ENGLISH MUM: never knowingly undercatered

You probably remember that J recently gave herself a rather ravishing makeover, and rather good she looks too. This all stemmed from an irrational fear (nurtured, I have to say, by the none too tactful C) that she would turn into some mad, dog-woman, with wild hair and oversized, smelly jumpers. Mind you, as a working Mum who wears nice clothes and (shock horror!) tights on a daily basis, she was never likely to descend to such depths as bobbly fleeces covered in dog hair. I, only the other hand, am already half way there.

I touched on this very issue during my once-weekly chat with my neighbour’s daughter, L, on the long slog to recover the wheelie bins from their position on the corner of the lane (the bin men won’t hear of walking down to the house, so we have to do all the hard work).

L was expressing sympathy over B, and I was telling her how lovely her Dad had been. In between us, their mad, scruffy little monster of a dog, Holly, was bounding about and generally trashing everyone’s trousers. As we compared muddy jogging bottoms, we agreed that it’s not easy living down a lane made solely of mud with the consistency of custard, and it’s certainly not worth being either fashionable or smart, as mud is no respecter of labels: Prada or Primark, it’s still going to get trashed, and I personally favour Primark (sorry, J C Penney). For example, this morning I rolled out of bed, made breakfast, supervised tooth brushing, and pulled on an old black jumper and some green combats that have seen better days. I scraped my hair back with a clip and smeared on some moisturiser. High maintenance? I don’t think so.

I do harbour a secret paranoia that one day Hubby will leave me for some fragrant, Gucci-wearing advertising executive, who can walk in heels, wouldn’t be seen dead in combats (let alone those with several muddy paw prints decorating the lower leg) and whose hair doesn’t stick up because it hasn’t been brushed today. Mind you, the amount of hassle my last haircut caused, I’ve never dared ask for another one. Maybe I’m due - it’s probably been six months. It’s not that I don’t want to be fashionable, its just that my geographical location makes it a challenge. I often reminisce about the happy hours I spent in the Harlequin Centre in Watford, browsing in Monsoon and lusting after ridiculously impractical shoes in Dune. Frankly now if it wasn’t for Red magazine and the internet, I could well emerge from my self-imposed exile in rural Ireland to find that everyone’s wearing silver foil, or bubble wrap or something, and I’d be the laughing stock of fashionistas all over Dublin.

My point, and I do have one - honest, is that if you choose to live in a big field, surrounded by cows, sheep and mud-flavoured Bird’s custard, fashion somehow passes you by. What I need is a trip to the big city, or the unfeasibly large shopping centre at a push, to reignite my passion for fashion and keep my finger on the pulse of what’s hot in the capital. I’ll mention it to Hubby. Oh, and I could do with some new wellies too….

After a huge breakfast of porridge, yoghurt and dog mixer (greyhounds like weird stuff), our new lodger staggered back to her bed with a rather enormous pile of food still balancing worryingly on her nose. Obviously being boss-eyed is an advantage because she soon realised there were ‘extras’ on her nose, and she cleaned those off with one swipe of her long tongue before giving a large burp and falling asleep yet again (exhausting all that eating, obviously).

Very soon, we set off back up North to J’s, where the children had had a fine time, staying up until 2am watching DVDs with her son, C, walking several miles to the swings (J took no nonsense from our rather pampered offspring) and polishing off great big cups of hot chocolate with cream and chocolate sprinkles. They were a bit disappointed that they hadn’t seen more of the lovely C (senior), J’s other half who was so kind with us after B died, but who lives a frenetic existence between home and his racing kennels at Laois (pronounced Leash). They’re both rather taken with C and were hoping to take advantage of his vast knowledge of greyhounds and subject the poor man to a Mastermind-type barrage of questions. In the end, they apparently settled on quizzing J on Ireland and Catholicism (and Hubby and I joined in asking for explanations on Irish politics and the North/South situation), so that kept her busy. Dizzy was rather pleased to see everybody, but again settled quickly onto her bed. J made us another of her massive Sunday lunches - roast beef and all the trimmings, which was just as good as last time, rounded off with apple crumble, custard and ice cream…yum.

It was then that we had a crisis of conscience. Should we offer to foster Dizzy until a home came along? I wasn’t sure that I was ready for another dog, but Hubby especially was very taken with Dizzy, and I felt guilty that she would be going to J’s kennels until a new home could be found for her. I think my biggest worry was that she wasn’t used to being indoors and would need training and - more importantly - a firm hand to teach her how to behave. Firm handling wasn’t exactly my strong point with B (’sit, no sit..SIT!’), and I started to worry that I would do the wrong thing, or worse, make her harder to rehome in the long term. In the end, the decision was taken out of our hands, as J pointed out to the children that Dizzy needed to see a vet to have her stitches removed, and for a thorough check-up and nail trim.

