A Foreign Affair by Stella Russell Page B

the road, ‘is a British service of remembrance, probably for veterans of our campaigns out here, to commemorate the 50th anniversary of our pull-out from Aden. The man getting out of the LandCruiser will be the British Ambassador. That strange couple standing beside the Peugeot are, without a shadow of a doubt, the Anglican vicar to Aden and his wife...’
    An orgy of hand-shaking, video-filming and back-slapping ensued which, along with my sighting of Mrs Rev, put the dampers on any desire I might have had to leave the sanctuary of our vehicle. I explained to my friends that turning up to such an event with smears of camel dung down my front might be seen as letting the side down, but Sheikh Ahmad declared himself absolutely determined to, as he put it, ‘pay my respect to the British Queen and demonstrate that we south Yemenis have no hard feelings towards her – the reverse...’ I decided that in such a noble cause, for such a person as Sheikh Ahmad, I should swallow both my usual pride in my appearance and my dread of Mrs Rev. It went without saying however that Aziz, blood-spattered and far from fresh-smelling, must wait behind in the car.
    I was glad I’d decided to accompany the sheikh because I soon found myself having to take charge of a uniquely British situation. At the entrance to the cemetery the Ambassador’s security guards moved suddenly and swiftly to prevent Sheikh Ahmad from accompanying me inside. ‘Sorry sir, it’s a Brits only do,’ they said firmly directing him back to the car.
    ‘Excuse me! I’d like to know what gives you the right to tell my friend where he can and can’t go in his own country.’
    ‘Security concerns ma’am – heard of al-Qaeda? – passport please.’
    I handed it over, but only because he’d said ‘please’. Good manners should always be rewarded, I think.
    ‘Roza Flashman, eh? The name’s got a familiar ring about it. Sounds like something out of a comic, doesn’t it?’ he joked with his colleague. ‘You’ve heard of Batman and Superman and Spiderman – now, here comes Flashman – Flashman the Flasher!’ While the louts laughed their blockheads off together, I was pleased to sense that beside me Sheikh Ahmad was bridling on my behalf. ‘No, I’m serious – you ever been in the news, love?’ one of the oafs went on, oblivious.
    ‘If you don’t give me back my passport this instant, I’ll see to it that you’re both “in the news” for racial and sexual harassment!’
    ‘Keep your hair on!’ said the smaller one, sheepishly. ‘We was only having a laugh!’
    Am I mistaken in thinking that the collective psyche of the average Brit male is that of an eleven year old boy – smutty, clumsy, facetious, often sentimental, full of bravado but shamefully ignorant? I don’t think I am!
    ‘No need to get your knickers in a twist, love’ said the other, proffering my passport without extending his arm towards me.
    ‘Go fuck your niece,’ I said, snatching it from him.
    ‘What did you just say?’
    ‘Good luck and peace,’ I giggled, in shame-faced recognition of the fact that I had descended to their level, grabbing Sheikh Ahmad’s hand and nimbly sidestepping them to enter the cemetery.
    ‘I don’t understand,’ said Sheikh Ahmad, shaking his head and bewilderment. ‘I thought my English was good but what was that about hair and knickers and a niece? Why did they insult you and your name? What was so funny about the word ‘flasher’? I remember there was a British floor-cleaning product called Flash...’
    ‘I’ll tell you later,’ I said, hoping he’d forget all about it and spare me the embarrassment of having to describe a flasher. ‘The service should be starting soon,’ I said hastily trying to put as much distance as I could between myself and Mrs Rev, and gently pouring cold water on Sheikh Ahmad’s idea of greeting the ambassador. ‘No, trust me – not the right moment - why don’t we just wander over here for a