The Hoar in the Bush

I'm walking to meet M. for lunch. I am THE image of the modest Pakistani wife - long kameez over black trousers, big scarf covering everything between chin and waist. I can hardly breathe but when in Rome... The air is hot and heavy, I'm thirsty and bedraggled, and I've just noticed the smell: something like caramelised sweat, sweet, cloying, all around. A quick glance reveals that yes, I am walking across a virtual marijuana field. The stuff grows everywhere.

Then the following thing happens in fast motion: a minibus drives by, a young man leans out of a window: 'BOA' he shouts (the Portuguese for 'good one'?? could it be?) and makes loud kissing noises before disappearing in a cloud of dust. Even so, I cannot fail to notice his billowing shalwar kameez, five sizes too big, flapping against the side of the van like an electoral flag. Yes, readers, my potential playboy appears to be wearing his granny's grey nightie.

Also, this whole scene is rather out of character: WHAT is going on in Islamabad? Fast-track secularization? Pre-election freedoms? Or is it a bizarre effect of the prevailing weed in the park?

The fantasy continues, when I get Kira from school. She points to a random bush and states:

'That's where the whore lives!'

I look at her face, quickly: I see fascination, curiosity, a smile.

'The WHAT?'

'Oh sorry, I meant...'

'Kira! The WHAT? Where?'

'In that bush. I've seen it!'

'You've seen WHAT?'

'I told you. The boar.'