Sometimes the mere sight of a pseudonym printed in cheap blue marker on a sheet of A4 paper can set your heart a-racing. Yet just half an hour earlier, with a slightly deflated feeling and an old copy of Heat magazine, I found myself walking through Winchester University campus to attend the Winchester Writers Conference. Frankly I was down in the dumps. After a fantastic five days at the week-long workshop in Shawford I felt as though I could no longer absorb any more advice on writing. I was jaded – a mere amateur floundering in a sea of creative professionals, well-seasoned hacks and a few cynics thrown in. But a quick glance at the competition short-list board confirmed that ‘Margaux’ aka Mrs. P had been shortlisted for the Echo Feature Article competition! I am over the moon! Pleased as punch! And all those other cliches so despised by my tutor. So I shall unashamedly post my submission below and feel just a little bit pleased with myself for just a little while longer. Thank you for your patience!
A Taste of Tehran
Vali-e-Asr Avenue in Tehran at six o’clock in the evening: gleaming yellow cabs jostle for position, horns blare wildly, young mothers berate trailing toddlers, teenagers eat chips from polystyrene trays and the after-hours office crowd queue for cinema tickets.
I wear my new black manteau; a little like a coat dress, a lot like a rain coat, the manteau ensures women comply with the Islamic Republic of Iran’s dress code. But despite the rules, Iranian girls still look good with their brightly coloured headscarves and figure-hugging manteaus daringly cinched in at the waist.
Stopping at a pastry shop, I gaze at the pastel-coloured cakes and sweets. It’s warm inside and the air is rich with almond and vanilla. I order Turkish Delight; luscious cubes of delicate pink, lightly freckled with crushed pistachios. It’s delicious.
A group of teenage girls bundle into the shop and gather around me. All carry mobiles clasped between perfectly manicured fingers. A girl in a Burberry headscarf takes a photograph of me. They want to chat and their English is good.
“Where are you from please?”
“I live in England.”
Shrieks and calls of excitement.
“Welcome! Welcome to Iran!”
This isn’t what I expected. I relax and open up the conversation.
“What is your name?”
Then they come – exotic sounding names I can never hope to pronounce. A girl in a fur-trimmed coat carrying a fashionable buckled handbag pushes her way to the front of the group.
“Excuse me madam – headscarf – good? Bad?”
I play the diplomat.
“Headscarf good. Do you like the headscarf?”
Half shake their heads vehemently; others nod demurely. Personally I’m struggling with my scarf which reveals just a flash of spiky fringe. Everyday is a bad hair day for me in Iran. The conversation moves on and shifts up a gear.
“Madam – do you know the Koran?”
This is unexpected.
“No. I don’t know the Koran.”
Some giggle, some feign outrage, others are genuinely surprised.
“Madam – what do English think of Iran? English do not like Iran?”
The girls wait in anticipation. I take a chance.
“English think Iran dangerous country. Iran not safe. English think Iranian people dangerous.” I hope they understand that I am merely expressing a media-fuelled perception.
Their laughter is instantaneous and uproarious.
“Iran very safe country!”
“Iran not dangerous!”
“Iranian people not dangerous!”
It’s my turn and I have to ask the obvious.
“What do Iranians think of England?”
They respond instantly and together.
“England not safe country!”
“English do not like Iranian people!”
“English think Iranian people are terrorists!”
We look at each other and laugh. Parting company we embrace and brush cheeks. We have all learnt something this warm autumn evening in Tehran.
