All about Didi

I keep hoping that I will open Madny and see a new post by Raouf.

Then I remember that he and his beautiful son, Didi, have spent most of the last five days with me in London sitting in overpriced cafes, pubs, bars, shisha joints and anywhere where we can recline and people-watch and laugh about the time Raouf got trapped in a car with a manic American woman in October city, Cairo, or bitch about the world and people less discriminating than us.

For the first few days Didi was silent and I had no idea what the hell to say to a 17 year old - let alone a good-looking, sweet, shy one. We admired his funky t-shirts that he purchased on Oxford st, and in Camden Market, and plied him with pints that seemed to make no difference to his absolute stillness and quietness. It was only on the last night - after having dragged the pair from cafe to restaurant to pub in the torrential summer rain - that we started to tease Didi - about his flashy watch he'd bought off some 'crook' in Camden Town, and what kind of girls he liked - as Raouf reminded me that not unlike one female friend of his, I am a cat that roots around in the garbage for my men. Five beers on Didi was laughing and as we ran through the rain to find their ride home, he shouted to me proudly how he was a great basket-ball player.

I was a horrible teenager - at least that is what I believe - maybe I was as sweet as Didi?