Captain Cat's Diaries

Spring in Kabul

cherry blossom against a stormy Kabul sky

There's been enough intrigue, deception, suspense and drama to fill a whole library these past few weeks working with the Afghan Government. The last 24 hours have been intense to say the least, yet I desperately feel the need to somehow document everything that is going on, hold onto every thought, record every conversation and recount each episode of this adventure as it unravels, but I am on my knees and wouldn't know where to start in any case.

I have a bird's eye view of State building in all its ugly, messy, twisted and tortured glory... and from my very privileged position sitting in the office next to the Senior Economic Advisor to the president, I have witnessed ALL sorts. I'll probably have to remain fairly cryptic about the whole thing lest there be a knock on my door in the middle of the night; suffice to say that this has been one of the most fascinating jobs I have ever had. It's exhausting, exhilarating and frustrating, but I think I am going to miss it all once it's over.

So just to give you an update, in light of the fact that I have neglected my blog so shamefully these past few weeks, we have about a week to finish this paper and the politics surrounding this process are sky high - I've got the yanks on one side (sorry, Americans) who are bullying their way into making sure interests are represented (after all they are the biggest donors here), mysterious, secretive parallel structures being set up, squabbling government ministers on the other, and a twisted little sub-plot going on with two people unrelated to any of the above intent on sabotaging the whole thing from within (although no longer as of today, haha - fat spies: nul points; girls: 10 points); then there are all the donors and all manner of organisations and NGOs intent on getting their comments integrated in the document. As if that wasn't enough, there are four very nice but rather simple young men who as far as I can make out, make tea sometimes and clean our office; but I haven't quite worked out why they sometimes come and hover behind us and smile sheepishly. My two wonderful colleagues, Amy and Helen and I smile back politely and gently usher them out. Oh the dramas people! I feel utterly prepared for motherhood, whenever that should happen, it's brilliant.

And on that note, I'll be honest, I am SPENT. Off to bed now. x

One Day to Celebrate

You can close your eyes
And see a picture perfect life
Inside of your mind
Dreaming only of the days ahead
Wanted and wished for more than now
Or the days behind
You waste your time
The picture makes a promise
The flesh lets it be broken

(Tracy Chapman - lyrics from "Broken")

It was Women's Day yesterday. It's an international day which is celebrated in many countries around the world and funnily enough, it is celebrated here. Here is a country where women have very few rights or privileges, a country where girls as young as ten are forced to marry men old enough to be their grandfathers, where if she runs away she will be brought back against her will, maybe thrown in jail, maybe even killed to save the honour of her family. Here is a country where women in villages live in squalor in cramped compounds, and are forbidden to walk the streets alone or uncovered. Domestic violence is rife, women are second class citizens at best.

However, I was congratulated throughout the day yesterday, for being a woman. This was my day. And forgive my cynicism (I can't put my finger on what it was exactly), but somehow the whole day irritated me profoundly until at one point late in the afternoon when I returned to my desk having been absent for a few hours, where I had to simply laugh. A colleague had left a card on my laptop, a sweet gesture by all accounts, to congratulate me on this day. The card is a photograph of women at a conference or gathering ...and they are all covered from head to toe in sky blue burqas.

I would like to think that this was a joke, that my male colleague was being ironic and that he was mocking the absurdity of such an event here in a country such as this... but I don't think he was.

The flowers I received by some other colleagues are in a glass on my dining room table - they are lovely, but they're wilting and have no smell.

So in recognition of the women in Afghanistan and of how they see themselves and their own lives, here are some photos I took at an art exhibition a couple of weeks ago of some pretty incredible paintings done by Afghan women (the one above is also from this exhibition):

Book Meme

Here's a great meme that has been doing the rounds on various blogs these past few months, which I recently discovered thanks to the brilliantly clever and well-read Matt from A Guy's Moleskin Notebook. I'm not a huge meme fan, but this one seemed fun. I hereby tag everyone to join in.

Which book do you irrationally cringe away from reading, despite seeing only positive reviews? Anything by Paulo Coelho, although that may not be irrational.

If you could bring three characters to life for a social event (afternoon tea, a night of clubbing, perhaps a world cruise), who would they be and what would the event be? I would bring Woland to life from Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita; he oozes evil and charm and I think he would be fabulous to bring to a dinner party, if a little scary. I’d also bring Sebastian Flyte from Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited, because of his quirky eccentricity; he would make the evening fun. Lastly I would bring a character from The History Boys, a stunning play by Alan Bennett about a boy’s grammar school set in the early 1980s in the north of England, where a class of boys prepare to take their Oxbridge exams. I would bring along Mrs Lintott, their wry History teacher (in an otherwise all-male cast), played by Frances de la Tour. She would add some spice to the evening.

