Down-Under Shorts

I have always wanted to travel to Egypt. At every opportunity I read all about the place. The other day I discovered this fantastic book in the library about the discoveries and excavations that were so prevalent in the twenties. I couldn’t wait to take my hot milk to bed and discover all there is to know about the pyramids and their secrets. Unfortunately, it had been a tough day and I wasn’t as resilient as I thought. I nodded off before I reached page five and woke up in this bloody big crater, surrounded by a group of smelly goat herders who were speaking in tongues. It was nice that they were trying to be friendly but their personal hygiene left a lot to be desired; they must have showered in camel piss. Somehow, I had got myself into a bit of a hole and they were kind enough to get me out and direct me to the Sheikh Sunny Salem Guest House, which is run by a family of nomadic Bedouins for rich infidels like me. The fact that they were nomadic was a cause for concern. The management was never there when you needed them but always appeared from nowhere when you were ready to pay your bill. The thing about the Pyramids is that they were just as big in the twenties as they are today. You were always tripping over archaeologists at some dig or other but I have to be perfectly honest. None of them looked remotely like Angelina Jolie, who is very much a Hollywood version of a contemporary crypt crawler. The first tomb raider that I met was a Brit called Howard Carter. We were at a small bar in Luxor and he said he was looking for some cache. I was a bit short, myself but I lent him ten quid and wished him good fortune. Two days later, he discovered Tutankhamen’s Tomb. Since we had become such good friends, Howard invited me over to see what he had uncovered but I had to pass. A mysterious intermediary had offered me the sweetest date that I could ever imagine for a small fee that on any other day would probably feed one hundred villages. The dark eyes behind the thin veil promised delights that I could only conjure up in my wildest dreams. It turned out to be the most expensive bowl of fruit that I have ever eaten. Still, that’s the Arabs for you, isn’t it? Nothing is what it seems and that’s the way they like it. I can remember when I first saw that cinema classic: The Desert Song. I never understood why the heroine couldn’t work out that her male companion and the Riff leader were one and the same. They looked identical