So we waved sadly goodbye to J, C and poor Dizzy - her ear tattoos pointed the finger at her owner, who had given her real name to J and obviously forgot that J would look her up, putting paid to her cock and bull story. The children talked non-stop about their fabulous weekend (’wicked!’), but by the time we could see the bright blue top of the big bridge in Drogheda, they were fast asleep.

Well, finally I’ve dragged myself to my computer - helped somewhat by a delivery this morning of a flat-pack computer table so I can finally release my dining table for its intended use. The postie also brought a rather sad bundle - the squeaky ‘Dirty Rotten Kitty’ cat toy that I had ordered for B but had forgotten all about. Bless him, he said to Hubby ‘I’m afraid I’m the bearer of a rather sad parcel’ (everyone in the village seems to know everything about us). Never mind, the kitty can sit next to me on my new computer desk and keep me company.

After a horrible, horrible week which left me thinking that I’d never post another thing as I’d never be able to bear all the pics of B, our weekend was a little happier and surprisingly dog-filled. Lovely, lovely J invited the boys to stay for the weekend, promising a fun and E number filled time, which put a smile back on their sad little faces. We dropped them off on Saturday afternoon, only for J to be called to the stadium as an unwanted greyhound had turned up there. God only knows how she does her job and remains the most optimistic person I know. Anyhoo, Hubby gave her a lift, and they shortly returned with a rather sad looking black greyhound with a white ‘tuxedo’, who had been an ‘unwanted family pet’. Of course, as soon as J took one look at her astonishingly thick coat (and smelled her), it was at once obvious that she was an unwanted racer, who had never seen the inside of a house in her life. Given her obvious rejection, the little girl was very friendly, and gave Hubby’s ears a jolly good wash while J looked her over. She discovered that this poor little love had not only got a good few scars and scrapes, but also still had her stitches in from recently being neutered (J insists on this to deter disreputable people trying to breed from her rescue dogs). Watching her turn round in circles once, twice, three times before settling in her bed, J decided to call her ‘Dizzy’. It suited her.

Seeing as J was looking after our offspring as well as her own, we offered (with heavy hearts it had to be said), to take the little scrap and give her a bath and a good meal, then bring her back in the morning. She was as good as gold all the way home in the car, and was equally well behaved in the bath, where she seemed to lose half her bodyweight in muck and old fluff. She seemed unused to the warm water, and sat down, rather wobbly legged in the water while Hubby gently washed her. Lifting her out proved a problem, but again she accepted all this silently, and even managed a wag of the tail when devouring an enormous dinner.

Once dry and clean, we got the chance to have a proper look at her. She really was pretty, with big ginger eyes (slightly boss-eyed, I have to say but who’s perfect?), and a super-soft, fluffy coat. She had several scruffs and bald bits, and her little nose was a bit bald, but she was sweet and friendly. Greyhounds really do have a lovely nature.

We built a fire, then pulled the old duvet that J had given us into the lounge, where she curled up (after doing her customary circling), watching us a bit suspiciously. Shortly, she obviously decided that we were okay after all, and joined us on the sofa, where she wedged her head in my armpit and fell fast asleep. She cried a little when we finally left her for the night, but soon settled and the next thing we knew it was 10am. She was ridiculously pleased to see us and trotted happily off with Hubby for a walk, before diving straight back inside, jumping up all over me with muddy paws, then rushing straight in and up onto the sofa, where she pawed all the cushions up into a big heap and planted herself on top like the king of the castle.

I’d just like to say, on behalf of Hubby, #1 and #2, that I’m so grateful for all the lovely emails and forum posts I’ve received since losing B. People have said lovely things, and so many have said that they feel like they know us, through the blog and the photos, etc. I took this picture of B in the bottom field with the house in the background yesterday afternoon just before she disappeared.

Hubby and I have thought constantly about how difficult it is to strike a balance when owning a greyhound. By their very nature they love to run, and it seems almost cruel to keep them on the lead all the time, but now we’ve experienced what can happen, maybe it’s best to keep them close to you.

Poor little #2 came home with a lovely piece of writing he’d done at school. At the risk of making myself blub yet again (I dissolved into tears at the dog food in Tesco yesterday which was somewhat embarrassing), here’s what he wrote:

Becks’ Life Adventure

We had some fun times with you
I hope you had the same with us
Goodbye and for now and forever goodnight

Bless his little heart, eh?

