I'm being held prisoner in central London by the volcanic eruption in Iceland. The family's private jet is grounded until the cloud of ash floating over the UK clears, which means my stay is being prolonged indefinitely. Apparently the same volcano's last eruption (during the 19th century) lasted for two years, so the outlook is grim. I'm severly tempted just to cut and run; I have an interview on Wednesday for a teacher training course, and I could probably tell the family that I need to get home in order to prepare for it. This wouldn't even be that much of a lie, but I would feel guilty about abandoning the other staff members in the house.

My job has well and truly devolved from teaching to childminding. Over the last week, much of my time has been spent keeping the son out of the kitchen, where he would otherwise run riot, slapping the butler's head to try to make him drop things, screeching demands for ever more elaborate sandwiches in the chef's ear and generally being as obnoxious as possible. The other staff members work longer hours than me and have more responsibilities, so unleashing this force of extreme nuisance upon them because I can't be bothered to babysit anymore seems a bit unfair. On the other hand, the possibility of spending a day in the spring sunshine without once being shouted at by a twelve-year-old is becoming too much to resist.

Earlier in the week he elbowed me in the face while attempting to perform a wrestling move. I got a nasty split lip to show for it, a souvenir battlescar of my time with the family. That evening we ate dinner with his parents, who did their best to ignore my swollen and slightly bloody lip, even though I was sure they knew where it had come from. Proof, if any were needed, of their absolute refusal to acknowledge their son for the hooligan he is.

It's not all been random violence though. On Wednesday, I got to go to Disneyland! Eager to take advantage of all the culture and fun London has to offer, the kids had the bright idea that we should jump on the Eurostar at King's cross and head to meet some of their friends in Paris. The trip cost just over a grand (I know this because it was left to me to buy the tickets up front) and they were only in the park for about 6 hours. This would have been a lot worse but for the fact that when you're incredibly rich, you can pay someone to take you to the front of all the queues! I was shocked.

Quite a different experience being in a theme park when you don't have to queue. Whether making it to the end of a walkway that seems to snake around the ride endlessly creates a sense of anticipation, or simply renders you so bored that a ride in a shopping trolley would seem fun, things don't quite feel the same when you're let in a back entrance by a man in a Disney suit. We went on space mountain three times, and by the end it was a total snoozefest. I thought this could just be me getting older and becoming too mature for theme parks, but apparently not - on the way back I asked the son if he had enjoyed his day, and he told me it was "boring as shit".

Mild knobby faces, bad teeth and gentle manners

My last hour in Jeddah was spent in complete panic. The family's office mistakenly cancelled my outward journey instead of my return journey (which had been arranged before I quit) and I had to queue up to buy a new ticket. This took ages, and I left a wake of disgruntled tuts as Airport staff rushed me to the front of all the queues and on to the plane. The last Saudis I saw would have seen me as a disorganized, self-important infidel, sweating quite a lot and mispronouncing the Arabic word for 'sorry'.

It's good to be back in the UK, although slightly punishing. I was reunited with alcohol (and friends) on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights, and by Easter Sunday my perma-hangover and acute sleep deprivation combined to make a full-on cold. Nevertheless, I'd arranged to meet a guy living in the Surrey Downs who was going to sell me a new bike, and so at about midday my Dad and I set off on a journey into the leafy heart of the homeliest county.

Before we left, I happened to look at Simon Reynold's Energy Flash blog (I've just started reading his book of the same name) and saw this incredibly timely post quoting George Orwell on returning to England after being in a foreign country. I read Imagined Communities when I was in my first year of University and have since blocked all nationalist/patriotic thought from my mind with liberal zeal, but in the face of a beautiful spring day and a village like Shere, how could this be maintained?

Shere: 'classic'

I'm not saying I'm going to start going to the last night of the proms, or even that I think 'Englishness' is a particularly meaningful quality that has any value, but it's hard not to see the avalanche of differences between Jeddah and Surrey as forming what could be described as national characters. My mind links the smooth curve of the sword on the ever-present Saudi flag with palm leaves and Arabic numbers, forming an aesthetic that's wholly distinct from the untidy verdancy of English lemonade-bottle countryside. Unforgiving desert seems to match Islamic asceticism and self-sacrifice in the same way that grey drizzle feels appropriate to a nation of sarcastic grumblers and introverts.

