structured line where fairness and order reign. That is until a local employs his own strategy: he would approach the neat line, hesitate slightly, walk past and conveniently slot himself in front of the first person in the queue. This would be greeted by a chorus of tuts and huffing and cries along the lines of it not being cricket. Eventually, the sense of profound injustice would wash over and they would resume the wait. That is to say, until the next local copies the behaviour of the last and the tutting and huffing resumes. But despite this, the English would maintain faith in their system and stay true to the safety of order. After the ninth or tenth time of local line breaking, order would crumble and the chaotic side of the English would expose its ugly and unsightly head and they would descend into a free for all style of queuing as employed by all those on non-European decent. That said, I much prefer the Egyptian method as it is far more entertaining and sociable.

The next update will be the bread and butter of Egypt: Temples. Watch this space... just not too often as our speed is slow and our update sporradic.

It's snow time

The sunny beaches of Australia have never been so far away. The snow here has already melted, but it left us enough time to go out and play and take some nice pictures.

Here’s one, but if you like lamb and don’t want to be put off eating it, just scroll down quickly and close your eyes as you do so, as the next picture shows the cutest baby sheep ever.

Even Phil considered the idea of becoming vegetarian when faced by those innocent creatures of the nearby field(err, no I didn’t...actually I thought about building a fire, skewering one and turning the wee thing into a spit roast).

Although it looks like this next picture was taken at the far flung North Pole, it was only taken a few minutes from where we now live. And no, that’s not the North Pole, just East Sussex.

We should maybe start looking for another name for our blog; somehow, Under the Aussie Sun doesn’t seem so appropriate anymore.

Our Hanzel-and-Gretel-like cottage is becoming more and more ‘homey’. We have unpacked all our boxes (which appear to number into the thousands) and put up our picture frames on the (obscenely uneven) walls, so we now feel more like home. However, we’re still trying to get used to the uncommon architecture of the house, and make all efforts possible to avoid banging our heads on the low beams. We’re counting and the score at the moment is: 3 points for Phil and 4 for me (you earn one point each time you bang your head. So if you want to play and earn points, why don’t you come and pay us a visit. The only visitors we’ve had so far are my parents, and they were not much fun to play with, they are good beam-dodgers. Next weekend, Celia and Thomas are coming, and I have high expectations of my very tall brother-in-law... hee, hee, watch out Thomas)! (My wife is making it sound like a fun game, but let me assure you that the first few times it felt like a sniper had shot me in the head and before I knew it my feet were in the air and I was on my rear end... not so fun, especially with a cup of piping hot tea in hand)

The last and only other time I felt tall like that was in Vietnam, where I was even taller than the national Basketball team.

Sigh, we cannot stay here forever and we are now looking for a house to buy and this marks a clear end to out days of youth. A few months ago Phil and I would have furious debates about the best way to crack-open coconut. Now our pillow talk is about the differences between free hold and lease holds, fixed or tracker mortgages, two bedroom or three bedrooms and which bank offers the best annual percentage ratings. It’s so much fun! (If you don’t want to come and visit us now, you’re forgiven!)

The good news is that I have been offered a job to start at the end of the month. So this means I won’t have to spend the whole day on my own anymore. I’m starting to feel like a mix between Snow White (without the pretty dress) and Mme Bovary (without all the lovers). I feel obliged to knit and bake, just because of the countryside mood this house is putting me in. I’m looking forward to starting work, even though the school is quite far away. But never mind, as Jess suggested, I shall use the driving time to sing out loud to JJG’s songs and not feel guilty as no one can hear me.

Phil is still working in Eastbourne, and slowly accepting the fact that unlike Australia or Scotland, he cannot simply storm into people’s houses and avoid paperwork as a consequence (‘tis true, ‘tis sad, ‘tis not fair).

Here’s one of our neighbours. Not very talkative, but friendly enough.

And to get to the village square, from our house, we must cross this field.

We are surrounded by animals: sheep, horses, countless birds, rabbits and even badgers and ferrets.

No more fluffy koalas or cheeky kangaroos, but no more creepy spiders and ugly preying mantas either.

Our village, Alfriston, is not far from Brighton on the South coast. In fact, you don’t get more English than Alfriston. During the 2^nd World War, soldiers fighting abroad were apparently sent pictures of the village to inspire them to keep on fighting for good old England.

The post office on the village square.

