HIGH RISES

A whole lot of zeros.

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"I'm surprised there's not a revolution!", a repatriate exclaimed, suggesting that the conditions in some way mirror that of the last time around. It was another occasion for me in uptown Tehran among chic furniture, an enormous television with accompanying surround sound speakers competing with the sound of highrises being clanged together in the neighbourhood. With the current financial uncertainty facing her new homeland it seemed odd to me that she would suggest Iran needs a revolution.

I listened to an Iranian radio station, broadcasting from that very same nation, referring to an article someplace, purporting that Iran's economic situation mirrors that preceding the revolution. I listened to another show from that same nation suggesting that the citizens themselves are far from the economic comfort of around the same period. "It used to be that mortgages would be three times one's annual salary", a lady reminisced, "it used to be that a single earner could provide for the family", another caller remarked.

I repeated this to a colleague, for which we worked out the ratios for our relatively healthy incomes. The price of a modest house, in a modest part of Tehran would be twenty times our annual salary.

As the west deals with it's own belief system it's interesting to note that between all the cracking and crunching, Iran is somehow an Island, as the same colleague put it to me. "How does all this effect us here in Iran", I both ask and get asked. This I can only hazard a guess at. Be it through inability or through some observation of Islamic law, we as Iranians cannot play with credit and thus we own things as oppose to debt - for better or for worse. I guess in our cases we only need believe that the cash currently occupies our hands before we expend on a top of the range BMW with its immense trade tariff (and trust me, they're queuing up for them). In my case, this means I cannot get that mortgage that I'd never in my lifetime be able to pay off.

the knock on effects to oil prices are certainly a point at which Iran will see a crunch

How all these international matters will come to effect us here on our Island will no doubt be known over time, seen maybe by the queues of corporations waiting at our shores, either decreasing or possibly even increasing interactions. This island is however a banana republic of sorts and thus the knock on effects to oil prices are certainly a point at which Iran will see a crunch and in a very immediate fashion. Should this come about, I very much doubt our repatriate will be proved right, yet I'm not sure how much those outside of the BMWs can be stretched.

SPRING CLEANED

The telecabins

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"So would you like to explain what brings you to Iran", I ask the forty-something German standing within my view finder. His voice adapts to a semi-serious tone as I played around with the video camera positioning, "I'm in Iran to cover the elections", he responds, explaining that he will do so as a photographic journalist as part of many politically orientated projects he's working on around the middle east. We stood almost halfway up a scenic mountain setting overlooking a hazy Tehran, I set our photographer-guest to the side of the frame to both catch the passing groups of curious Iranian tourists and the crossing telecabins hanging in the sky behind. He spoke with an impassioned frustration about his more prominent project, "I'm photographing walls, that is, walls of detention: the West Bank in Israel/Palestine, the Mexico border and Belfast for example".

The impromptu interview came to a natural close whereby I realised I should probably get the borrowed video camera back to its rightful owner. We squinted up and down the mountain in search of the group we'd arrived with yet a quick phone call confirmed my suspicions that the day's events had pretty much been called off and a regroup for tea and cake had commenced. With disappointment we set back down to join the group and with further disappointment I listened to the real meat of our guests opinions as the camera hung switched off and by my side.

The Big Green Spring-Clean: join us in clearing up the clog-up. In and effort to rid Iran of rubbish we are conducting periodic team cleans. Begins Friday 7th March (17 Esfand). Meet @Bam-e-Tehran @Tochal (end of Velenjak). 9am. Bring gloves, wear green & make a sign "People came & cleaned me". Pass it on.

"I know the leader of this certain NGO", interrupted one of the American raised Iranians at the cafe table, "and I could arrange coverage with this certain publication", she continued. This triggered others of similar culturing to add in, "oh, and I know this person, who knows this other person, who's involved in this certain group". Within a short period of time we'd amassed a list of potential-maybes to come to an event with no clear definition. "How about we just set a date; all of us here will attend; do this once and then take things from there", I suggested, conscious of putting talk into action for this proposed ongoing event. But supposedly one group needed to notified, another person needed to pull some strings, things needed writing and delegates needed to be found to delegate to the lesser delegates. Apparently I was not appreciating the dream; indeed I appreciated the hidden purpose by which Iranians can nurture their association to the land (that they may feel has been taken from them), yet my suggestion of leading by example was met with silence. "Next Friday, 9am we meet at this location, wear green, bring gloves, make signs and be ready to document the process", I put it, "I'll send a message around, please pass it on".

The Afghanis persist on undermining our efforts. We've still yet to find so much as a pistachio shell

"Day three of the Big Green Spring Clean...", I jokingly gasped as one of the group was rolling with the camera, "... and the Afghanis persist on undermining our efforts. We've still yet to find so much as a pistachio shell". We were fooling around, yet it was true, we came across a waste bin every 20-metres and an Afghan circling every 40, yet this didn't deter our 20-plus team. Headscarfs were held in place with one hand while plastic bags were grasped at in the other; contingents of mostly young women leaped off the beaten track to respond to the calling of a glinting ring-pulls. "Excuse me", interrupted a woman while I'd gotten to day four, "I just want to say, what you are doing is great, keep up the good work", she continued before darting off. "Did we get that on film?", I asked as I turned to the camera once again.

I tried not to read into the fact that only one of the three well-connected, American-raised conspirators turned up (and late at that) and instead enjoyed the abundance unfamiliar Iranian attendees wearing some shade of green. But I later learned that the successes didn't stop there, another mixed ethnic friend who also didn't attend informed me that the multinational company she works for awarded her with a prize for writing about green issues. She'd suggested some association within her writing, "I hope you don't mind", she smiled. Her prize was a trip to Malawi to take part in some kind of green activity – I can only guess that'll involve delegating tasks to locals on how to offset the carbon footprint her trip will produce.

AMERICAN PEACE

Gathered among friends

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This is a slightly adapted email sent out recently…

So, this weekend; the final of the three-nights-one-location party stint ended on a good note. The first of these nights deserves a write up in itself, having been spent with English Farsi students and being reminded of how much I’ve adapted to this place. It was weird to have my Englishness trumped.

So, as mentioned, the regular and rotating Peace Delegation from America came once again to [my friend’s] house for a soirée of sorts. Before they arrived I joined the group of cosmopolitan Tehran folk amassed and discussing the variety of guests due. Our friend linked to this Delegation informed us that the Delegation’s organisers had exceeded the annual quota of visits and that there was talk about increasing what was seen as a successful program.