If you start thinking about it enough (too much), the animals of England even seem to 'belong' (in a non-biological sense) and share in this nebulous, half-defined character. Clearly, a childhood spent watching The Animals of Farthing Wood and Watership Down has permanently infected the way I think about the wildlife of the English countryside, but even this doesn't explain away the spectre of Englishness - these were programmes written and produced in English television studios and shown on English television while I was a child in England. The fact that I think of foxes and rabbits as speaking amongst themselves with polite English accents is itself a result of a style of anthropomorphism peculiar to English kids' TV programmes that I was exposed to.

Differences in climate, wildlife, clothing, religion, infrastructure, architecture, history and language hit you hard after even a relatively short absence. It would, of course, be impossible to build an accurate and coherent narrative from the infinite differences between Saudi Arabia and England. And yet your mind can't resist the temptation of giving your experience a name, or even of feeling some kind of affection towards the country that you've just created in your head.

Departure timed down to a tea

Once again, an unsuccessful tourist excursion has led me to a new pal and more surreal experiences. Yesterday I was turned away from the Al-Tayebat 'International City Museum for Sciences and Knowledge' because they (inexplicably) only accept single visitors on Tuesdays.

They let this guy in, so why not me?

Not wanting to waste the journey, I headed to the row of antique/junk shops next to the museum to get some souvenirs. The shop owners were all incredibly happy to talk to me, and answered anything I asked about the weird collections they had. One guy gave me a carton of orange juice and let me sit behind the counter while I went through his huge postcard collection, and then he showed me a load of seals from ancient Mesopotamia which (he said) would be seized by the government if they knew he owned them.

The last shop I went into was owned by a man called Jamal. We got talking and I mentioned that I was a private tutor, to which he got quite animated and told me he was also a teacher, of 'research'. Confused, I asked what that involved, and we spent the next hour or so talking about his various hobbies and entreprenurial endeavours. It quite quickly became apparent that 'research' and 'teaching' were umbrella terms he used to describe almost all of the activities of his life, and that (at least according to him) he was some sort of polymath genius.

He normally charges 10SR for photos

As well as the antique shop, he and his wife own and operate a nursery in a nearby shopping mall where he trains all the staff himself. It was here that he pioneered a method to teach children to play football with both feet, and his technique is now being put to use throughout Saudi Arabia. He has a huge collection of Saudi and other currencies, and vaguely alluded to the Guinness book of world records in connection to it. He also collects music from around the world, and went into some detail explaining how he had paired different national styles whose similarities no one had ever noticed before. To demonstrate, he played me a few songs on his guitar that he had constructed by stitching together parts of Indian, French, Arabic and Egyptian songs. It was great. I made a recording on my phone, but I have no idea how to transfer it to my computer so you'll have to take my word for it.

I should point out that the book on the counter is Jamal's resume, which he got out in order to show me the full extent of his achievements. I couldn't read a word because it was all in Arabic, but it was around 300 pages long so I got the point. This was clearly more than just a document for future employers; he talked about his resume with great pride, evidently considering it as a kind of chronicle of his life and monument by which he would be remembered.

I stayed in the shop until closing time, when Jamal had to go to the nursery to meet his wife and family. He invited me to come with him, and even though I was feeling a bit tired by this point I could hardly refuse. I don't think I'm very good at saying no in these situations. I met his wife and children, had a good look around the nursery, and then Jamal invited me to eat some food with him before I left. I went and picked up a crepe from the food court while he tried to find a table.

The search for a table was unsuccessful, so Jamal insisted that I eat in the nursery itself. This was probably when the evening reached its surreal peak; my host had to go to administer some painful-sounding injections into his back, so he left me alone, eating a cheese and egg crepe at the back of his nursery. I was sat at a chair and table set obviously intended for a child in the corner of the brightly lit room, desperately avoiding eye contact with a toddler who was half-heartedly bouncing on a mini trampoline a few feet in front of me.

