089: The Ramadan Feels (1)

Day 1: thirst.

I am prepared for this. Last year, we braved 19+ hours of fasting a day. So, this year I am prepared-ish. But today, I woke in a daze. I had to report to a new hospital at 7.30am, startled in an unfamiliar room and an unfamiliar bed, the sun streams through the curtains. We shared a single bed, my husband and I, as we started our lodgings in the hospital accommodation for the next month. We moved to Luton begrudgingly yesterday night, thinking do we really have to spend Ramadan here?

With an ache pounding in my head, I put on my clothes and walked to the education wing of the hospital together with my other firm mates. I realised my throat was as dry as a newly bought towel, or more like a sandy desert. I gulped my own saliva several times to compensate, also noticing that I am not in the best of moods. Early morning waking is not my forte, and to add salt to injury, this is my first day of fasting. My body is throwing a hissy fit. Probably I have an excuse to be less chirpier than usual, but that is not inkeeping with the spirit of this month. And I knew it.

"Help yourself to tea and coffee," the administrator says to us. "Also, just your luck, we have breakfast goodies for you."

A plate of breakfast pastries were then plonked in front of me. Sugary, buttery and crispy - everything my stomach yearns for. My throat gets a little drier.

Be patient.

This made me remember a lecture that I listened to where the speaker was talking about fasting. He said, "You're throat, stomach, limbs will all be shouting for you to disobey Allah. Have a glass of water, reach out for that sweet. Yet, you don't."

This is a testament to our obedience to the All Mighty. We are in training, and with His will, this will get easier.

088: Silver hair sass

Sunday on the Westbound Piccadilly line

On the hunt for Japanese cheesecake, the husband and I ventured into central London in hopes that a particular speciality bakery in Covent Garden sold what we were looking for. We got on the Victoria line and changed at Finsbury Park. The ride was pretty normal - quite crowded, but as expected for a Sunday afternoon. I didn't manage to get a seat till about 4 stops to our destination.

As I sat reading my kindle, a tall man with a few carrying bags walked in and stood next to me. He had silver hair, dressed quite casually in brown and wore a hat. I wanted to offer him my seat but it took me so long to deliberate whether my offer would be misconstrued as offensive. This has happened many times before - I offer my seat, the silver haired person declines. Whilst I was having this internal debate whilst noticing the prominent blue veins that paint his hand which clasped the rail beside me (age marks and veins on hands mean old right?), we reached the next stop and many people on the carriage got off.

With many chairs now empty, I have luckily averted an awkward "would he-wouldn't he" encounter. Phew. As he made his way to the middle of the carriage to take a seat, one of his many carrier bags accidentally knocked the knee of the woman sat next to me. Ironically, she too, had silver hair. Her shoulder length bob cut sat on top of a pale slim figure clothed in a floral patterned blouse and cropped trousers. Responding to the bump to her knee, she stopped reading the free magazine we get at the entrance of tube stations and audibly uttered "Ow!" The guy with the silver hair walked on and sat down a few seats away, opposite us. Either he didn't notice or did, but didn't think an apology was warranted in this situation. But whilst the woman next to me made dramatic cyclical gestures as she rubbed her knee with her right hand, staring at the man, obviously wanting him to know what he did, I had decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it was too noisy? That could happen to anyone right? "I bet he didn't notice," I said in my head. Observing him, his bags were now on the floor, an opened newspaper covering his face.

Next stop was our stop. It was silver haired lady's too. As I stood up to leave, she bolted purposefully towards the entrance further away from us. As she made her way through the carriage, her little foot stomped hard onto his shiny leather shoe! He reacted with his body bent forward, his newspaper now on his lap, his face half confused half angry. That must have been painful! It looked like a hammer being slammed onto a nail. But she stealthily had stepped out of the train before he could do anything about it. Revenge is sweet?

I stepped out too, and I was hysterically laughing. "What happened?" the husband asked curiously. I had to wait to catch a breath before I could begin to explain. Who said that the over 65s has no sass?