Endless amounts of confusion over dinner resulted in a bottle of Fijian mineral water being brought to my table. I had tried to order sparkling water, but perhaps my accent got in the way. He couldn’t understand the word sparkling, but brightened up considerably when I spoke about fizzy water. Unfortunately, while I was talking about fizzy water he was talking about Fiji water and neither of us realised we weren’t having the same conversation.
My Panama is crumbling. The weave in the front has disintegrated and the unravelling is trammelling backwards. This did not matter too much during Riyadh’s short winter. That short winter is disappearing though. Already the mornings are warm enough to encourage me to leave my jumper in my room. Now too has lunchtime become hot enough and sunny enough to make me reach for my sun-hat. So a stop-over in Heathrow was excellent news. I could pick up a new Panama.
Except that I couldn’t. While they were happy to suggest I fork out a thousand pounds for (an admittedly very fetching) suitcase, there was not a Panama to be had. Not for love nor money. Can you credit it? Not a single one.