[The host] was freaking out [with joy] about having a black woman, a Jewish Rabbi and some dude high-up in some church be guests at his house. Oddly enough, the Rabbi turned out to be a young Jewish author and the Christian dude ended up being a former band manager of various greats (having toured and worked with The Dead, The Who and a few others that escape me now). It was only the black woman who failed to fit the description; she turned out to be a well decorated Native American from a reservation in Arizona.

As we met them at the door they needed each name to be repeated until they comfortably got their tongues around the strange new sounds. “And you are?”, they asked one-by-one, “David”, I responded, reaching out my hand. “David?”, they repeated, “yes David” … “David?”, they asked again, awaiting a reassuring punchline that never came. As the weather was pleasant we guided them through the house to sit out on the balcony whereby they, like many before, commented about the great view [of the Alborz Mountains] – even though little could be seen in the dark condition.

"I think Israel has only 10-years left", I was somehow surprised to hear this and responded jokingly with, "you've been listening to the words of our president too much"

It turned out that the touring Christian (of some peculiar strand) was from the [San Francisco] Bay area like [the host], to which streets and notaries were reeled out one after another; the native Indian answered questions related to her cluster of clothing and I made inquiries with the Jewish east coast gent about his book that was short-listed just that day for a prize. He talked about this book, informing us that it was entitled ‘Children in War’, which was - if I remember rightly - a collection of non-fictional accounts, as the title would suggest. During his explanation he came back on somebody’s comment with, "I think Israel has only 10-years left", I was somehow surprised to hear this and responded jokingly with, "you've been listening to the words of our president too much". I asked him why he thought like that, to which he went into detail as to how there are apparently a large volume of Jews who fit a schizophrenic profile, Jews who simply can't deal with both the Israel issue and their conscience. He then went on to talk about some kind of lobby thing called J Street that is there to confront or compete with K Steet - or was it the other way around? By this I gathered that he meant there was a lobby group(s) that has strong support for the plight of the Palestinians.

Similarly, I was talking of American politics with the Christian dude, but not before I answered his list of questions about Iran. Every other sentence I had to remind him that what he sees before him and over the balcony – if anything at all – is far from the reality of Iran. He mentioned that he was about to begin a PhD in Sexology, to which it took a few minutes for the group to move beyond the resulting jokes. I both volunteered information I'd learned about sex in Islam to which he brought further inquiries. He said that they were heading to the holy city of Qom the following day to which I mentioned that he could be in for a treat and could also stock up on literature for his future studies. I spoke about the sex calendar devised by the mullahs, indicating the best times for a Muslim to have sex within the week/month/year. He perked up on that one. I also mentioned a few of the related Islamic laws and also of one in particular concerning falling through floors during earthquakes and impregnating things below - that and matters concerning anal sex. He'd asked about gay folk in Iran - to which I had to amusingly remind him that we didn't have any here. I followed on this by adding the oddity that is gayness in Iran; that the men pretty much do all but penetrate in display of their affection with other men. I talked of a book I'd read entitled, ‘Sex Morals and Marriage in Islam’ saying that he might be able to get one of the clerics to run around for him to gather this and many more.

With that I felt it best to educate him on how he should behave before the people he was about to meet in Qom; educating him on how better to shake hands and how best to phrase his requests. By coincidence he was already wearing a ring very similar to those worn by mullahs; that, coupled with the beard he’d been especially growing for the visit, assured me he’d do just fine.

He asked for my forgiveness as he became, “a little spiritual”, telling about how deeply moved he was by visiting the tomb

My conversation with the Christian dude pretty much carried on until they left - for which I was a little worried that I consumed all his time when there was so many other interesting people that he could have spoken with. He mentioned at one point about having visited [the Iranian poet] Hafez's tomb, following with complimentary words about the nation and its history. He asked for my forgiveness as he became, “a little spiritual”, telling about how deeply moved he was by visiting the tomb. He welled up in his explanation; nearly enough to drop a tear. Seeing his red bulbing eyes partly avoiding me seemed to trigger me off too, yet for wholly different reasons.

I was engrossed with his perspective on America and its politics; he was deeply critical and deeply angered. He was sickened by paying tax and knowing that the official figures of how much of that got spent on the military is about 35%; we agreed that this is more than likely lower than is the case when noting how these things are publicly presented. He spoke of the big players such as Haliburton, KBR and the Carlyle Group and how the American people are at the whim of these corporations in many respects. Obama he was looking forward to, suggesting that it might be a break from the current elite - I contended that this result would make little difference should it actually transpire.

"I give it a year and the dollar is done", he awkwardly asserted.

On that, we spoke of possibilities that might swing it another way: Iran was his suggestion. I suggested that something would surly be brought out of the bag for the voting occasion to inspire a specific choice, sadly I had to admit that Iran could indeed be that. He was disillusioned with the system and felt maybe it needed taking back, yet had no confidence in this coming about. With that he spoke of his concern for his children, suggesting at one point that he feels bad for bringing them into the world with what he felt was looming: "I give it a year and the dollar is done", he awkwardly asserted. He followed this with talk of fuel prices, limitation on food, decreasing employment figures and a disgusting health care situation.

We brought the conversation back to Iran, whereby he asked about the political situation both now and previously here. It seemed he’d done his research and there was little for me to add. We spoke of the '53 coup, the Shah and the current regime which led to talk of the current developments in the nation with regards to sanctions and how Iran is dealing with business internationally. I brought it back home with the big topic of these days that is inflation. He was worried about the dollar for next year and I was worried about how over 90% of Iranians would be able to afford anything next year if the events of this year repeat themselves. It all seemed rather odd to discuss all this from the balcony of one of the more fancy high rises of Tehran.

Details were exchanged and goodbyes were said before we wished them well for their pending Qom trip. The Christian dude went to shake my hand and frightened me by doing so in the mullah like way - it took a moment to remember where he'd learned it from.

ON ECONOMICS

Snow arrived covering my out-of-town neighbourhood. The development to the left are the ongoing, still unfinished Mayor's offices

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"What is it; house prices double every five or so years?", I put it, plucking a guestimate from nowhere in particular, "no, not at all", my friend's father – a property developer – corrected me. I expected him to maybe add another year, but it was quite the opposite; "no, house prices double every two and a half years". With my jaw still hanging some place below my neck I listened to him explain of how land prices increase at such a rate that development is given up on, leaving the major cities filled with concrete skeletons gridding the skyline.

My five year guestimate was certain to be off if only I'd remembered a family member purchasing a small spot of land in the north of Iran that long ago, at what would be $5000, and it currently being valued at nearly $400,000. This land, like the neglected patches around the major cities, has simply been left untouched; and why not; why have the headache and expense when you are earning while sitting still.