Good Girl Becks 15th November 2002 to 10th January 2007

I’m glad it’s raining, windy and miserable today. Our beautiful greyhound girl is no more, and the house is cold and dark without her. Walking in to the kitchen after coming back from dropping the boys at school was the worst I’ve felt in a long time. I keep thinking about how I moaned about her to J because she kept running away, and I’d do anything to have her back now.

From the first time we met her, when she was trembly and shy, and laid her soft cheek gently against Hubby’s, we were in love with our pocket rocket. She was, in no particular order: loving, funny, incredibly intelligent, frustrating, naughty (remember when she ate all my aromatherapy candles and had lovely smelling burps?), occasionally rather destructive (especially with soft toys), entertaining and, most importantly, part of our family. Having her helped us settle here in Ireland and we made firm friends with J from Abhaile Greyhounds and her partner C and lovely son, also C, from whom we received endless support in our new role as dog owners.

In time, she blossomed into a happy, confident, slightly mad but always loveable family pet. She went from jumping every time we went near her and being terrified of the sofa, to a great big hairy couch potato, who didn’t care whether there was anyone sitting on her favourite seat or not, she’d just climb straight up on top of whoever was there first and plonk herself down on top of them.

She fell in love with our friends (remember how she adored C?) and our family (both Nanny and Grandma were followed slavishly around the house), and adored us in a way only greyhounds can.

We’ll look back at all the pictures on the blog and remember:

The first time she discovered how comfy a beanbag can be…

Walking backwards in a circle when we put on her new trap coat…

And who can forget her Oscar-worthy performance on camera for Greyhound View?

J sent me such a lovely message, thanking us for “taking a chance on the quiet, shy and unsure lady in my care. For the moment, on meeting your husband, she laid her head on his shoulder and sighed. For the photos of her cuddled up with your sons and their stolen toys. For your love for her, your patience with her and your cherished descriptions of her naughty and funny goings-on. For giving Becks that rare fate I so want for all of my greyhounds. The experience of a loving home, comfort, care, and a family who adored her as much as she clearly adored you. Good Girl Becks’ story had a happy ending and for that blessing, she and I both thank you.”

This completely set me off again and I’ve spent the day sobbing on the sofa with a box of tissues. She forgets that this was, of course, all her doing, and this whole story wouldn’t have come to life if it wasn’t for J, who tirelessly works finding homes for greyhounds who are retired, or injured, or like B, plain old not quite good enough.

We’ll always miss our little furry torpedo, and will try to be thankful for the few short months we had with her. She gave us a whirlwind, roller-coaster introduction into the world of dog ownership. So, for the first time in a while, I’ll only be making one cup of tea, B, I know you liked a brew, but I’ll raise my cup to you, sweetheart xx

I’d posted this afternoon about what a nightmare B was, and how she’d run away from me yet again in the field this afternoon, and how I was at my wits end with her, but then I’d expected her to come home, and now I’ve deleted that post because it’s all over, our cheeky little girl has gone. Poor B was run over outside the house today and the ignorant b*stard who knocked her down didn’t even have the decency to tell us, even though our telephone number was on her pink collar with hearts on. Poor little B died on the side of the road, and Dave, the lovely man from the cottage down the lane had to knock on the door and tell us. We had to walk down the lane, then Dave and poor Hubby had to lift her into the back of the car. I just went to pieces and was no help at all. Poor, poor B. We’re absolutely devastated.

J and C drove all the way down from Dundalk just to be with us tonight, which was the loveliest thing ever. And poor C helped Hubby with her, which was above and beyond the call of duty. #2 is utterly devastated, and still crying in his bed, and #1 has retreated, in his own #1 way, into himself. The house is quiet and sad without her. I’ll miss her bonkers barking, and her silly whining and even the way she rearranged the cushions. Sleep tight, Good Girl Becks xxx

Well, it’s all depressingly back to normal here. Hubby’s back to work, and I’m still burrowing through the enormous washing mountain that erupted after our holiday. The mouse traps have been eerily quiet, so I’m assuming the mice all go and stay with relatives in the New Year.