Feeling sure that his parents were going to arrive at any minute and have me arrested, I ate my crepe as quickly as I could. Just as I was finishing Jamal's wife came over, and things started to make a bit more sense. She asked me about my qualifications, my work and how much time it was taking up, and I quickly realised that I was in an interview. Jamal hadn't mentioned anything to me about tutoring his children (and if he had I would have told him there was no way I could), so it's a definite possibility that he just gave his wife the line that I was a potential tutor to explain my presence in the nursery. On the other hand, maybe he had this in mind all along, but to ask me would be to concede that he was not, despite his claims, capable of anything.

I'm embarrassed to say that I lied to Jamal back in the shop; when he asked me how long I was going to be in Saudi Arabia for I told him I wasn't sure, possibly until the end of May (this is when I would have finished had I not quit), and that it was up to the family I was working for. I don't really know why I said this. I suppose I thought that telling him I was leaving in a week would disappoint him, though obviously he's going to be even more disappointed when I call him on Tuesday and tell him I've decided to leave as if it's a new development. Unlike Luchman I suspect Jamal might have an email address though, so maybe we can stay in touch.

Shortly after I finished my crepe, Jamal and his wife (who teaches English) managed to find a table in the food court and we talked for a bit longer before I left. They already knew all the stuff that I've spent the last two months learning about tutoring spoilt Saudi children and were able to give me a good deal of advice that I'm not going to be able to put to any use at all. I left feeling like an idiot for not telling them I was leaving so soon, but much of what they told me about Saudi parenting styles confirmed my resolve to get out as soon as I can.

Theatre review: 'Ye-ha' + the end

Yesterday, in yet another completely pointless extra-curricular activity, I went to the children's school to see the juniors' annual play. This year, a musical called 'Ye-Ha'. Obviously a play set in the old west staged in a country obsessed with the creeping influence of westernisation was going to raise a few eyebrows, and indeed the production team and their 150-strong cast didn't shy away from controversy or bold political statement. The opening scene saw every cast member appear on stage miming either a gun or a bow and arrrow, each firing their weapon and running offstage in a sustained absurdist tableau that lasted almost fifteen minutes. The narrow signifiers of West/East, stage right/stage left and Cowboy/Indian were revealed as arbitrary divisions leading only to bloodshed.

Following this the play defied simple allegorical readings; sometimes the stage represented Israel, sometimes Mecca, and sometimes just plain old Splodge City, the town without a sherrif under threat from the meanest bandits in the west. Who will be the new Sherrif? Can Wilbur the cook get to the gold underneath the saloon before the bandits do? Will Islam ever happily co-exist with Western liberal democracy? Throughout the play cast members broke down the fourth wall, looking out into the crowd and wildly gesticulating as if to say, 'Hi Mummy - when will the fighting end?'

The piece ended with the discovery that what lay beneath the saloon was not gold, but oil. More trouble was on its way for the inhabitants of Splodge City. But the provocation didn't stop there or with the fall of the curtain - as the lights came up a sardonic voice over the p.a. announced that complimentary 'Americana' burgers would be available outside. The audience was literally being asked whether - after what they had seen - they would swallow the processed flesh of American consumerist ideology. I for one declined - not because I'm a vegetarian or because the burgers looked manky - but because to do so would have left a bitter taste in my mouth for some time to come.

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At the end of this month the family will take a two week holiday in the UK, and when they return to Saudi Arabia I won't be coming back with them. I've told the parents that I feel out of my depth and that the kids need someone with more experience; the truth is that the hours are too long and I'm done with being a surrogate parent for their insane offspring. When I told the son last week he surprised me by seeming genuinely disappointed and I felt a slight twinge of guilt, but since then he has resumed his campaign of random violence against me and I don't feel too bad about it at all. The daughter has refused to have lessons with me since I confiscated her laptop last week, and she almost definitely considers my leaving some kind of victory. I do not care.

My biggest regrets now are that I'm passing up the opportunity to create a blog post entitled 'Return of the Jeddah' and that I'm going to have to say an early goodbye to Luchman. He has no access to a computer and doesn't receive any post, so the chances of us staying in contact are fairly slim. We've been hanging out every couple of days since we met, mostly sitting in his room watching MTV Lebanon or going to his friend's cafe, and he's teaching me a few little tidbits of Arabic every time we see each other. The guy is going to receive one spectacular gift for being my only friend.