Not too recently I decided to look for a place to rent that would be closer to the office and the Tehran night-life. Initially I had problems with wanting to cohabit with a male friend; two young lads rang alarm bells with landlords. The next problem was having to front a refundable deposit of roughly ten months rent in advance, of which not I nor my friend had saving to hand. And it's this situation that baffles me daily: inflation is at such a rate that the money in my hands, or even the bank (if I was to use one here - which I don't) is currently depreciating at such a rate that it's frustrating if not futile saving for those big ticket items.

An odd, yet equally unfeasible alternative for us could have been to give a large sum of money to a landlord upfront. With this, our deposit of roughly $30,000 within a one year period would have adjusted (through inflation and bank interest) so much that upon getting this exact figure back from the landlord our rent would have materialised. If that same landlord were to invest it in land in the north of Iran then my five year residency could have gotten them a $2.5m asset to play with.

My friend and I gave up on the house hunt and continued living in the out-of-town apartment gifted by my family. The monthly rental amounts we were looking at never ventured below the national minimum wage (per month), meaning that to rent in what is wider-central Tehran, one must be of a healthy threshold. Although I met this threshold comfortably it didn't justify the exchange in commuting and would have paradoxically decreased the means to enjoy the Tehran night-life.

my savings may never keep up with the adjustment and I should claim the value while it correlates with my blood loss

With these big ticket items I am often castigated by my grandmother for not looking to invest in a house or being a, "real adult", and getting a car – apparently the money I drain away in coffee shops will bring this to reality. As she keeps pointing out, I do get a relatively healthy income putting me in the top 0.5% of earners here, yet when I thinking about saving money (which is made easier by my not currently paying rent), I can't help but wonder if I'd be wasting my time; that I'd be better off spending it fast. By that I mean that my savings may never keep up with the adjustment and I should claim the value while it correlates with my blood loss.

If I was to use a bank, I could accumulate the money there at what I think is around 18% APR, but this would probably still not keep up with the cost-of-being-alive and certainly not with the current climate in the property market. With this move I might then also be able to ask the bank for a loan, which I hear would be hard to arrange and not likely to be enough to get a footing. As for a full mortgage; they are pretty much unheard of here in Iran.

I was quoted in an Indian economics journal recently about this inability to keep up, yet was cut off without qualifiers such as joining the capitalist tramplings, using banks or using my family. The tramplings I think about a lot, by which I could buy and sell land - yet at the cost of any moral sensibility. The banks give me the same unease and the family is an altogether different unease. It's hard to avoid getting drawn in though; the longer I don't join in the tramplings the harder it will be for me - but I can't help but feel I would become part of the wider problem if I do.

everybody has two jobs - it's funny and it's true. That second job is the difference between being alive and living

For those slow or unable to indulge the tramplings there's always the blood loss. There is a funny comment I often hear in Iran; that everybody has two jobs, and that they work harder on the second - it's funny and it's true. That second job is the difference, the difference between being alive and living. It is increasingly more common to hear talk of all the above while sat in taxis around Tehran; the government bear the brunt of the frustration for which harsh words get shouted back at the car radios. Often I hear both inside and outside of the country that the president, Ahmadinejad is responsible for all the developing financial issues; I couldn't say either way, but I rather think he's an easy target and people maybe neglect external pressures and the country full-on embrace of neo-liberalism among other incidental matters.

The Iranian new year is coming and with it the usual price adjusting period where within a single week one can observe a national inflation hike. My healthy wage should increase also during this period but I figure it will only keep up with the post new year adjusted inflation, meaning that as the year creeps forward I'll lose more blood for my Rial and I'll still not consider buying a house or even a car. You'll more likely find me regularly draining it away in coffee shops, attempting to at least appreciate its value while discussing how bad this could all turn out.

FOUND HEART

In position for the shoot.

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"Close your eyes Daveed, look up Daveed, press your lips together Daveed, look down Daveed", the makeup artist requested as she poked and prodded various devices at my face, "what's your eye discrepancy? Me too, can I wear your glasses; I forgot mine?". What a strange job for Iran I thought to myself as the face staring back at me gradually resembled my favourite character in the Wizard of Oz, "you must be one of few in this trade in Iran, I mean, you must be spending more time making-down than up", I curiously asked. She responded with an anecdote of a film she worked on in which a scene was scraped as the chicken on the table looked "too erotic".

Another cigarette break saw her on the chair complaining of back pain; something about a car being lifted when she was eleven. I looked around the room with a sense of awkwardness, two of the audience were wheelchair bound, one of which had just minutes before stared at my hand as I went to shake it; unable to move much below the neck. A young observer kicked a bin across – it slid just in place for the falling ash – before he continued his swaying back an forth between the various helpful moments. I noticed his odd shape, like his arms were firmly crossed with every maneuver; it looked oddly arrogant. It was only when the phone rang and I saw him chin the receiver to his shoulder that it came to me – the guy has no arms; cripes, I thought as I imagined my daily routine without arms. A coincidence I thought; my face was caked in makeup for which I could not touch no matter how much it itched – what does he do when he has an itch, needs to piss, change clothes and what breaks his fall. "Can I take a photo of you?", he asked as I saw him with a mobile wedged between his big-toe and next-toe. And so my photo was taken as he balanced on one leg and somehow pressed the correct button from the other. "Look; not bad!", he joyfully stated, having rotated the handset to show me the results.

A few days prior to these scenes I'd nonchalantly agreed to partake in a photoshoot on behalf of a local client. Oblivious to what was planned, I'd turned up obscenely early for work to then join colleagues on bus journey to the south of Tehran to a place known as Kahrizak (derived from the name of the charity), a place better described as a large megaplex, housing 1700 variably challenged Iranians and 700 rotating staff. We'd been requested to provide an advertising campaign that didn't focus on getting donations of money – for apparently this was in plentiful supply – but rather on asking people to give there time and love.

Having been made-up, we made our way round to the theatre in a golf buggy wearing the label, 'donated by LCS, London England'. As the manageress dodged the wheelchairs being pushed around by the slightly more able, I was amused at how it was I that was being stared at; I heard echos of my mother, "David, don't stare!", yet it was I that was the odd one out with a silver face and a Star Trek tunic.

"Look into her eyes; you know, this is the woman you long for", enthusiastically requested the shoot director as we arranged ourself on stage, "yes, reach your hand out to her", he added as I jokingly brought out the thespian in me. If only he knew the existing office gossip about me and the colleague that he asked me to connect eyes with for an uncomfortably long period, "yes, that's it, you want her!".