The only thing that has changed dramatically is B. From a rather laid-back couch potato, she has morphed into an adrenalin-charged torpedo, charging up and down the hall, attacking - and, bizarrely, rearranging - cushions and barking constantly. The house echoes to the sound of us all yelling ‘SHUT UP!’ every five minutes. She’s also taken to having strange ten minute fits of running around at full pelt, ricocheting off the furniture (whether it’s occupied or not) making strange noises. Dr J has prescribed a lower-protein food, but I have to say I preferred the old, mostly comatose B to this new furry monster.

Recall training, however, is much improved. Once I’ve stopped her bouncing about long enough to get her lead on, I take her far down to the bottom field (I’ll try and take a picture today), and let her off, where she does a rather good spindly pinball impression pinging from one side of the field to the other like a woman possessed. Once this dies down to a more genteel snuffling, I walk round the field with her to make sure she’s completely knackered, before turning smartly towards the house, calling out ‘BYE!’ in my cheeriest voice, and striding back up the field, making sure I don’t look back. So far, this has worked wonders. More often than not I’ve heard the thunder of approaching greyhound and she’s whizzed back up behind me again. I say more often than not, because the one time Hubby, #2 and I all took her out, she was having such a lovely snuffle in one of the far fields that she ignored all our shouts. Mind you, that was before I adopted my ‘fast march towards the house’ technique, so I may have cracked it. Watch this space.

The boys are back to school shortly and the place will once again seem big and echoey without them, but I’m due to start my journalism course, and the endless, ongoing search for a house of our own here in Ireland will have to continue. Oh, and I guess the mice will be ending their Christmas cease-fire shortly too, so that will keep me occupied.

On Christmas Eve, we finally succumbed to the constant attention of Captain Jack (’You come on my boat. We see dolphin. I make you very happy.’) and headed out in the thirty degree heat to walk out of the main resort gates and back down the red, dusty main road to Jack’s little jetty on the River Sal. We waved to ‘Grandma’s boyfriend’, the old man with the stick who slept on the pavement and had a bit of a thing for my Mum, past the jewellers, silk dealers and tea merchants (’You come back later, no? Remember this face, yes?’) to meet Sandford (one of the friendly waiters at the hotel who did a bit of moonlighting for Captain Jack) and his partner for our cruise.

On first inspection, our ’speedboat’ looked considerably unlike anything that could work up any speed, but the battered little boat kitted out with six faded red plastic seats and an outboard motor soon puttered into life, and we were loaded on in a rather wobbly fashion, much to the amusement of Captain Jack’s skinny little son who decided at the last minute he’d come along for the ride. We all agreed that this was a good thing, as they were more likely to bring us back safely if we had junior Jack on board for life insurance. He was a happy little chap, and despite the constant verbal battering (and the odd dunking) he seemed to take from Sandford and his first mate, his smiley face definitely enhanced our journey.

Picking up a little bit of speed, we cruised noisily into the centre of the Sal, past the fishermen drying their nets (and their trousers, which were tied in knots onto the main mast ropes) in the sun, past huge white storks perched one-legged on various bamboo poles sticking straight up out of the river, and gazed up at the black kites, with forked tails and red stripes on their huge wings, freewheeling in the thermals under a beautiful, turquoise sky. Somehow it seemed even hotter on the water, and we were glad of the spray in the breeze.

Slipping out of the tributary mouth and into the sea, the colour changed gradually from murky green to greeny blue then finally to a stunning jade green as we scanned the waves for any sign of a fin. Then suddenly, Sandford spotted something and we motored out towards two tiny grey dots. Sandford explained that the dolphins were afraid of our noisy boat and they often got more success with the larger boat (now he tells us), but we got some fantastic glimpses of the dolphins twisting and turning in the water, before frantically firing up the engine and following them as they appeared again, twirling and rolling in the waves, flicking their shiny tails in the surf. We kept this up for a while, often getting tantalisingly close before they dived again, but feeling pleased and privileged to have got so close to them. Needless to say these elusive little chaps tested Hubby’s photography skills and I ended up on the receiving end of a Paddington hard stare after screeching ‘did you get them?’ for the umpteenth time. Still, we’ll cherish our grainy picture as proof that we really did meet Mr and Mrs Dolphin, even if they were slightly camera-shy.

All too soon, our hour was up and we headed back towards the river mouth, past fishermen diving for mussels in the middle of the river (maybe these had something to do with the sticks that were doubling as perches for the storks?) and back to another jetty which, we were assured, led to the back of Sandford’s house and then to the main road near the hotel. We passed a couple of tiny boys playing in the sand outside their house, who rushed up to us, their little hands outstretched. Before we could give them anything a very stern Grandma came steaming out of the house giving them a right telling off, and grabbed one little boy to have his nose wiped on her sari. We laughed and waved goodbye to Sandford as he headed off to his lovely white two-storey house in the shade of some palm trees, while we aimed for the hotel bar and a cold Kingfisher.

