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So, a fairly peaceful couple of weeks have passed us by, with nothing out of the ordinary really happening. Well, that's probably impossible to say here, so perhaps I should retract that statement now before I dig myself into a hole.

At Sam's birthday party, I arrived and to my surprise was immediately greeted and berated by my oud ustez for not bringing my instrument. To be honest, I am fairly used to making a fool out of meself by singing and playing guitar, so oud shouldn't have been a problem, it's just that having your teacher there is like going back to primary school, so after botching one song I swiftly handed his oud back to him and munched determinedly on cake instead. For my troubles he accosted me first thing next lesson and said, "Why didn't you bring your own oud? Next time you MUST bring your oud and you MUST play!" I may have been intimidated, but I was rather fixated instead by his hairline which was even more wonky than usual. A word to the wise; if you are going to grow old ungracefully, at least follow this man's example and make little effort to disguise the fact that your unnaturally shiny black hair is, indeed, unnatural. Fortunately for the both of us he was absent for the party the week after... The birthday party ended mellowly, with Sam and Abdu falling asleep on their chairs in a very sort of orientalist bohemianpicturesque way - in a courtyard at half past three in the morning lit by candles stuck in old wine bottles lining the two huge mirrored wardrobes and the ornate baroque central mirror, in front of a table overcrowded with unfinished birthday cake and old beer and wine bottles and glasses. Both of them were hunched over their chairs, their heads drooping, and Eoin, Tamsin and I marvelled over the little drip of drool that hung from Abdu's bottom lip for at least half an hour before deciding to call it a night.

All I should say for Sunday is that despite woeful illness for poor India, Karen can really cook curry.

Beit Qaseed was graced on the Monday by an incredible Arabic female singer who entranced everyone present with her talents and her evident enjoyment of singing. It was a rather lovely end to a day which had been filled with more frustratingly pointless lessons followed by an exploration of the opera house. Now I would like to say something exciting such as I was invited to audition for the chorus of the opera theatre or that I was going to see a cutting edge play in one of the studios. In fact, despite rather hopeless advertising, many of us managed to pick up (telepathically) on the fact that it was the 17th International Damascus film festival, so we decided to go see what was what. After doing this, Sam, Eoin and I decided it would be a good idea to see the great classic "Iam Cuba." What Sam and I failed to realise however, was that most of the film was in Spanish and the subtitles were in, yes, Arabic. This did not bother Eoin, whose degree is Spanish and Arabic, but for us woeful ingrates it compelled us to use our fairly minimal Spanish vocabulary whilst trying to read and translate the subtitles as they flashed before our eyes like some sort of twisted psychology test for tri-lingual multi-tasking. My brain was not grateful for that, although the cinematography and blatant soviet propaganda was spectacle enough for me, as was the price, a mere snip at 50SYP (about 70p).

We managed to see two other films that week - a french one called 'Ne retourne pas' which was a creepy yet modern suspense thriller about a woman whose life and own self begin to morph inexplicably into those of another. Twas refreshing to hear a foreign language and understand it whilst simultaneously depressing that we cannot yet do this with Arabic. A couple of days later we returned and saw clockwork orange. It was scarring on the big screen and goodness knows what the Syrians thought of its wanton and explicitly violent and excessive nature. Sam and Abdu and I drowned our sorrows after that experience at Abu George. We got to one beer each and then realised we should buy alcohol for about half the price nearby and then stand near but not at Abu George and thereby save money. This meant I also could obtain my new favourite snack, captain corn vinegar flavour crisps in a packet of dashing purple and munch them whilst leaning on Hasan's car which I did with aplomb whilst being watched resentfully by Abu George himself and his little minion - a ten year old dressed in a faux leather jacket and faux snakeskin shoes, fitted suit trousers and slicked back hair who seemed only a little drunk as he collected glasses and stood outside the small bar like a bouncer and could occasionally be seen taking a drag from someone's cigarette. A different form of work experience methinks.

I managed to meet with a taste of home in the form of Alison - a member of the choir I sing with up in Edinburgh who was on holiday in Syria for a couple of weeks. I was tempted just then to add lucky thing before I remember that I am in fact in Syria right now. It still seems hard to believe. Still, we met up a couple of times and I managed to catch up on some of the happenings of my dearest rennies (congratulations Archie and Rose!) and was reminded of how much I miss Edinburgh and the wonderous people of aforementioned city. I cheekily asked her to post me some postcards upon her return to the homeland, thinking that I would be able to bypass the most unreliable part of the postal journey home before being told by her that there was a postal strike going on. Such is life.

Fortunately the uncharacteristically cold and wet miserable weather decided to lift a couple of days before she left, so at least she saw Damascus briefly without a vast portentous cloud of gloom over the top of it. This weather had meant that the rugs got put out in the flat and some heavy throws were received from out landlady with open arms. As long as I don't EVER have to use the heater, I should be fine…

Abdu hosted a marvellous Aleppan feast for the five thousand on Thursday. He and his neighbour cooked enough to feed a small army and fit for royalty. Proper good twas indeed. Music inevitably followed into the chilly hours of the morning and I was shivering quite a lot by the time we called it a night. The next night was probably the killer for me as I went with India and Emyln and Everitte when they eventually decided to turn up, to a Latin Music Night at the Mustafa Ali art gallery. We had already heard the band, but this time we arrived in plenty of time to hear their whole set and India and I practically exploded when Victor the singer introduced Santana's Smooth. Such cheesy goodness I did not expect to enjoy from the balcony of an art gallery/Damascene house. The tiny dance floor was filled throughout the night by amazing salsa dancers - I was unaware Syrians were so inclined - so to avoid embarrassing ourselves, we followed the beckoning of one of our friends up onto the top balcony overlooking the courtyard, where we could survey the scene monarch-like and dance with impunity. A most wonderous evening was followed for me and poor India who had to endure me by three and a half horrendous days of illness. I suppose it is just the price one must pay for wreckless, arrogant youth. Maybe some alcohol would have lined the throat and prevented it…

After my oud lesson on Tuesday, I was kindly invited to sing with a small group of ex-pats whom I found gathered around a grand piano in the most stunningly gorgeous old house just off Qayamaria. My voice was still recovering but it was so lovely to sing in a choir again, and in such a setting! We sang a couple of Christmas carols and some other light classics and I sincerely hope this will become a regular occurrence. We also learned that there is a reeling night every week at somewhere called the bunker - why were we not informed of all this stuff before we arrived in Syria? It has taken me 2 months to find a choir who were looking for singers and hear about an evening which I probably would have attended every week had I known about it. Something must be done about this tragic situation!

To bring this pointless and hopefully never published ramble up to date, last night saw Sam, Mitchel, Shivan and myselfmeet and play together for the first time. It was amazing - Kurdish saz, violin, guitar (mended with superglue) and Nashville's best. I hope this gig works out. We might even get a trumpet…we were fed and hosted by Karen with her ever amazing cooking skills - twas the best pasta Bolognese I have had - and we whiled away the hours accompanied by her flatmates, plus Jessie, Shakespeare and Hassan drinking and playing. Consequently I have once again missed university (not really much of an achievement seeing as I have been gheer mawjuda most of this week already) and should really actually work. Something tells me that this is not going to happen -we are going to Hama tomorrow for our next little adventure to Krak de Chevaliers…