"Excuse me, can you put my leg back on the rest?", asked the man whose hand I couldn't shake, "oh, and can you readjust the newspaper in my hands?", he added between the director's shuffling of the wheelchairs back and forth. What the photographer didn't capture, the toes of the no-armed guy did as we moved to a new arrangement, "now you're angry; point at her; shout at her!", I was instructed, "yeah, you screwed up on that Renault account!", I shouted as she turned to ignore me – just as instructed.

We were buggied to the MS centre for which everybody felt the need to remind me, "this is the MS centre", with a deliberate pause following. This section of the shoot didn't involve me so I took great amusement in walking around and being stared at, like some visiting clown. I joined my fellow protagonist and another female colleague in what they referred to as 'head hitting' – a euphemism for paying visits I assume. "Hello, we're here doing a photoshoot...", explained my colleague as she entered each room. I would wait outside initially; we were in the women's section, "we have a man with us, is it a problem if he comes in?", she would ask on each occasion.

With each room I was surprised at their surprise – ah yes, I look like the Tin Man I had to remind myself

With each room I was surprised at their surprise – ah yes, I look like the Tin Man I had to remind myself. The first two girls perked up for the occasion with one reciting cheeky poetry as she lay before us, each word struggled to pass her lips as her eyes spun like fruit machine wheels. The next room was not as severe and the one after held a delightful sense of humour – how they transformed as we entered – TVs were immediately switched off and smiles bridged the little skits they performed for us.

The last 'head we hit' had a performer who battled with severe convulsions, "you turn the TV off, let me put the music on", she asked as she shook the stereo into giving us the pop, yet slightly traditional sounds of Pourya. Upright on the bed, she shimmied back and forth not missing a single word with each song. We joined in, cautious to not alert the staff, "don't tell them", she whispered, "it can be our secret". The Tin Man had been oiled-up and pulled out a few moves to the first, second, third and forth song. Our performing resident was playing Pourya, pointing at me – the subject I guess – with each reference, "I can't live without you", she nodded to me with a wink.

"Shall we go after this one", I asked my colleagues in English, "what?", asked the girl. I lied in response, "I was saying, c'mon, let dance!". I was convinced that we'd repeat the album again and my colleague seemed to not have the heart to break the performance – one of us had to be brave.

Our reason for being there, at Kahrizak, became clear to me at that moment as a difficult goodbye was made. "In one month!", protested the girl as we told her we'd come again. "You know Daveed, she's the same age as me", my colleague added as we walked away, but she was courageous; not dropping a tear over her stage makeup. And me, I guess I found my heart; I guess I'll go back.

COSMOPOLITAN TEHRAN

This shot was not taken in California.

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"Ahh man! That dumb ass Bush!", piped up on of the more lubricated girls, dropping her conversation in favour of the table talk going on behind. She leaned in with one hand supporting her swaying body and the other waving around with a barrage of insults. This spectacle caught my attention beyond the spillings of an oddly pretty thing; she'd effortlessly adopted an American twang with the English she'd brought to the table and amazingly gifted those sat around with a similar ability. I was distracted from the conversation with the gentleman to my left; the English being spoken was of native quality, yet in all the time I'd sat there this convenient ability had not been displayed. I turned back to my left and made some comment about this gentleman also hiding such ability, "yeah, I grew up in Orange County, California", he responded, later adding, "hey man, you're Persian's not too bad considering how long you've been here".

I guess this begun with an interview that never happened. A fellow dual national friend of mine invited me to contribute to a piece for Al Jazeera News; simply to give an Iranian perspective on their news service. I'd arrived late, for which I was to be the last to comment. "Yeah, Al Jazeera, that's the one on channel 6 yeah?", I responded to the off-air question, "no it's on satellite only", they came back at me, leaving me confused as to what that Arabic news channel on 6 was all about. "Oh, well I don't have satellite and the TV is only on for football", I added, embarrassingly bringing a conclusion to interviews.

Iran is a sanctuary of sorts; to enjoy an elevated status maybe; to bum around and sponge from the parents

Following this non-event we gathered at my friend's office to which I found myself surrounded by dual nationals of the American kind, "ah, another refugee", I teased with each as they stated the volume of time spent here and there. We shared our reasons for being in Iran – when given the choice not to be – and found that the was a lot of overlap; we were all 20-somethings, educated in the west, curious with regards to heritage, with much family still in Iran and non-plussed about which borders surround us. I get the impression that there is also a hidden story with each person, it seems that Iran is a sanctuary of sorts; a place to escape to; to enjoy an elevated status maybe; to bum around and sponge from the parents, as is common with many Iranians at that social level and age.

For a few weeks now I've been meeting these new found friends, for which our mutual associations have expanded to a community of sorts, bringing me a very different feeling towards living in Iran. Its been great to share the oddities that only we see, the jokes that only we could know and the advice that only relates to us. I'm reminded of my father's expat friends in my hometown and all those moments where he fast finds an affinity with those other first generations whom found themselves on British soil for whatever reason. Yet in my case the affinity is drawn through language and a similarity in culture more than nationality for I've found far less British dual nationals.

As I sat at that table in the uptown penthouse apartment and listened to the crowd of perfectly bilingual guests I was surprised at how un-Iranian everything seemed. The football that was silently playing in the background on the television had switched to still of the supreme leader's face for which I was amused by the juxtapose as I scanned across the room. The moment came as oddly settling as I felt I'd found a liberating scene; for a moment I was distanced from the concept of borders and reveled in the cosmopolitan atmosphere I'd stumbled upon, both then and since.

FLICKR GATHRING

My panoramic effort of the group shot - click above to see the full effect.

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"My name is Reza; ID; 'The Styx', S.T.Y.X.", spelled out my friend before the camera made its way round the ring people to me, "my name is Daveed; ID; D.D.M.M.Y.Y.Y.Y", I added in confusion; wondering if I'd numbered my 'Y's correctly. "You forgot the forward slashes", reminded a fellow member before as we moved on to other members; "...full-stop, colon, 'Saha', colon, full-stop", and then, "...'Thirsty Fish', greater-than sign, equals sign, smaller-than sign, greater-than sign".

