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Al-Ahram Weekly 16 - 22 December 1999 Issue No. 460 
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Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Al-Ahram Weekly 16 - 22 December 1999 Issue No. 460
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Egypt Region International Economy Opinion Culture Debate Focus Profile Living Travel Sports People Time Out Chronicles Cartoons Letters Little nothings
By Fayza Hassan
This morning I was late, mainly because I did not hear my alarm clock. It is of the whimpering variety, acquired at a time when I had to take the children to school while my husband slept in. My husband died ten years ago, though, and the shrill glockenspiel can no longer disturb him. Since that time, I have meant to purchase one of these old -- and now so fashionable -- manual affairs, which can easily shock one into a heart attack (my next-door neighbours have just such an clock, which they regularly set for 5.00am, even on Fridays); but I have never got around to doing so. Still half asleep, I dashed to the bathroom for a quick shower. I tried to coax the hanger behind the door into holding on to both parts of my pyjamas as well as my dressing gown. For some unfathomable reason, I believed when I bought it that rounded wooden hooks would be gentler on my clothes. Nothing that I have ever hung there stayed on the hook long enough to prove me right or wrong.
After a few attempts, I gave up and threw the three items in a corner, where they promptly soaked up the water in the puddle the cleaning lady had left while filling her pail. She also must have used my shower gel to clean the bathroom and forgotten to screw on the top, which I was now stupidly holding in my hand as the bottle spilled its contents all over the tub. By the time I had finished rinsing the goo off, I had wasted a precious fifteen minutes. My bath towel had slipped off the hanger and was dripping wet, having landed in another lagoon. The key to my wardrobe badly needed oiling, but I eventually won this battle; unfortunately, though, I could not find the top to match the trousers I had decided to wear. "Get moving and pick different trousers," I admonished myself sternly, placing the ones I was discarding carefully on a hanger. The rail in my wardrobe is affixed too close to the top shelf and I always have trouble introducing the hanger into the tight space left between the rod and the shelf. I meant to have it fixed twenty years ago, when I acquired the wardrobe, then eventually got used to it. I pushed hard, the hanger slipped into place, and the trousers fell off. I kicked them out of the way, jolting the wardrobe in the process, and all my sweaters and cardigans, neatly stacked in zippered plastic bags, came tumbling down. Plastic bags stored on top of each other are afflicted with toboggan syndrome, I noticed, but I have never thought of a better way to arrange my clothes. I took a deep breath and a sip of cold coffee, then lit a cigarette, preparing to tidy up the mess. Forget the ladder; I would just throw the bags back up onto the shelves. It was good basketball practice but since I have never played the game, I did not possess the right technique. Ten minutes were used up, and only two of the bags missed my head on their way down.
More stone cold coffee, a second cigarette and a vigorous kick at the pile on the floor brought the sweater I had intended to wear on top of the heap. I put it on quickly, but could no longer find the trousers. "Calm down," I muttered to myself; "people are sometimes late, it is not the end of the world." I peeled the sweater off and opted for an entirely different outfit. Something was faintly chiming. Probably just my ears ringing; high blood pressure does that sometimes. I had finally managed to put together a pair of trousers and a top to match. As I wriggled into the trousers, an ominous hiss, akin to the sound of fabric tearing, informed me that they were not right for me at the moment. They joined the rest of my belongings on the floor. I closed my eyes and pulled out a couple of items at random, which I put on without looking. Following the same method, I chose a pair of shoes and after some searching retrieved my bag from under the bed. I was only half an hour late by then.
This called for a celebration. I drained my coffee, lit a third cigarette and proceeded to put my make-up on. Was I still a little nervous? If not, why did the container of blusher fly out of my hand? Sheer malice, maybe? The cake shattered and a fine -- and awfully expensive -- red powder settled at my feet. I knelt down to check if I could save just one or two little bits to do the job at hand. There were none, but when I stood up I noticed that the knees of my pants were blushing furiously. I could hear the ringing noise again. It dawned on me that it might not be blood pressure after all and went searching for the telephone, liberally spreading blush powder in my wake. "Were you sleeping?" asked my mother playfully on the other end of the line. "No, I was just having a quiet cup of coffee." We chatted pleasantly -- at least she did, I mainly inserted 'mm hm' at appropriate moments -- and as we exchanged little nothings, I had time to survey the war zone. Nothing that a bit of hard work (like a day) would not fix. Besides, I realised now that the blusher had never been the right colour for me. Cradling the phone under my chin, I closed my eyes once more and tugged at something I hoped would be a suitable pair of trousers. I was in luck. I told my mother that I would call her back during the day, rubbed my cheeks with some of the powder retrieved from the floor with my finger, put the last touches to my face, doused the finished product copiously with my favourite perfume and, with a last kick in the general direction of the wardrobe, slammed the door. As I drove, a mere hour late, to my appointment, I caught myself humming gaily "Little things mean a lot."