You are told you can’t die until you read the most boring novel on the planet. While this immortality is great for awhile, eventually you realize it’s past time to die. Which book would you expect to get you a nice grave? Definitely one of Boris Vian’s weird existential novels, probably L’Écume des Jours. I also found A Hundred Years of Solitude by Marquez a bit dull and should probably give that another go. I was sixteen when I read and I assume I missed the whole point.

Come on, we’ve all been there. Which book have you pretended, or at least hinted, that you’ve read, when in fact you’ve been nowhere near it? War and Peace, by Leo Tolstoy. Yes, I studied Russian Literature at university and no, I haven’t read it yet, although I once shamelessly let someone believe I had. I didn’t come out and say I had read it. I just didn’t say I hadn’t when the book was mentioned.

As an addition to the last question, has there been a book that you really thought you had read, only to realize when you read a review about it/go to ‘reread’ it that you haven’t? Which book? Can’t think of one (War and Peace perhaps? Maybe I did read it after all).

You’ve been appointed Book Advisor to a VIP (who’s not a big reader). What’s the first book you’d recommend and why? (if you feel like you’d have to know the person, go ahead of personalise the VIP) It depends who the VIP is. If it’s George Bush, maybe I would recommend The Hungry Caterpillar, because there are lots of pictures and I think it would be accessible to him (although I believe he has already read it). If it were someone a little more learned, I would have to go with Matt on this one, and say The Master and Margarita. Hands down. Why? Because it’s the greatest novel on the planet and will send shivers down your spine (just read the first three chapters, you’ll see). Bulgakov spent 12 years writing this satirical novel, and it was only published after his death – the only reason he was able to write it was because Stalin held him in some esteem, having enjoyed and commissioned some of his satirical plays in the 1920s. He was far more lenient with Bulgakov than with other Soviet writers and artists. Anyway, this book is about a great writer and his quest for truth; it's about the devil, who appears in Moscow with his mischievous, quirky no-good entourage (including Behemoth, an oversized talking black vodka-swilling cat); it’s about Pontius Pilate and Jesus, about greed, evil, love, truth, compassion and redemption. It’s utterly brilliant.

A good fairy comes and grants you one wish: you will have perfect reading comprehension in the foreign language of your choice. Which language do you go with? Russian. I can just about work my way through a Russian novel, although at a snail’s pace and will miss some of the more nuanced language and expressions. I would love to be able to speak this beautiful language perfectly in order to be able to read some of the world’s greatest authors in their own language. Cliched as it sounds, so much is lost in translation.

A mischievous fairy comes and says that you must choose one book that you will reread once a year for the rest of your life (you can read other books as well). Which book would you pick? Don Quijote by Cervantes.

I know that the book blogging community, and its various challenges, have pushed my reading borders. What’s one bookish thing you ‘discovered’ from book blogging (maybe a new genre, or author, or new appreciation for cover art-anything)? I haven’t been in the blogging world long enough really. Give me a few more months.

That good fairy is back for one final visit. Now, she’s granting you your dream library! Describe it. Is everything leatherbound? Is it full of first edition hardcovers? Pristine trade paperbacks? Perhaps a few favourite authors have inscribed their works? Go ahead-let your imagination run free. I love the libraries at Oxford uni (so much nicer and inspiring than the Social Sciences library at Bristol University, my Alma Mater, the outside of which is not dissimilar to a car park). It would have to be a gorgeous warm old oak-paneled room with a deep red carpet, with lots of natural light and some lovely nooks and crannies here and there. There would be comfy sofas and good reading lights. The shelves would all be accessible, not too high (otherwise what’s the point) (especially for the shorter among us). Books would be arranged in alphabetical order, by the author’s last name. Not bothered about first editions, but I'd make sure I had the best and most accurate translations for all the foreign language novels. There would also be a small table in a corner with a never-ending supply of fresh coffee and some large mugs. There would also be a couple of computers with super fast internet connection, and I would have access to all sorts of online research libraries.

Onwards and upwards

Well this is the first evening I've had to myself in a while and sadly it's going to be a short one because I am cream crackered (as my mother would say) (because it rhymes with "knackered", which in our part of the world means tired) and looking forward to getting into my rather unattractive flannel winter pyjamas and slipping into bed.