This tedious introduction was as difficult to relay above as it was to sit through. It was a getting-to-know-you moment for the now regular Flickr photographer's gathering, which in this case, was hosted in a lush public garden in up-town Tehran. I'd first joined Flickr to help extend beyond my words – or vice-versa – just before coming to Iran and was a short time after that that the Iranian Flickr community saw its first gathering. I received an invite to that occasion and politely declined. It was a simple decision for me; the site is forbidden in Iran and in those tender early days, where I'd yet to settle my behaviour and understand the boundaries, it seemed perverse that I should expose myself. Several gatherings on from this, Flickr hosts – in just one case – a group of over 1000 Iranian (related) users with over 22,000 photographs of which around 30 of those Tehran users joined me for my first experience.

we were friends; in the virtual sense, I'd been commenting on their work for maybe over a year and now there they were before me; with their wife, child and a grinning face

For this occasion I was only nervous at the thought of greeting the many new faces, and thankfully not for being carted off by a tipped-off police squad. It only occurred to me upon my first introduction that the game of replacing names with IDs was going to make things a little trickier. "I'm Daveed – 'D.D.M.M.Y.Y.Y.Y'", I repeated, struggling to mouth out this damn alias; this would be followed with a fellow member mouthing out various character combinations in return. It was funny, we were friends; in the virtual sense, I'd been commenting on their work for maybe over a year and now there they were before me; with their wife, child and a grinning face.

Americans can only try and have such a smiling group of friendly faces; it was unreal, we were 'virtually' family. We darted around, photographing the garden, photographing each other photographing the garden; some of us photographing the photographers of the photographers. "Go stand over there", one would ask, "sit on in this area", put another as digital clicks and analogue snaps sounded around me. And then there came the traditional group shot.

I'd seen many group shots arriving in the Iranian groups, with numbers increasing, associations growing, and now, it was my turn to be another face in the crowd. The nested photographic situation arrived with this moment too, as we arranged ourselves into the photographers and the photographers of the photographers etc. I did both before sitting and smiling; both at making this moment and in the knowledge of being able to follow the follow-on tradition of being able to add a note around my face when the photos were later posted: "Me! It was great meeting you all; I look forward to the next".

TEHRAN HOLES

A Tehran hole.

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"Iran is not blessed with the best of capitals", I read from the book my Turkish tourist friend had left before me as he dashed off to the toilet, "concrete, cars, traffic, pollution, bits of road and pavement absent", this was the Lonely Planet's comedy endorsement – read travel guide – of a place I now call home. I read on fixated, maybe a survival guide would better describe it as warning after warning explaining the uniquely bizarre and unsafe environment organically inflicted on the nation. I was in open laughter a pages kept referring back to the cars drivers and roads, "Tehran's taxi drivers are exceptionally good drivers", they reassured us as anecdote after anecdote found its way on the page. I can't say I've read many Lonely Planet guides but I'm sure they all aren't consumed with stark warnings and frustrating tales.

I have gradually become numb to these oddities yet occasionally a fresh pair of eyes arrive to remind me of this daily chaos. "There was a hole in the path – just path and then a great big hole, no warning...", they tell me as I am brought to tears of laughter. I laugh because I've said the same and because the person I told laughed at me for finding it strange. There is more, they too have pages of anecdotes as a whole spectrum of absurdity folds me over in laughter. I laugh at them, at myself, at the Iranian people, what is this place Tehran, a clash of 15,000,000 ideas simultaneously manifesting themselves in some attempt of a capital.

I recently wrote of my lack of enthusiasm for returning back here but I fear I failed to qualify my analogy. I believe I wasn't naive in coming to live here in Iran, having visited the place a couple of times before I was aware that the culture can be abrasive and that it would likely toughen me, bringing calluses to my soft English manner. I embraced this as character building, but hard skinned is not how I would describe myself. I've learned to rival cuntish behavior with cuntish behavior but I might more correctly describe this as being sore skinned: I am sensitive to the trampling and clamor to not be kicked down. I'm gradually learning to be a city arsehole and now leave the house armed and trigger happy.

There are two things new to me here, city life and Tehran city life. I have lived for 3-years a piece in probably England's smallest cities, other than that I'm of the small town, and a dainty one at that. London could have made me that city arsehole or cunt if you please, but Tehran's 15,000,000... I look to nature for analogies, ant hills? Far too organised and clearly all inhabitants are of the same species - they do walk all over one another though.

It's tiring – holes and arsholes, all 15,000,000 of us. I'm not part of the solution and gradually becoming part of the problem

I might single out just one daily moment, one I've not numbed to and have still yet to learn how to snap at. It happened once again today just minutes before I began writing. I was being served in my local corner shop, actually in verbal intercourse when some cunt walks in shouting, "razor blades, give me three razor blades!". I don't think he'd even entered the door when his demand was placed but he'd managed to barge in front of me as the shop keeper respected the law of the jungle, serving him first. I didn't respond like the other times today, yesterday, everyday as I was not sure which person's throat I should take those razor blades to.

It's tiring – holes and arsholes, all 15,000,000 of us. I'm not part of the solution and gradually becoming part of the problem, this might not be character building but rather character destroying. And what was it I was saying about holding my breath?

SPRING CLEANING

A male street trader selling headscarfs.

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"There's only one stop that bus is making", my friend laughed as we negotiated the crowds of Tehran's estrogen interchange that is Vanak Square. My reaction to this would only have been found on the inside as the ugly reality of what I'd seen 24-hours before revealed itself.

The previous day I'd stumbled upon this Islamic carnival quite unknowingly, in passing I donned a dumb grin, "Oooo, TV cameras, Oooo big bus, Oooo, lots of officially dressed people". I slowed down, deducing what type of guest was in town: there was just enough people for it to be the president, too many for a foreign notary and certainly too many for a news article. The bus was curtained, so I guessed that they were famous, but why so many empty cars parked around I pondered. I loitered, but it was too calm, I assumed I'd missed the precession and left in disappointment.

That night I'd popped out with my father, traveling by car we couldn't help but go through Tehran's notorious Jordan Boulevard – notorious among other things for being a road not unlike a catwalk. As we inched forward I noticed the traffic had slowed for different reasons to usual. One-by-one police officers glared in at the drivers subsequently ushering the women drivers to the side whereby further police and a blacked-out van awaited.

If a headscarf falls in a far away forest and nobody is there to see it, will they make a sound?

If a headscarf falls in a far away forest and nobody is there to see it, will they make a sound? I thought while I sat watching the the police decipher the morally correct with no great ease.

"My friend was cautioned", said one girl at work the next day, "yes mine too", said another. We all shared our stories and although this annual tactic is expected we all agreed that the level was way beyond what has been seen for the last few years at least.

A fellow blogger amusingly writes, '“The news is reporting that 93% of the population approves of the crackdown on hejab,” our cab driver told us. “If that is true, there is no need to enforce hejab,” I responded.'.