Talking of Britishness and the 2^nd World War...Britain is a country in crisis at the moment, and it’s not just because of the recession (or, as our well-spoken Prime minister put it, depression. Good old Gordon, nothing like a cheerful leader to perk up the troops). No, the main cause of the crisis at the moment is the heavy load of snow that is falling over the country. On Monday, London woke up covered in snow and, not being used to it and catered for it, the buses and trains were not able to circulate. Some people complained about not being able to go to work and some people rejoiced about not being able to go to work!

But everyone was united in their surprise when told that buses would not be running. How surprising indeed, as during the war, when the Germans were bombing the hell out of London, the Brits, valiantly brave as they are, were still able to hop on the bus in London. Some renowned war-experts have suggested that should the Luftwaffe threw over buckets of snow instead of bombs, they might have won the war. Who knows?

Before I stop, I would like to share this beautiful poem sent to me by our friend Peter, in Australia. The poem is entitled: The Australian Summer. It is a beautiful piece of literature, and I hope that even if you haven’t been there, you’ll appreciate its candour, and lyrical values. It certainly transported me back to this beautiful, mysterious, untamed country Australia is.

The Australian Summer, by Laura McIntyre.

It’s fu***ng HOT!

And last one before I go on to knitting socks and baking cakes, I would like to know how many of you share my thoughts regarding Phil’s contributions to the blog. Who, other than me, thinks that he is seriously taking the piss for not writing any posts for ages, and who else still remembers his promise to tell us all about Egypt and New York, and show us some apparently beautiful pictures taken with his new toy?

I’m thinking about starting a new Facebook group regarding the matter, but in the mean time, please let him know what you think about his absence: Please vote on the right, or even better, leave him a message in the commentary section of this post. I’m thinking the more people nag him, the more likely he is to give in. (What an evil wife I can sometimes be. Cackle, cackle, cackle)! (Cheers, Ju!)

Australia

Vendredi soir, Phil et moi avons bravé le froid et l’obscurité et sommes allés voir Australia au cinéma. Enfin, ‘cinéma’, c’est un bien grand mot. En Ecosse, on habitait en plein centre culturel d’Edimbourg. On pouvait aller, à pied, a non moins de CINQ cinémas! En fait, pour ceux qui sont venus nous voir, vous savez qu’un de ces cinémas, le Cameo, était en fait l’extension de notre appart. On y allait en chaussons! (Ah, de me rappeler de notre petite vie écossaise m’apporte un petit pincement au cœur). Enfin, tout ça pour dire que nous sommes devenus des experts en architecture et design de cinémas. Et le cinéma de vendredi dernier défi toute architecture et design connus des communs mortels. C’est en fait une église recyclée qui fait office à la fois d’espace culturel, de salle des fêtes, de centre d’exposition et bien sur de cinéma. Et pour y accéder, il faut d’abord traverser le cimetière. C’est en fait très bucolique et apporte un charme supplémentaire à notre nouvelle vie de campagne. Et a cerise sur le cake, c’était la tasse de the, qu’on nous sert dans un mug et qu’on peut boire en regardant le film. Ceux qui nous connaissent bien savent que notre drogue tient en effet dans un mug et se boit avec un nuage de lait.

Il y a quelques mois de ca, vous vous souviendrez peut-être, nous avions été dans un autre cinéma qui défiait toutes lois de l’architecture cinématographe ! C’était à Darwin, tout au nord de l’Australie, ça s’appelait le deckchair cinema, parce qu’on était installé dans des chaises longues, et c’était en plein air. Le film que nous y avions vu était sans intérêt, et pourtant, l’expérience reste inoubliable. Ceci à cause des possums qui se faufilaient entre les transats, à la recherche d’un pop corn égaré. Ceux-là, on n’est pas prêt de les oublier (surtout que j’embêtais tout le monde assis à côté de nous, avec mon flash. La présence de ces marsupiaux aux yeux diaboliques me captivait bien plus que le film dont j’ai déjà oublié le nom. Celui-ci était particulièrement téméraire).

Malgré le manque distinct de marsupiaux dans l’église/cinéma, on a adoré le film. Fans de Baz Lurhmann, on n’a pas été déçu. Et puis aussi, ça se passe en Australie. Chaque scène nous apportait un souvenir différent de notre aventure. Surtout celles ou on y voit le cinéma à Darwin dont je viens de parler. Et pour les filles, y a Hugh Jackman, qui ne gâche en rien le film!

J’ai quitté la salle en larmes, moins à cause de l’histoire qu’à cause de tout ce que ça a remué dans ma petite tête.

Allez, encore une petite pour la route.