You can just see #1 here under that lady’s elbow. I think he was goal attack.

Now you know me, I love a bit of people watching, so I made sure I took copious notes on holiday to report back on all the wonderful (and weird) people we met.

Firstly, on the friends front, we actually made quite a gang of friends, which was really lovely. We shared sunset paddles on the beach whilst putting the world to rights drinking rum and fresh pineapple, and Wednesday night beach parties where we danced to dodgy 80s disco music in the beach shack whilst escaping the mad Goan fireworks whizzing up the beach (more of that later). The boys initially struck up a friendship with two lovely Finnish lads, O and O (different names, same initial - makes for a bit of confusion!) who were roughly the same age as them, with such good English that I initially didn’t realise they were from Finland. These two handsome blond lads led to us striking up conversations with their parents: S, who became a really good friend, and her husband J, an avid birdwatcher who got on famously with Hubby. Altogether a very nice family. S’s English was superb, and she had a cracking sense of humour. One day she was telling us that O&O had both been ill, and we couldn’t help laughing because she said they had been ‘womitting’. Well, after we’d explained (and apologised, S’s English being considerably more advanced than my Finnish), all mispronunciations became a standing joke. What a nice lady.

We also met a fantastic family from Nottingham, K, B and their beautiful daughter C. K, a wonderful dad with considerably more energy than us, was often in the pool with C and was always playing water polo with the boys. His wife B and I often compared shopping bargains and we all shared a Kingfisher by the pool occasionally. On Christmas day, B wore the most stunning sari I’ve ever seen and looked absolutely beautiful. Unfortunately, being swathed in all that material in the 30 degree heat made her feel as though she was about to pass out, so she had to pop back to their bungalow and change. Their daughter C was only about fourteen but had inherited her good looks from her Mum and was gorgeous: tiny, dark eyed and shy with long jet black hair and the most beautiful smile. On one of the last days, the lovely K treated B to the biggest diamond I think I’ve ever seen. They’re going to email me when they get it valued here so watch this space.

Other highlights included: the biggest, fattest, sweatiest most disgusting Russian man you have ever seen, travelling with his very young teeny tiny Barbie doll type ‘partner’ who wore the smallest hotpants I think I’ve ever seen (yep, smaller than Kylie’s). The ‘Mafia guy’ as the waiters called him, and his child bride (now I know what you’re thinking but I’m sure they were deeply in love despite the enormous age -and size - gap) were travelling with her two young ‘friends’, the blonde one, ‘Trout’, with the odd, surgically enhanced lips who sunbathed naked on the beach (a definite no no in Goa - very disrespectful) and the other one, ‘Bum Cheek Girl’ who wore her bikini bottoms tucked up her bum like a thong. I’ll probably get bumped off in an apparent ‘accident’ now. I’m not being Russian-ist, but I have to say that they were, without doubt the rudest people I’d ever seen. I lost count of the amount of times I was tempted to hiss ‘thank you!’ in an angry Mummy-type fashion when they gruffly demanded drinks at the bar, or waved away an attentive waiter, or - worse - actually clicked their fingers in the air to attract a barman’s attention (especially when there were other people waiting to be served). Grrrr.

Then there was the doddery old lady who dressed in high heels and cocktail dresses every night, complete with an acre of somewhat droopy, wrinkly cleavage (her equally doddery husband interrupted a carol concert one evening by walking up to the girls while they were singing and pressing a 50 Rupee note into the hand of one of the stunned looking singers). We looked out for her every night to see what ‘Come Dancing’ dress she would grace us with. There was the lady with the bit of fake hair that she stuck on the back of her head like an odd, horse’s mane, the old lady who wore her long hair in a strange sausage made of scrunchies sticking out at right angles to the side of her head. Oh, and there was the stroppy Russian woman travelling with her long-suffering husband and son. The poor lad must have been about the same age as #2, but the bloody woman never left him alone and was always giving him a load of earache for something. It became a game with us to watch them and see if she ever smiled. Nope, not in two weeks did we see her face crack once. I’m not surprised the child didn’t smile either - I wouldn’t have done if I was made to wear dayglo speedos that came up to my tummy button and smothered in so much sun cream I looked like a cross-channel swimmer (she even put cream on his armpits for god’s sake). We tried to engage him in a bit of water polo in the pool, but he just shook his head solemnly. Eventually, at our insistence (he probably thought we were mad and decided to humour us rather than be held under ’til he drowned or whatever), he joined us shooting some hoops for a while and was soon happily splashing about and beaming. Feeling very magnanimous, we smiled at him every time we saw him from then on, only to be met with a stony face, and a glare from the old bag.