This self-serving statistic, true or not, is mentioned almost like things would be different if it was the other way round, but we live in the Islamic Republic and it's that time of year for us to be reminded.

UNCLEAR WATERS

My Aunt's Haft Sin. Happy Iranian new year to all my readers.


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"So what has been the Iranian response to the 15-navy personnel arrested yesterday?", she asked as I sat in a coffee struggling to hear through the chatter and poor mobile reception. "I'm not sure I'd like to speak on behalf of the Iranians but I've not really heard it discussed", I responded, "I mean, the Iranians are celebrating the new year and I'm sure news and politics are far from their minds".

Each time I get an international call, beginning with a silent pause and then a, "is that... of... doing?", my paranoia is refreshed. There's been a few of late and it still puzzles me why I'm selected among all the possibilities. I'm flattered, it's exciting yet I can't help but think there'll be troubling repercussions.

"Well, I think they genuinely must have been in Iranian waters as I'm sure it's too much of a politically tense time to make such errors or begin a blackmail campaign", I speculated during the pre-interview. "I mean, this will be politicised and not work to the Iranians' advantage", I regrettably added, certain that it would be the other way around.

"So you think they'll be released soon?", I was asked in surprise as I suggested it would blow over quite quickly. "I think there was a similar incident not too recently where the captives were released swiftly", I added, trying to remember if this was the case or not.

Coincidentally I was awaiting the company of a foreign journalist friend of mine who I was sure would enlighten me of an similar such events. "No, there was the capture of two journalists, French and German, they were fishing off an island, traveling from Qatar", he informed me, "Their maps stated they were not in Iranian water", he went on noting that there had been a dispute. "They were detained for 15-months and released at a politically advantageous moment". He then informed me of the UN Security Council meeting to be held later that day where further sanctions against Iran were likely to be passed – was this another politically advantageous time?

I'm sure many such intrusions of air or water space has been tolerated by the government here, not willing to contribute to the West's media circus

I then proceeded in my speculation and countered his thinking that this was an Iranian tactic. "I'm sure many such intrusions of air or water space has been tolerated by the government here, not willing to contribute to the Wests' media circus.", I went on, referring to Seymor Hersh's articles of US drone flights in Iranian air space. "Maybe claims by both sides about being in certain waters are correct in themselves, I mean, the navigation facilities on the British boat may have been tampered", I pondered, curious that this might have been extra-military activity. "Drop a word or two in the right ear and you'll see the Iranians taking the bate... and what great timing", I cynically added.

"Is it Seepa or Sepa?", came a voice on the phone interrupting the radio show as I awaited my turn. "I'm sorry, was that for me?", I responded. "Yes, Seepa or Sepa?", he repeated. They must have made a mistake, I had no idea what they were asking, "the bank", he then added – "Oh, Sepah", I informed him.

Just after we led into the story and they still mispronounced the bank name the presenter introduced me, using me my given name. "So, how do you feel about these new sanctions?", she asked. I sat in my pants, freshly awoken and only too aware that I was live. I'd written notes and was minimally researched but I wasn't at any point told that I would answer on this subject. A few more questions followed and although I filled the time with words and didn't 'um' and 'er' too much my response was poor. I'd mostly attempted to present the hypocrisy of the events, but was rather distracted by not wanted to discuss the matter at all.

"So what is your take on these 15-navy officers arrested?", she finally asked. "Well, it's a rather interesting coincidence, somewhat of an 'October Surprise' I might say". And just as I was warming up to allude to a parallel with the Iran Contra scandal, she interjected, paused a for a brief moment and that was me done.

RED WEDNESDAY

Dancing around the fire in the street.


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"Strange, riot police", I exclaimed as we edged passed two pick-ups packed with black-clad, heavily armed men jostling helmet-to-helmet, "heh, that's how the Iranians transport their sheep around – same pick-ups, same packing", I pointed out to my fellow passenger.

There wasn't much about the slowly-panning scene around us that said anything other that civil war. Bodies hung out of cars lighting various explosives and tossing them under the neighboring car. Young men ran around between varying sized groups keeping a cautious eye on the regular clothed police. Our journey dragged on as roads would be cut-off by further pick-ups supported by batoned men in military uniform, "the road's closed, turn around, hey Mr. where are you going, come back here!".

Iranians choose to celebrate this night by gathering outside to leap over fires, throw fireworks at one another and to dance to any available sound system

The last Tuesday of the Iranian calendar is known for celebrating the last Wednesday, we call this night Chaharshanbe Suri, meaning Red Wednesday, seen as marking the arrival of spring and revival of nature. Iranians choose to celebrate this night by gathering outside to leap over fires, throw fireworks at one another and to dance to any available sound system. For me the night simply marked my premature graduation into a latter stage of adulthood, [sound of banger at my feet], "damn kids, I knew they were going to do that", I grumbled as I stood on a street corner cold and lost.

"Where are we?", I asked my friend as I assessed the ideologically-challenged terrorists advancing. The taxi driver had dropped us off at a similarly named road, my friend was wounded and we were a long way from back-up. It wasn't a good start to the evening.

It seemed that little had changed in the passing of time as we descended on the gathering: shrieking humans circled a fire or gyrated to unofficial national anthems while dodging the incessant barrage of arsenal. In the observance of ancient practice there was a lack of observance with contemporary practice as citizens freely danced in the streets with conscious disregard for the enforced moral codes. Hair would fly around as carelessly as the fireworks and an odd sense of defiance and unity warmed up the cold and fragile night.

CROSS ROADS

An Alam being lifted as sign of respect for Imam Hossein during Moharam.


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"The Iranians are not blessed with the greatest of capital cities", I reflect while strolling late at night with friends, gaining on the 1, 2, 3 - pause of the Moharam drums. "Tehran has facilities...", a friend responds, "yes, but there's nothing defining, no great landmarks, a tourist could skip through Tehran on the way to Shiraz or Esfahan", I interject. Tips of feathers appeared on the road ahead, lit by the street-lights – reds, yellows and greens braking the dull night and guiding us to the proceedings. We continued listing attractions of Tehran as the beat drew upon us – the Azadi Tower – 1, 2, 3 - pause, Darband – 1, 2, 3 - pause.

