Please provide details of three referees

Of all the things I did not know about life in the UK before I arrived, the need for referees was not one of them.

I had for a long time frequented the British Council in Baghdad, I had borrowed books, music cassettes and videos from the library, I had been to music shows and plays, but I had also spent a lot of time secretly reading medical books designed to help get through the UK PLAB exam, and tucked inside the magazines I appeared to be reading, I had read the career pages of the British Medical Journal.

I knew I needed to find referees, but as no-one knew I was planning to leave I couldn’t ask any of my tutors or consultants to be my referee, after I left one of the senior consultants I had worked with actually sent a message that he would speak to potential employees and prevent me getting a job! (although to be fair he was under pressure from my father to do so)

At least I had my medical diploma, by the mid-nineties when a relative who had been denied a copy of his diploma was applying for the American exams he was distraught to find that when the licensing authorities contacted the deanery in Baghdad university to confirm he had studied there, the assistant dean wrote back categorically denying he had ever attended the college (the assistant dean was shot dead in his private clinic soon after the occupation).

Doing unpaid observer work on a ward was the only way to get the name of a UK consultant at the bottom of your CV, which would then make it possible to compete for paid jobs.

The need for referees for every new job proved over the years to be the most effective way of silencing any possible complaints against all manner of bullying and harassment from senior consultants, until eventually having worked in so many centres we had amassed a number of names from whom to choose.

But we also learnt to our detriment that not everyone who agrees or even offers to act as referee is doing a good deed, after the third unsuccessful job application, a young consultant on the interview panel took my husband aside and gently suggested he remove one of his referees from the list, he also showed him the “warning” letter that had been submitted by this smiling friendly “mate”.

One of the advantages of a more permanent post is that this whole “who can I trust to ask to be my referees” question had become a distant memory.

Well.. until now that is.

Every two or three years we go through this process, a combination of concerns about the norms our children are growing up with, financial constraints, and professional restrictions in a target chasing, management heavy, and price cuts driven NHS mean we update the CV’s, and apply for jobs somewhere other than the UK.

For a while in the nineties we seriously considered America, and invested time and effort in obtaining necessary exams to make the move possible, then we decided to try moving East, and even made it to the interview stage for jobs in a brand new medical centre in Abu Dhabi a few years ago, but decided to we would find it too difficult to function in a place where it was normal to have a “special” entrance to the centre reserved for members of the Emir’s extended family!

We are going through the motions again, electronically so far at least, job adverts have been responded to, we have had the preliminary telephone conversation and we are due to arrive in the tiny Island on the other side of the world next week for the face to face interviews, followed by visits to UK curriculum following international schools, and a few flats available to rent.

And the most difficult question we face?

Who can we safely ask to be our referees?

Norwich

Norwich is where one half of my ancestors come from; it is the city where my “other” cousins live

Norwich is where I headed when I arrived in 91; it is where I had my first job knitting for the lady with a market stall, and my first taste of fish and chips.

Norwich is where my mother was born, and where we went together a few weeks back



We arrived by train, at a station I remember leaving so much more than arriving at



We walked down the ancient cobbled roads



Marvelled at the leaning tudor building with the lopsided window



We stood silent at the church where the ground is a good three foot higher than the city because of all those who died in the plague



Passed by the roads where my relative worked



Around the corner was the city centre, there used to be a library here



We eventually came to the market place



I found the old wool and knitting stall still being run by the same person!



In a recreation of my regular weekend treat eaten on the stairs close the market stall the children had fish and chips, and I was disappointed to find I could not complete the portion



And there we were joined by several second and third cousins once and twice removed (I haven’t a clue what that means)

My children looked at me in surprise as they realised that I had been telling the truth when I said they had “real English” relatives

And for the first time in fifteen years I sat down and talked to V

V is my second cousin, three years my junior, I first met her when I was ten, my memories of her are of a smiling bundle of energy who spent the day on the beach running with the wind in her blonde hair

When I returned sixteen years later I was stunned, she wore purple makeup, a black flowing coat, and her hair was several shades of yellow, she already had two children, but was still looking for Mr right, and was planning to go to college to study art

Another sixteen years had passed before we met again, she has only just completed her university studies, and is starting her master’s degree in art, we are both older and wiser and our conversation was not what I had anticipated

She told me how she envied my career and job, I told her how I envied her passion and her art show, she told me how as a child she had envied my life in the magical fairy tale city of one thousand and one tales, and I told her how for so many years I had envied her and her family’s "normal" life

For so many reason Norwich will always have a special place in my heart
Now so do a few of its people

Ree7et Baghdad

She travelled half way across London to keep her appointment

As usual accompanied by her daughter and husband

She sits in the waiting room peering anxiously at the pile of notes in case her notes are picked up someone else

As I come out of the room she thrusts the white paper bag at me

"These are for you, they arrived yesterday from Baghdad, they still smell of Baghdad"

And that thought keeps me smiling for the next three hours, even when the last patient is grumpy and moans at me for twenty minutes!