Ah, it makes me quite nostalgic just thinking about it. And, of course, makes me horrified at just how bloody nosey I am.

Our holiday rep, a really nice girl called Kelly, mentioned several times that it was very cheap to get clothes made in India and when we expressed an interest (never one to overlook a bargain, me), she contacted the mysterious Ismail, who promised to send a car. Our initial reaction was a bit girly, to be honest. We were happily ensconced in our little corner of paradise, and taking a car into the real world to an unknown destination seemed a little scary. Still, Kelly was insistent that it was all above board, so we met our driver James outside the hotel, and bit the bullet as it were.

The journey did very little to allay our fears, although we distracted ourselves with a chat with James, who was very friendly and funny. We commented that our waiters and bar staff were lovely, and he mentioned that they probably only earn about 4000 rupees a month. When you consider that there are 85 rupees to the pound, these lads do serious 12 hour days for very little money. We guiltily resolved to be good tippers. While we chatted, we rattled along at alarming speeds down the red, dusty tracks liberally sprinkled with speeding mopeds (often holding a whole family - Dad on the front, Mum on the back and a child wedged between them or standing at the front), small children, pigs, chickens, stray dogs, wandering cows and very large potholes. One man drove past us with a little black pig in the box at the back of his moped squealing so loud that we initially mistook it for some sort of Goan police siren (’Christmas dinner’, James observed).

Eventually, our nerves in tatters, we arrived at a small, glass fronted building in a tatty terrace, where a smiling Ismail was waiting to greet us with a firm handshake and expansive, gold-toothed smile. We were welcomed into the shop, which was spectacularly lined with rolls of silk, linen, sari fabrics and suiting in every colour you could possibly imagine. Ismail started talking as he banged down roll after roll of fabric, whooshing great clouds of shimmering fabric up into the air as he did so, and didn’t stop until we left. He offered Hubby suits in mohair and cashmere, linen trousers, Egyptian cotton shirts and anything else he could possibly imagine. Turning to me, he grabbed rolls of beautiful fabrics, talking ten to the dozen about making me evening dresses, skirts, shorts, copying anything I already had and, bizarrely, anything I wanted from the Next Directory (he had a big tatty stack of the oldest Next Directories I’d ever seen). Having wanted just a couple of pairs of linen trousers, by the time Ismail had taken a breath we’d ended up ordering not just the trousers, but shorts, work trousers and shirts for hubby, and I’d been talked into the dress (in the most beautiful two-tone fabric which shimmered pink then turquoise in the light). All this in prices that would put Primark to shame.

With a slight nod of his head, Ismail then conjured up a small army of tailors and we were measured all over from head to toe and in my case, rather more intimately (I wonder if Savile Row tailors measure the distance between your nipples?). Ismail smiled at my embarrassment and commented that the young lad measuring me wasn’t married. With this, the poor boy blushed even more scarlet and I wished I’d worn more than a bikini and a pair of shorts.

Sensing a captive audience, Ismail then lead us next door. Obviously, being a tailor was just a sideline as it turned out he was also a silk dealer, diamond merchant (he insisted that Hubby use an eye glass to check out a diamond the size of a broad bean: ‘you buy this for your loved one, no?’, ‘No’.), dodgy handbag trader (’you want Burberry? Chanel? It’s buy one get one free’) and er..suspect pharmaceutical pusher. Leaning forward on his counter, he checked we were alone before whispering: ‘you want Viagra? I get it cheap for you’. It was then Hubby’s turn to blush while he muttered ‘er no, thanks, we’re fine in that department’.

Finally arranging to come back for a fitting on the Sunday (’Chrismas Day, though’, Hubby pointed out, ‘this is not a problem for Ismail, I work this day for you’), we climbed gratefully into James’ car to run the gauntlet of animals, children and mopeds back to the sanctuary of our hotel.

I have to say, though, when we did pick the stuff up, it was pretty darned good. The stitching was excellent and the shirts could have been Marks and Spencer. I was slightly disappointed with my dress as the material I’d chosen was a bit stiff to hang properly, but the rest was spot on. Ismail finally said goodbye to us with several hundred business cards and the promise that we would email if our love life ever fell below standard (’I post them to your house, no?’).