The good news is, the paper is almost finished... just a few more days. Then I'll have so much time I won't know what to do with myself. Actually yes I will. I'll catch up on all your lovely blogs for one, read, write and play my guitar, catch up with friends, maybe make some vegetable soup. I wouldn't say my options are endless but it'll be so good to have some time at last. AND turn my attentions to doing something about the audacious layer of winter insulation (shall we call it), that  crept up on me when I wasn't looking. Have you noticed how that happens? Fat can be so bold sometimes. No questions asked. You wake up and it's there and suddenly your trousers are too tight.

Despite the manic workload (and yes, I did manage to slip away for 48 hours to Dubai, it was fabulous, despite a freak sandstorm) things are ok. Kabul is asleep in winter's cold arms, but the days are getting discernibly longer and the crispness in the air is giving way to faint wisps of sweet smelling spring... or maybe I am dreaming that. But it has warmed up a little, as I noted earlier when I brought mud into our new house on the soles of my shoes. S got back from the States and we've moved into the guesthouse of the organisation he is now working for, in quite a nice area of Kabul. I am considered his 'spouse', which I have always been introduced as since we've been here (it would be culturally unacceptable for us to even be living together here unless we were husband and wife)... and without wanting to open up a can of worms, this is a label I am beginning to resent. I flinched internally earlier when I was asked to fill out a form needed for evacuation purposes (his NGO would evacuate me on the grounds that his is an accompanied post and I am living with him).

I'm starting to think seriously about what my role here is. I've been in Afghanistan for quite some time now, and have dipped in and out of various projects and research, trying to find my way and figure out what I want to do and where I feel I could be of most use. This latest project has been brilliant, being a small part of something which might make a difference in people's lives - a policy document which sets out detailed programmes and reforms which may or may not contribute to improving "security, governance and social and economic development". Thoughts on those later. But I feel as though I want to get my teeth into something more tangible, try to make a difference that might actually be felt and seen.

My current contract ends in a couple of months, so I have been looking around at various NGOs here, as I would love to get some programme management experience. Having said that, the other day, I was called up out of the blue and asked to come in for an interview for a post with the UN in one of the mission's outposts (the position would be in a small provincial sub-office - read "in the middle of nowhere" - possibly in the central highlands of Afghanistan, but it could be anywhere). I would be the only international staff and it would require taking on several roles at once. I would meet with all relevant local stakeholders, and report on a variety of issues ranging from political and governance affairs to human rights abuses, whilst managing an office and a small team of Afghan staff. I get excited when I think about this, it would undoubtedly be an incredible experience, fascinating, worthwhile and challenging, if a little lonely and possibly rather dangerous. It would certainly be a test of endurance.

A wonderful woman who I have grown to admire and am proud to call my friend, Frida, had a similar experience in the remote mountainous province of Ghor in Western Afghanistan last year. Frida is a fearless Human Rights officer with a big heart and did some incredible work out there; reading her posts has inspired me; if I were offered this position, thanks to some of her insights, I feel I could rise to this challenge.

I'm counting my chickens here, I might not even get the job - in which case I'd be happy to stay in Kabul, where I've got a solid group of friends and there is lots of interesting work too. Incidentally, thoughts of doing a PhD have been put on hold for the time being, at least for this year. I need more experience before tackling further studies (oh ok, so I didn't get round to writing my research proposal).

It's worth noting that the security situation here is pretty dire right now and things are set to get worse - this spring and summer are going to be particularly volatile apparently.

Moving swiftly on, my camera cord finally arrived, so here are some pictures I took in England at Christmas and the snowman day from a couple of weeks ago:

Christmas tree and oversized black dog

Little Miss Florence, former Afghan cat warrior / Swiss diplomat, preparing for a long and happy retirement on a cushion in her cottage kitchen and new home in England

In the absence of a carrot, we used half a green chilli for his nose.

Proud snowman architects, builders and tailors

Policy papers and snowmen

Just checking in very briefly to say hello. I'm in a bit of a work whirlwind at the moment, most of my life seems to be happening at the office these days, so I haven't had much time to sit and write properly.

Despite the long hours, it's such a worthwhile project and it's a privilege to be a part of something like this; plus I feel I am learning so much. We need to have finished the first draft of this vast policy document by next week, so it's all hands on deck. If anyone is interested, I can provide a link to the document once it's published on the Afghan Government website so you can get an idea of what it's all about. It is only being approved by the parliament in March and then by the World Bank at the end of March - so it may take a few months before it's available for the public to see.