The Islamic calendar had once again afforded us with days off, of which we chose to spend in the city of Arak. Packed six to a car we took it in turns to contort for space as we made the short trip a friend's, friend's historic house. If Tehran struggles to inspire an itinerary then Arak is the rotting corpse of a plan that never took off. We concluded this when we chanced upon the defining crossroad that seemed to double the city's size.

the repeated chaining of one's back, the chanting, the lifting of large scaffolding adorned with religious paraphenalia

It was just past this crossroad that the drum beat originated, encroaching on midnight the streets crawled with the now traditional sight of boys checking out girls, girls checking out boys, boys checking on other boys and girl checking the girls checking the boys. There was the more obvious traditional spectacle of Moharam happening centre to the road – oblivious: the repeated chaining of one's back, the chanting, the lifting of large scaffolding adorned with religious paraphenalia – and there was what went on around it. The centre of the road was the man's domain as tradition was observed, squabbling to take the weight of the decorative Alams or in some way assisting in the procession as it slowly rolled down the street, 1, 2, 3 - pause.

Arak's lack of anything kept us inside, comfortably hidden from the serious seriousness of these days. We were captured in a period lost to Iran, walled in the historic house once run by a somebody. Excluding us you would struggle to find anything suggesting we'd reached 1980 but mostly we were somewhere in the early 20th century. I kept looking up, mildly entertained by having to stretch the head back to glance the high ceilings. I also sized the house up by trying to reach into a sprint in the hallways and occasionally trying alternative routes to enter a room. I enjoyed the doors that didn't fit, that scuffed on the floor, didn't lock and gapped holes. I stared at the faces that stared at us from the walls – large mustaches, upright gents lined nicely, wholesome beard, military uniforms – all black and white, interrupting the de-saturated tones of the countless rooms. Arak has at least one place for the itinerary, and I reveled in it during every drum pause.

BEING MUGGED

Also found near Haft e Tir, strange luck around that place.


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"Were you with a girl?!", "Were you with a girl?!", I heard again, yet a little louder as I was about to walk across a dimly lit road, 8pm, a short way from Tehran's Haft e Tir. A young man had begun walking beside me and was seemingly addressing me, I politely turned to face him assuming he needed help, "I'm sorry?". "Were you with a girl?!" he repeated angrily, his tone shattering my presumption. I paused for a short moment, wondering why he might be asking me this, his question was one expected of a Basiji (religious police) yet his dress was of a different kind of trash, – too clean shaven with careless mix of fake 90s clothes to accompany his Imam Ali necklace.

I gathered that he might have seen me walk my friend home and opportunistically presented a Basij front to try and extort money from me. "Ah yes, that was my friend", I confidently asserted, letting him know I was not intimidated. "Ah, your friend was it?!", he responded in cocky aggressive manner. I let out an tired laugh, turned around and carried on about my business, unperturbed. With my first step I felt my sleeve being grabbed as I was pulled back towards him, I struggled a little to shrug him off but he managed to rapidly turn me to face him again.

The very moment I felt me sleeve tighten around my arm I realised things were going to be different – shit – I thought. My suspicion was confirmed, I was in the process of being mugged and upon facing him again a rapid succession of thoughts raced through my mind, complimenting the arrival of an adrenaline rush. I sized us up (he had the advantage), noting every detail on his person and curious as to whether weapons were being held, yet maybe my first error was found here I later thought. I'd excepted that a physical confrontation seemed likely and instead of paying attention to that around me – ways of escape or people to help – I indulged the moment he'd forced upon me.

It was then that I called upon a helpful technique for evading problems like these – a technique so far proven successful with persons of authority. "I'm sorry, can I help you? Did you say you were lost? Is there a problem?", question after question in the finest of my Queen's English – I turned it around maybe. Again he asked me, louder still, "I'm sorry I don't understand you, can you talk English?". "Where are you from?", he asked angrily, "Are you lost? Do you speak English?", "Where are you from?", he aggressively repeated in frustration.

"Ah, you're from England! Hello, hello, very pleased to meet you, my name is Ali, I am your friend – we're friends!", he said in Farsi, and sometimes it happens like this, but I wasn't taking my chances. In my confusion of pretending to not understand him I walked the usual, shorter route to my destination – down a dark ally. He grabbed my arm and threw me up against the wall, "Give me your money!" – my new friend was in need, yet oddly enough I let out a little laugh, the sort found leaving poker games prematurely.

I'd limited my options quite considerably leading to me having to revise the maths – working out what I was holding, what he thought I might be holding, what I might relinquish to avoid a scuffle and at what point I would consider a scuffle. It seemed we'd settled on a couple of day's wages yet thankfully my mobile and bag containing a hard drive went unnoticed – maybe.

Just as he'd plucked the money from my wallet, popping it into his pocket, I saw two seniors appear from behind him, passing by. I stared at them and they at me, we all carried on with our business. I'd missed a moment and so did my friend Ali who'd made a sharp exit showing the courtesy of shouting goodbye – in English – from a distance.

WHAT FOR?

Prior to the elections, the Tehran streets awash with candidates' faces.


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"How did it feel to have voted then?", I asked a friend as we left the small school tucked away from one of Tehran's main roads. "Like having done my duty, painful though it was", she responds. "Yes, it is like volunteering a gun to a person that will shoot you in the foot because the other one will go for your head – no different to how it was for me in England really", I add, inviting a nervous laughter between us. Like a song that's over reliant on its chorus we faded to silence and I'm certain she filled this moment with the same thoughts as I as we reflected on our recent political action. We'd gone against our family's aggressive protest as well as the tireless repetition of "what for?" and "why? spilling from the lips of our peers, had we wasted our time, or possibly made things worse?

Having handed birth certificates, pressed our inked-sodden fingers and been issued voting slips we departed from the line of female civil-servants fully equipped to relinquish our fate. Two parallel walls hosted a huddle of people jotting down codes from the 10-large posters filled with details of an astounding 1200-plus candidates.

Phone calls were made to confirm spelling as scraps of paper collected scribbles of hope. "Why are there 5-boxes available for the code and each of the candidates only have a 4-digit code?", my friend gasped, far from reassured by the vague verbal instructions given by the onlooking security. We raced around shouting numbers to one another while collecting the 15-names needed to adorn the Tehran council. 1200 wasn't enough however, we were giving it up in style with the occasion offering further exercises of democracy – two extra ballots were available to embellish, a further 2-candidates were needed for something missed last time around and also 12 of the supreme league – not wanting to feel left out – were in need of some flattery.

"No, if you vote for women only then the government will brag to the west about how this system not only functions but is inclusive and progressive"

Prior to the big day I'd planned various strategies for how I'd vote. "No, if the head in your drawing of a sheep falls between a box then they may count it a your choice", I was oddly informed. "No, if you vote for women only then the government will brag to the west about how this system not only functions but is inclusive and progressive", came more advice. "Pick the reformist candidates" I was repeatedly told, "but I want to vote for somebody I want, not for somebody who is opposes the person I don't want", I ranted, reminding myself of the strategic voting that distorts the political outcome back on the UK.

