DATES AND LE TOUR

Caption: For you keen gardeners out there. This is what happens to expensive imported sods of grass when the sprinkling systems (using recycled water) gets bunged up.

A date which I picked up last week has dried out; I take a big chance and eat it. It’s sweet and delicious. Would that other fruits (such as my plums) dried on the vine rather than rotting. I suppose it has something to do with the climate? Dates and coffee are a staple in all Arab countries; after his marathon post-Second World War trips across the Empty Quarter in Oman and Saudi, Wilfred Thesiger confessed that however starving he was, he couldn’t face another date.

On the ground floor of this apartment building, which I know only as No 6 (streets aren’t well marked here; even in the phone book they only give PO Box numbers as addresses), there is a small gym. This is equipped with an adequate treadmill and exercise bike, and one of those racks where in theory you can do an assortment of exercises. Problem is it takes so long to figure them out, you’d have been better off doing a few free-range press-ups and sit-ups. Still, it is possible to do leg presses and that one where you sit down, put the weight on your foot and then straighten the leg.

There is also an elliptical machine which no-one has yet been able to work; we suspect you’d want to be 7ft tall with very long legs. Even more important there are two air conditioners. The room is not well used and since there is a TV in it, the Filipino lad who lives in a small box of a room also on the ground floor and seems to act as caretaker, often pops his head around the door. Today, he kept me amused cycling a bike round and round the car parking area outside. He looked to be having fun; you forget how young these lads are and so far away from home.

The owner of the building introduced himself to be one day; he drives a big car. Then there is the slick chappie from the Lebanon who claims to be in charge, until you ask for something to be done. He wears winkle pickle shoes and drives a convertible sports car. If anything does go wrong, the man to ask is Jules, who runs an apartment maintenance company. For the lads in the villa, he supplies a cleaning lady every day; I thought that was a bit much for me since I’m on my own and when they squawked at only one day a week, I caved in and agreed to two days. That means I have to tidy up two days a week, a big strain (but probably good for me).

After my stretch in the gym, turn on the TV as background while I re-stock my glycogen stores (scoff my reheated pasta in other words). There on TV5 Monde is the Tour de France, possibly the most discredited and pointless sporting event on this planet, with zilch spectator appeal outside the few mad French people who like to dress up as devils and make an annual ass of themselves. Who cares who wins in the rush to the line? I keep staring a the TV set, trying to see the point. Can it be revitalised?

Well, here’s an idea. Why not make it an endurance event for everyman (and woman), like all those marathons? How many people would like to say they’d completed ‘le tour’? Get rid of all those alarmingly emaciated men with shaved legs and cadaverous faces and give the race back to ordinary folk with personality and a bit of fun in them. Bring in a few women. Indeed, make it a rule that every team has to have at least one woman. You could even introduce tow ropes for slower members of a team like they have in adventure races.

So who should I contact?