In other news, I built a snowman on Friday! I still can't post any photos up as my camera cord hasn't arrived yet. It was the most therapeutic activity, following last Monday's horrific event. After long days at work with shorts outbursts of tears from nowhere, sleepless nights and haunting images, by the end of the week I was in desperate need of reconnecting with people. Everyone is still pretty shell-shocked by the whole thing, so getting together with a few friends on Friday and abandoning ourselves to the faint warmth of Kabul's cold winter sun on our faces, playing in the snow for a few hours felt incredible. I won't preach about how precious and fragile life is, but Monday was a wake-up call.

I have a wonderful new colleague, whose visit here is sadly short-lived, he has been flown in at the last minute to help us bring the document together. He is an incredibly inspiring and exceptionally good and clever person, who knows Afghanistan like the back of his hand, having spent 5 years here previously. He's one of these people who gets how the whole world works, and gets why people do what they do and why we are here in Afghanistan and what everyone's strategic interests are... if I could muster the energy right now, I would jot down all his thoughts and share some of the wisdom, but I'm too tired people! I'll spread the knowledge at a later date.

I'm going to do something a bit naughty next week. The deadline for our paper is this week-end, so by then everything should be done. I will hand in work on time like everyone else and then three days later I am going to smuggle myself out of the country to meet S in Dubai on his way back to Kabul! I'll be gone for all of three days, one of which is our measly one day off anyway, so I'm hoping no one will even notice I've gone...

x

Writer's Island Prompt: "Treasure"

"Sssshhh", James said. "look, it's dead". We hovered together in a corner of the playground, like two bees collecting pollen from the same flower. He held out his hand, glancing over his shoulder in case the teacher on duty should see us, and opened it. A baby bird, fallen from its nest, grey and yellow bulges of intestines visible through the paper thin soft bird skin of its oversized belly. I stared in horrified silence at its grotesque face, swollen dark eyes and a razor thin yellow down-turned beak, apparently struck with grief by its own death. We marvelled at its large head and thin drooping neck, its stumpy stubbly featherless wings, pulling them open and letting them drop against its motionless body, the same thought going through our heads. Its poor, poor mother. It brought tears to my eyes.

The bell rang, and we lept. Hearts racing, we argued fiercely about who should keep the bird. "I found it" growled James. "Yes, but I'm your best friend!" I hissed back, and snatched it from his hand, putting it in my pocket, careful to keep an opening in case it should need to breathe. Once back in the classroom, I hurried to the coat pegs and delicately placed it in the bottom of my satchel, where it wouldn't be disturbed by the hustle and bustle of that morning's activities.

"We've got a secret", James proudly told our friends, chalk smeared all over his face and apron. "It's treasure" I added smugly, poking a wooden spoon into a tub of gelatinous water-coloured glue.

All day, we firmly turned down our classmates' pleas to see it. The day crawled by, dead hours in the afternoon marked by a loud ticking clock and Mrs Tantum's clear reading voice. James seemed to have forgotten all about the bird, but I kept a firm look out and glared at anyone who brushed too close to our prize.

At 3 o'clock the bell rang, and we poured out on a loud wave of high-pitched chatter into the breezy air filled with birdsong. James ran over to me and we frog-marched another friend into a corner to the annoyance of waiting mothers, and showed him our secret treasure. He gasped and ran screaming.

Later that afternoon at home, I wrapped the bird in a hankerchief and prepared for its burial. I dug a small hole at the bottom of our garden with my red spade and placed the hankerchief inside, then gently laid the bird on top of it, stroking its cold tummy one last time, still amazed at its softness. Feeling bereft and ashamed, I hastily filled the hole with lumps of fresh cold earth, and placed a handful of daisies on the newly formed mound.

The next morning I ran out before breakfast, barefoot through cold dewy grass and dug it up again; it went back into my satchel.

Too close

Some of you may have heard that there was an attack on one of the hotels in Kabul this evening. It was the Serena hotel, where I go most evenings after work to use the gym. I've been pretty shaken up all evening. I am not even sure what happened. The media don't have that much on it just yet as journalists aren't being allowed too close to the scene.