This blog will also be coming to a premature end. I may do a few more posts once I'm back in the UK, but turning my reabsorption into western society into some kind of saga after only a two month absence would probably be a bit excessive. Trying to take ADHD/tourettes boy around the science museum will probably lead to some blogworthy material though, and I'm also going to be involved in recruiting my replacement. I'm not sure I'll have the conscience to meet him without trying to give some sort of coded warning or blurting out 'it's a trap!' before the parents drag me into a back room where I'm beaten up by their son.

Against God and Man

"Sure I care who you are"

On Thursday evening I went to Red Sea Mall, the 242,200 square metre 'largest glass covered area in Saudi Arabia' and probably the only building I've ever been in that contains a theme park, a bowling alley and a mosque.

I'm not sure how I convinced myself that a shopping mall was a worthwhile place to visit, especially as I didn't particularly want to buy anything, but I took a giant siesta in the middle of the day and woke up too late to go to a museum. I walked around the mall for about an hour, taking in the space-age consumer beehive, thinking that I had wasted my day off, and listening to the first skull disco compilation - just the kind of music to accompany a futuristic dystopia and some self-indulgent ennui.

At about half eleven I left and started looking for a taxi outside, and the first I found was driven by a skinny guy who looked about sixteen. He noticed my headphones as soon as I got in, and as we left the carpark he swerved accross the road while trying to reach the passenger glove compartment and get out a Tupac compilation he wanted to play me. He was quite a big hip hop fan, and we were able to spin out a fairly sizeable conversation that consisted of one of us naming an artist and the other saying 'yes' or 'good', then maybe singing a line or two from a song. Not exactly Oscar Wilde, but given that I've yet to make any friends outside of work it was good enough for me. After we'd chatted for a while he asked if I wanted to 'go fast', and suddenly I was in one of the cars that I normally stare at, shocked, when going around Jeddah. Luchman and I weaved in and out of traffic, pumping 90s gangster rap and attempting to overcome the language barrier.

It turned out he was twenty seven, not sixteen, his parents were from Yemen and that he lived alone near my hotel. I got the impression that he was as pleased to make friends with an English person as I was to befriend an Arab, and when he invited me back to his flat I could see no good reason not to. We changed our course and Luchman told me I was now travelling with him as a friend and I wouldn't have to pay. The closest I'd come to making a friend up to this point was when a sweaty Egyptian man had starting hitting on me in the Old Town by forcibly holding my hand and telling me he loved me, so this was a massive step up.

On the way to his house we stopped off at a fast food place to pick up some chicken giblets for his cat, and it was around this time that I noticed the T-shirt Luchman was wearing. It was white, with the words 'SURE I CARE WHO YOU ARE' in blue capitals. Had I seen this on anyone else I would have assumed it was intended as catty sarcasm ('sure, like I care who you are'), but on Luchman it had to be sincere. We went back to his flat, a tiny windowless room with a TV in one corner and no furniture except a mat on the ground, listened to a Bob Marley mix and played with Tweety, the cat. Luchman continued to break my heart by telling me how a car had hit Tweety's mother when she was a kitten, and after being refused help at the hospital he had taken her in himself.

Hearing 'Redemption Song' for the first time in ages, I was struck by the fact that the music I've been listening to in my relative isolation has been getting more and more inhuman and abstract as I've allowed the introvert in me to take hold. A couple of weeks ago I devoted over 5 hours in 3 days to listening to Wolfgang Voigt's ambient/drone opus 'Nah und Fern', and the night before I met Luchman I'd gone to bed listening to Stockhausen's 'Kontakte', which is essentially a collection of confrontational electronic noises set to an atonal piano accompaniment. Kevin Drumm's 'Sheer Hellish Miasma', an album of music perfectly described by its name, had also been doing the rounds on my mp3 player.

I stand by all of these, but a song that so clearly came from an actual person, heard in the presence of another actual person, for a moment made them seem completely stupid. It was quite a strange realisation; nearly two months of listening alone on headphones had all but made me forget that music could be a communal activity, and the things I'd started listening to had changed as a result. Suddenly music that you couldn't sing along to didn't seem worth listening to at all.

We left Luchman's flat to go to a Cafe owned by a friend of his, and stayed there until about 3am watching arab music channels and drinking (orange juice). I was exhausted at work the next day, but it was an exhaustion familiar from university: having fun is once again encroaching upon my ability to work. This is a development I'm extremely pleased about.