Drink, Drank, Drunk.

Thurdsay 26th January. Afternoon.

Two more interviews with local companies, hawking our educational vapourware product. It was only on leaving the second company's office we realised: We have absolutely no clue what they do.

Just a bare white cube of an office, with the standard belaptopped understatedly plush desk in one corner, a suited man behind it with the regulation ultra-neatly trimmed five-day beard...and the equally regulation office boy in immaculate jeans and leather jacket to bring tea.

I'm thinking management consultants. One company (them) managing outsourcing of another company (us) to employ a third company (me) to teach managers of a fourth company to, er, manage.

And then...we downed half a bottle of red wine each. Followed by several hours of Jamal's slightly eratic driving, and me being violently ill. Must remember not to do that again. Ever.

I have to admit, I really do enjoy arabic daytime soap operas. The plot beats are so clearly signposted, and the characters so broadly drawn, you can follow it without knowing a word of the language.

There's the overprotective mother, and her gaggle of saccharine young children. The mean older sister, and the lachrymose younger one. The nieve young buck, and the scheming businessman - complete with twirlable moustache.

All played with total sincerity, with not a hint of self-parody, yet instantly self-parodying. You can't have a concept of camp without one of kitsch, and kitsch is a product of class warfare. But on TV, everyone is a decent struggling worker, living in an aristocratic mansion, doing a vague middle-class, middle management job.

...because a cup is more stylish than a syringe.

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