This evening, I was on my way there with my gym bag. It was just after 6.00 pm. Ten minutes away from the hotel and ten minutes from when the attack took place. As I was setting off, I was summoned back to the office for a meeting, at which point I cursed because I had been looking forward to an evening at the gym, and even more looking forward to a nice hot shower. My boss is somewhat unpredictable, and if he calls a meeting, we heed his call. 

We had a three hour work meeting in which everyone seemed to be fine. We had a brief five minute panic session when the news came through of what happened, but then the meeting resumed. The pragmatism was killing me, I wanted to scream "people do you realise how CLOSE that was??" Was I the only one shaking life a leaf and going to pieces inside?

I am actually rather angry, as at one point I wanted to talk about it and my colleague casually dismissed it with a wave of her hand, like it was an everyday occurrence and people get killed all the time. I took a few moments outside to compose myself, made some calls and texted people I was safe.

It was a little too close to home this evening. I think we should be allowed to put a frickin' meeting on hold until a later date and be supportive to one another in these times. I'm sorry, I'm not a hard-arsed aid worker who has seen it all and is blaze to this type of thing. People got killed this evening. Some people will live with the trauma of witnessing this their entire lives. I read on BBC that "one of the gym ladies" was killed. I speak to them all every day, I can't even bear to think about it.

The power is about to cut off and I need to get to bed before everything goes black.

Frozen

This past week has been a good time for me to spend quality time by myself. S is still in the States, waiting to hear about a position back here in Kabul, so when not out with my gaggle of girls, I have had a few evenings by myself to write, read and think. It's also been an extremely cold week, tonight being a good few degrees colder than it has been in recent days (it's about -17 C this evening). Our little kitchen has all but frozen over down there at the bottom of the garden, so suppers have consisted of running upstairs to my housemate's kitchen (she has been away, and although her kitchen is also icy, it's a few degrees warmer than ours is), heating up a can of Heinz Tomato Soup before running back down again to sit beside my little wood stove. Not a healthy week in that respect.

I am, by nature, a positive person, of a sunny disposition and know that I am open about most things; when things get bad, I can usually take a deep breath and step back and let it all wash over me. It's not difficult for me to turn to people when I need them, to have a good cry or talk to the people I know love and care about me.

Here in Afghanistan the isolation isn't easy and it's a constant effort to keep bridges strong and stay in touch on a daily basis with folks back home. When things get tough, I know I can reach out through the medium of a skype session with one of my close friends or my mum, or here it might be over a glass of wine (or a bottle, depending on how bad things are) with a friend; a session with my diary, or through lying on my sofa with one of my boy's glorious soothing music in the background to take me to the edges of heaven and back as only they know how (Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms etc.)... yet somehow, there are times when I know that none of this will do any good.

This year I may or may not choose to face some difficult choices; if I don't, it's because I will have chosen  the easy way out, and whilst that is a vaguely reassuring thought, it also makes me angry with myself. We have a responsibility to ourselves (and indeed to others) to make tough choices sometimes. Sometimes the hopelessness and despair I feel about taking charge of my life is too overwhelming to contemplate and I snuggle back under the illusion that it'll get better or go away. I even caught myself making a New Year's Resolution about living more in the present, in the here and now and enjoying each day for what it is. Ostensibly, this is a wonderful resolution to make; but for me, I know it's about avoiding thinking about taking an important and much needed step.

So where to go from here? Maybe I should accept that the here and now, whilst serving a more unhealthy motive for me initially, will eventually bring an answer by itself.

Seasonally challenged

Is the pressure on or WHAT to come up with a tantalizingly inspirationally wise witty wistful fun-filled post (with a sprinkling of nutmeg and cinnamon) to mark the beginning of a new year...!?! Abso-bloody-lutely.

Hello everyone! Happy everything, I hope you had a wonderful time with all your loved ones. Was Santa a stingey old git or did he deliver?  Are you (like me) wearing a brand new pair of warm fluffy pink ballerina slippers? Have you overdone it on the Christmas trifle? Are you feeling faint wisps of wintry pastiness hovering over you, yet ready to face 2008 with a smile and steely resolve to brush away those cobwebs (note craftily placed yet tenuous reference to the above photo), get those muscles oiled and in full working order again?

So the new year started rather unceremoniously with a tickle in my throat at about 11.49 pm. "Hmm". I thought to myself (which was still pretty much my first thought as we wobbled gracefully stepped over into 2008). And over the course of the next few days, this throatal sensation magically and mysteriously metamorphosed into jihadi flu! Which I thought was rather cheeky, all things considered.