Kashan

I read the entry of young "Marshmallow" on her impressions on the East-West divide with interest

I have been thinking about how we have changed over the years in so many subtle ways, and how much more accepting of certain norms we have become

One norm that we have been sucked into is debt

In my childhood debt was taboo, it was just not something acceptable, if we needed money we would invariably turn to family, the amount borrowed was small, it was paid back rapidly and incurred no interest

Some thirty years later, the extended family is living in the land of plenty, and yet between us we owe several hundred thousands of pounds, and will probably spend the next thirty years working every waking hour in order to pay it all back

When I first arrived here I was not even familiar with banking, having been paid in cash and for a while I continued paying for everything in cash

But I soon found out that in order to do so many things in this country you need a bank account, and when you have a bank account you also get a debit card and after a few stressful episodes with my card being swallowed by the "hole in the wall" on Sunday evening leaving me penniless because I had once more forgotten my pin number I eventually became a slave of the ATM

Initially I did not even trust the system, and would obsessively check my balance and compare outgoings with my receipts on a weekly basis

But over time it is curious how relaxed about this illusionary money I have now become

We get "paid", we know this because a positive number appears on our bank statement
Within four days of being "paid", we have "paid" everyone for services, from the local council to the gas company, and a huge number of companies who are insuring us against everything from car accidents to washing machine breakdowns

But the majority of our virtual money is taken by banks

They take back money they "lent" us last month to pay for our "guaranteed" purchases, they take money for the privilege of keeping our "money" with them, but mainly they take half the "money" we earn to pay back for a loan we took from the bank to "buy" our house!

How on earth did we allow this to happen to us!
The power of peer pressure, we have gradually accepted how essential so many non-essentials really are, and we have accepted that it is fine to have them now, and pay for them slowly later, and we have allowed ourselves to be caught in this vicious circle, we "buy" these things that we "must" have, then we have to slave away to pay for them!

But I must admit my most recent purchase was well worth it

For as long as I can remember I have dreamt of owning one, I would spend ages admiring them, the details, the fine patterns, the vivid colours, the textures of the different materials, even the scent.

The whole experience evoked memories of our winters with kerosene heaters, memories of our living room, memories of my grandmother's house, memories of home.

And when anyone questions it I state very convincingly that it is an investment :)

Just for some, just for fun

yessssssssssssssss

Later than predicted but what the hell!
Good ridence

Day One

07:00
Wake up, disoriented
Mouth parched, dying for a coffee
Everyone due to arrive at six, more likely to get it right if experience shared Should have got up at three for a drink
Only 13 hours to go

10:00
Stomach rumbling
Final round with dusters
Keep busy but not too much physical activity
Thirst surprisingly manageable
Only 10 hours to go

12:00
Salad chopped
Meat boiling
The smell makes my stomach rumble
The bread is crunchy, the chicken pieces moist, the mayonnaise and sweet corn dressing dribbling down their chins, crumbs and crusts left behind, what a waste.
Only 8 hours to go

14:00
The hibiscus flowers are wilting in the boiling pot, the colour reminds me of wine
Feeling positively ill now, dizzy and weak, and behind the right eye is the spark that will build up into a full-blown headache
Only 6 hours to go

16:00
Walking slowly past the plate of baklavas, promising myself more than one later
Dreaming of hot soup, dreaming of cool salads, dreaming of greasy kuftas and kubba, dreaming of apricot juice
Start to feel rather nauseas must stop thinking about food
Only 4 hours to go

18:00
Can wait no longer; start the preparations
Child-friendly meals, adult-friendly meals
Obligatory lentil soup
Shreded bread lines the bowl waiting
Only 2 hours to go

19:00
Impatient and cranky, everyone is a fussy eater
The kitchen smells of everything and nothing
Damn the soup is burning
Only one hour to go

20:00
Almost ready to go
Panic ensues
Shuffling mats around the overfilled table
Serving and decorating
Dressing and last minute warming
Juices of various colours
Glasses filled with iced yoghurt
Dishes of pickles
Bowls of dates dotted around
Kettle full
Large teapot with tea and cardamom waiting
Only a quarter of an hour to go

20:45
Small portions of savoury dishes
Massive portions of sweets
Three glasses of tea and a strip of paracetamol later
Everyone collapses on chairs and sofas dreaming of our beds

One down, only twenty-nine days to go