A bit of a day in the life...

I wake up to the patter of feet on the marble floor outside my window. It is probably 5.30 am. In the courtyard below the sari workshop is coming alive. The rhythmic creak and rush of the pump being used for the wake-up wash or to fill the bucket for the squat toilet. The hocking and spitting, like they've all just been sick. Every morning the sound of different taped preachers, echoes of fire and brimstone, lets wake up the infidel.

The orphanage occupies the first and second floor of a three storey building. On the ground floor about 15 muslim men and boys work from when I wake up until a couple of hours after I go to bed. Effectively they live there, as they work there all day and when they finish work, they sleep there. The lads themselves seem friendly enough, some of the younger ones seem slightly cowed, smiling warily at me, conscious of disapproval from others perhaps. Others are openly friendly, trying to strike up conversations but these are quickly reduced to painful exchanges of facial expressions and gestures as they don't speak english and I don't speak muslim.

It can be difficult to ignore though, there is one particularly Hitleresque taped preacher and despite the language barrier you can hear the hate dripping from Every, Shouted, Word.

Across the road is a butchers, more of a stall than a shop. The first few days I saw goats tethered on the grass verge and thought to myself, Hmmm, that's a funny place to keep goats. Spanner. A couple of days later the kids and I watched in grisly fascination as a headless goat was disembowelled on the pavement opposite. Who needs tv?

The kids are only marginally slower to be up and about. Straight into play or homework or a muddle of both. The single tone reading of fairy stories, out loud, becoming just a list of words. Several reading at once, the volume increasing as they fight to out-monotone the rest. The clack of the carom board, a kind of snooker/subbuteo/backgammon hybrid. The screechs and thuds of the lads wrestling, their laughter and inevitable tears. I lie there and curse everyone for sounding so happy, knowing that I will also have to sound that happy when I open my door, and I delay as long as I can. But generally, between creaking into an upright position and reaching the bathroom, a smile will creep up on me, morning D sir, namaste D sir, hey D, they're a difficult bunch to be grumpy around.