"My statement cannot be lost with the unaware or unconcerned", I answered to the angry people that accusing me of giving credit to a system they've long given up on. "Apathy and conscious avoidance register the same with the absence of a 'none-of-the-above' box", I plead. "Increasing the turnout must surely represent an active public and an active public should invite a more conscientious government, spoiling your ballot is surely an available option", I conclude.

It nearly seemed like a worthwhile option until I heard, "20,000 Basij have been brought into Tehran to vote!". Of course, I hadn't noticed, I was not registered to vote at any specific location, I'd freely walked into a school, handed my birth certificate and began my art project. And of course, any other Iranian is at liberty to do so also, potentially giving Tehran a 150% turnout for example. Indeed, maybe the gun was never in my hand – maybe we had wasted our time.

I'd left the school having endured a test, and to the question of democracy I'd indulged it with my answer of action. I sit and wait to see the results yet even though my answer may not be counted, the certainty that at least one person had to decipher my choice, for me at least, counts.

SPEAK UP

My auntie/zanamoo/father's brother's wife - knowing her role.


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"Pull your headscarf up", a friend finally points out to the lady on my right at the restaurant table. Relief washed over me, yet not due to the halting of impure thoughts that were obviously tunneling through my morality. I can liken the awkwardness in this dress-deviation to maybe that of seeing a dollop of mayo laughing on the unsuspecting lips of a guest at lunch. "You've got mayo on your lips, mayo-is-on-your-lips, there's mayo still on your lips and you haven't noticed but we all have". It should be added that as yet, mayo on the lips – regardless of whether you like the taste of it – is not punishable by death, even though my imagination runs wild at how I might help clean it off.

"I just can't do it", I remarked to our good samaritan, "Normally I can't either", he responds, "which is why I said it in a joking way", he adds while humorously reenacting the initial advice. "Any attempt to indirectly point out this deviation is still not comfortable", I continue, "'oh look, a respectable policeman' or 'are your ears cold?', it still equates to the same thing for me", I add in frustration. "Similarly, I will never buy a headscarf as a gift, it's like buying one's mother frying pan as a gift", I conclude.

"Actually, the man must rule the woman, in fact he has to!"

My difference in facial expression between headscarf-on and headscarf-off is maybe the same as before my uncle recently enlightened me of a woman's role in life and after – yet maybe my rigid stare in response was giving the man more respect than was deserved. "Actually, the man must rule the woman, in fact he has to!", I was helpfully informed. And in a way I help him do this – beginning with my aunt – simply by using her title to me, "Zanamoo", which translates as 'my father's brother's wife' (with Farsi different titles apply to paternal and maternal sisters and brothers and their respective in-laws). Even the language is helpfully structured to remind her of her position in the hierarchy.

Like with the mayo, it can be seen on my lips – they are silent in response but nevertheless heard.

18-30

The Iranian extras, dressed so as to take no risks.


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"It seems strange that the images we must produce show a very different reality", delicately stated the regional Sony manager as I enquired as to how the preempting of Iran's supreme PR machine felt. I guess that like me he'd also noticed the volume of cracks appearing around Tehran's more well-to-do areas. Yet amusingly, on location in our mock well-to-do street we'd gotten our equations a little wrong, in our efforts to hide these certain cracks we'd failed to present enough of another type of crack to compete with reality that is Iran's street maintenance – or lack of.

England had wrapped it in too much PVC, strapped it down and curled a post-postmodern pattern over it

I tried to not to think of cracks as the time came for me to join my colleagues in conceiving a further advert. Each second of my silence represented an innuendo and each scratch of the head revealed an incomprehensible reference. I thought a lot, then I thought some more, nothing could escape the polluted right-side of my head, England had wrapped it in too much PVC, strapped it down and curled a post-postmodern pattern over it.

Our research had shown that 18-30s folk from Mashad responded to 'family-family', 'kids' and 'cute' – the PVC tightened around my head in disbelief. I reassured myself, disputing the methods of data collection and campaigned against the series of safe, flippant and tenuous suggestions put forward by my colleagues. They repeatedly reminded me of our limitations yet I couldn't help but be frustrated by theirs.

Then I did 'cute', redemption was in sight. "It's cute, write it down", our client responded and I did, in great detail. It was my compromise, one for the ailing Mashad youth with enough depth that I might mention I am associated to it. Momentarily pleased I ventured on but seemed to have left my colleagues somewhere in Mashad teaching young boys poor one-liners.

Amazingly another one slipped through the PVC, and thus far has evaded the reluctant henchmen of the supreme PR machine. Should this one be born my hope is that the only cracks appearing will be ones in limitations of both my colleagues and our audience, Mashad or beyond.

GOING FAR

The view from my new office window.


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"Maybe it's because of my two Russian girlfriends", answers the company director in response to my poor flattery regarding his more European accent. "Yes, that might be it", I hastily added. It was only after his self-congratulating chuckle that he paused for a while before connecting eyes – "I was joking, I don't have two Russian girlfriends".

And so, I got the job – I now, unquestionably, suck corporate [religiously cut]

This wasn't one of the highlights of my tenuous 3rd interview with one of Iran's larger advertising agencies. Nevertheless my equally as startled responses to their business practice seemed to have made up for any ground lost in flattery. And so, I got the job – I now, unquestionably, suck corporate [religiously cut].

"Where are their offices?", interrupted my father while discussing the result on the phone. "Where are the offices again?", I asked my friend – forgetting the name. I was reminded of the district, "...it's very close your father's place" they added. "It's in this district", I inform my father, "that's very close to my place", he hastily responds.

Somewhere between this revelation and the end of my call my father managed to confirm his unconditional love for me. "So you can stay at your grandmother's while in Tehran, you'll be cooked for washed after, yes, I think that's a good idea!". I thought it was a good sale's pitch. His sincerity was met with such poetry, for, not only has he recently taken over my place (in the neighbouring city he works) but he'd preempted the possibility of returning my hospitality.

"Eat this", she demands, "Don't eat that". "Wear this", she instructs, "Don't wear that". "See these people", she begs, "Don't see those". Unfortunately the extra distance between my grandmother's house and my newly found work seems to be proportional to the distance in her judgment. My father informs me that this is my grandmother's way of showing love and with each word I write it is showering upon me.

It seems it won't only be at work that I'll be sucking it in.