But pain and misery aside, I am breathing a (germ-ridden) happy and contented sigh to have been fortunate enough to spend glorious quality time with my family, friends and Florence at long last. What a welcome home that cat gave me, I was bowled over. There was no resentment or cold shoulder on her part - just lots of cat smiles, purrs and Flovin' (Florence-loving).

[cue: music of your choosing during a short interlude as I just step away for a moment to put another log in my small Afghan stove].

It was a wonderful holiday involving long brisk walks on cliff tops and through woods, trips to Oxford and London to visit friends, and lots of sitting around in my favourite 14th century pub in my hometown drinking pints of freshly brewed ale and mulled wine by the casket-full. And of course presents and food. (and a moment of glory for yours truly, as my cream cheese and caviar-topped blinis received full marks from guests at a post-Christmas drinks party).

One of the presents I gave my father this year was a CD with Bach's Concerto for Two Violins in D Minor on it. I don't know if any of you have heard this stunning, spine tingling piece of classical music, but it is one of my very favourites and holds a particular significance for me, as I used to play the first movement of it with my father (as the name suggests, it's a violin concerto for 2 violins, with one violin coming in after the other and echoing what the first is playing...classic Bach genius. Precise, perfect and simply beautiful). At one point in time, my parents were thinking of sending me to the Yehudi Menuhin school of music but then, as these things happen, I lost interest in the violin and moved on to other things (such as boys, sulking, smoking in the field behind our house, Doc Marten boots etc). It was a dark and gloomy day in our household the day I packed my violin away for the last time. I have picked it up from time to time since then, the last time being a couple of years ago, when I rifled through the myriad of music books gathering dust on top of our piano at home, and found this piece by Bach. Faint pencil scribbles were still visible all over the pages, and faded highlighted sections on complicated bits where I used to need to concentrate more... I was very rusty of course, but holding my old violin felt so natural, it was like getting onto an old and much loved bike.

Earlier today I received an e-mail from my father saying he would like us to play it again one day together; it was one of those teary, lumps-in-throat moments. I would love to play it again.

I would like to be able to tie all this together with some wise words into a heart-warming moral about past and present, but I can't. This story stands alone, but I wanted to share it and it seemed like a good place to start my 2008 blogging extravaganza!

All that to say... Happy New Year everyone. May this year be filled with hope and happiness and peace for you all. I can't wait to catch up on all of your lovely blogs and see what you've all been up to!

NB: I have a stack of photos to share from the holidays. As the Law of Sod would have it, however, I seem to have left my camera cord at home. It should be winging its way out here to Afghanistan in the next week or so; until then I'm posting a picture I took last year in Geneva as summer turned to autumn and spiders spun their silvery webs in final attempts to stock up on yummy fly juice before the cold set in.

Wyatt, I am rolling

...I'm almost too tired to write, having had an inordinately long day in the office. I handed in my paper, switched off my laptop, and bid farewell to my colleagues for the next two weeks. Elated and excited as I am, I can barely muster the energy to lift my hand to grab a handful of cashew nuts, sitting beside me here on the sofa. Oh alright then, if you insist...

The point is, S and I fly out tomorrow to Dubai, I am counting the hours now. We have reserved a room in a rather expensive hotel for two nights before we fly to London and part ways at Heathrow Airport, on our way to our respective families for the Christmas holidays. Two days in warm Dubai, where it's Friday every day of the week. Except for Tuesday. Tuesday morning will see us running along the beach and plopping into the warm Gulf Sea. There will be shopping malls (lots of those), spas and sushi (sushi people!)... strolls by the beach in the evening, ice cream galore, cinemas, and everything else that we don't have access to here in Kabul.

I'm excited. About everything really. Excited to be going home and breathing in fresh country air, seeing family, friends and much loved pets, excited at the thought of seeing S again in a couple of weeks,  (although I will miss him on Christmas morning and many other mornings) moving in to (yet another) new place together when we get back to Afghanistan (drastic thoughts from the other day have been folded up and put in a drawer for safe keeping). Lots to look forward to.

These past few months in blog land have been brilliant. Surprising and such good fun. I've met some truly lovely people through the medium of "the blog" and it's been fantastic to come here, catch up with all of your news, and be able to write to my heart's content. Thank you all so much for being so kind, all of your comments have meant the world to me.

I'm not sure why this is turning into some sort of farewell note,  I'll probably be back in a few days once I'm back amongst the rolling hills and woods of the 'shire. In the meantime, take care everyone and see you soon!

x