Rashid and Marwen
In the compound where I ‘worked’ until yesterday (affectionately known as the Gulag to its inmates), Rashid is the ‘tea boy’. Aged 25 and from Mombasa, he has a degree, fluent English (he was laughing at the native speaker banter in the tea room) and is obviously as bright as a magpie’s eye. So why is he serving us coffee and wiping the tables for 1500 riyals (£250) a month? Corruption, he sighed; unless you know the right people in Kenya, or pay bribes, it’s impossible to find a job. Marwan picked us up outside the souk on Wednesday evening, driving a Toyota that he was using as an unlicensed taxi (the licensed variety are in short supply in Doha). He wanted 15 riyals for the trip back but we beat him down to 10 and got in. He was from Syria, also with a degree and very good English. His day job? A cook in a Lebanese restaurant for 850 riyals a month. So he borrows a car and drives the streets to augment his income, much of which he sends home, and works 20 hour days. After hearin...
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signed,
extrapolate depilatory victim
I would be shocked to find that your uncles belonged to Suborder Strepsirrhini or Infraorder Tarsiiformes, particularly as I was not hitherto aware that members of these orders were to be found in Ireland.
My comment here wasn't loaded, btw, Rarareen. I just happened to think of them when I listened to the song. One I only remember slightly, the other was killed on D-Day. I wrote this about him:
Remembrance.
My uncle Harry was killed at Sword beach
in 1944. He was nineteen.
It seems he was shot before he could reach
the minimal protection of the screen
of low dunes which was their first objective.
The tide was high and the sea came in green
in the recollection of those who lived.
I'm told that Harry was tall and well-made,
clumsy, liked cricket and he talked a lot.
Though as a stevedore he was often aboard
the freighters in the Pool loading cargo,
it was the first time he'd been abroad.
The first and the last, and he lies there now.