May beast

May beast

Ah, the first of May. Ideally by now I’d be in a pub, extremely drunk surrounded by morris men, singing dirty folk songs until I fall over or they tell us to leave. Instead I just got back to the new dig house after three hours setting out the trenches on site. I’m hungry, tired, dirty and sober. We arrived at the dig house yesterday and unpacked our gear, after which I promptly fell asleep having only had a banana, a third of a packet of cheese flavoured corn puffs and a very strong gin and tonic all day. We watched the sun go down over the Iranian mountains and watched the dig director crying over the new internet dongle he couldn’t get to work. He finally managed to get the internet to work slowly and intermittently. This begs the question of how we’re going to pass the time if we can’t all spend the evenings staring into space refreshing facebook. We might end up talking to each other and no one wants that.



It did feel very springish out on site this morning with the new crops and all the pretty flowers and stuff. I set up my trench on the north side of the tell among the poppies and marigolds and marked the corner stakes with empty beer cans, which I think gives it a nice devil-may-care sort of look. I might have to find some proper stake markers before the men from the museum come; apparently it’s supposed to look like science.

I’ve started nesting in a corner of one of the two houses we’re renting. It’s a bare room with a light and a concrete floor, on which I’ve laid my foam mattress and spread my personal possessions to deter visitors. My room mate does not snore, although there seems to be a pack of chickens with very little to do except hang about under the window shouting at each other. The lack of curtains leads to situations of mutual surprise with our neighbours, both avian and human. The beginnings of all life is a struggle.

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