The Females of Wadi Ya Noh.

My God! I sighed, with incredulity. Even in this place. Even in Wadi Ya Noh: Women - and their shoes ...

This priority dealt with, the females of Wadi Ya Noh then purchased their groceries - food; gas bottles, if needed - for the coming week. Though I could see various foodstuffs displayed, I could not put a name to many of the food items; had no inkling whatsoever, as to what much of the food actually was. But I saw dates, figs, coconuts, olives. And I saw what I thought were various kinds of pulses, rice and beans ... And, something that Meena purchased, that looked alarmingly like a sheep's head.

Claudia, as the one holding the purse strings - indeed, the only one of them with a purse at all - paid for all of the females' purchases, concluding their business with the caravan traders for another week.

Their business having been duly concluded, Claudia then led the 4 female traders towards Humility Hole - towards me.

The 4 female traders wore full-length, pale blue burkas. All that was left uncovered, were their eyes, hands, and feet. Just like the females of Wadi Ya Noh.

Rather sedately, the 4 female traders shuffled towards me. As they slowly approached me, I wondered vaguely about their ages. It was hard to tell, but I got the impression; from the way they moved, from the way they carried themselves, of their all being of about the same age. I thought they were a bit younger than Claudia, who was the same age as me - 25. In their late teens ... their early 20s, perhaps.

One of the approaching female traders, I saw, wore a pair of extremely well-worn, black mules. My attention was caught, as she approached me in her very dignified manner, by the distinctive, slap-slap-slapping sound they made, as they smacked against the bottoms of her bare heels as she walked towards me.

One of the other female traders, I saw, wore a pair of scuffed and scruffy black flats. They were at least a size too large for her, I thought, since her heels kept popping out of them at her every step.

The other 2 female traders both wore strapless, leather sandals, similar to those worn by both Claudia and Meena. Like flip flops, they also slap-slap-slapped at the two females' bare heels, as they walked towards my protruding head, at Humility Hole.

As soon as this party of 5 shuffling females - Claudia, accompanied by the 4, pale blue burka clad, female caravan traders - had arrived at Humility Hole, Claudia addressed me authoritatively.

As she did so, the 4 female traders looked down on me; their great disdain of me, abundantly evident. Their utter, crushing disdain of me, was in the withering expressions in their dark, almond-shaped eyes. It was in their very bearing, as they stood there and looked down on me, in Humility Hole. Of course, they knew who - or, rather, 'what' - I was. Why I was there; what was my purpose.

"David ... these four females, who I have brought before you, are the faithful, loyal servants; the obedient chattels, of our Tribal Lord. See! They are tired and weary. They have travelled far, to get here. They are hot and dusty, from their long, arduous desert journey. And, they still have far to travel," Claudia informed me.

"But first, David, before they continue on their journey ... you will refresh them."

Claudia expanded on her statement, authoritatively. "You will now refresh them, David. You will show them the hospitality of the females of Wadi Ya Noh: You will demonstrate the sincerity of your respect and humility, at their feet," commanded Claudia.

The first, of the 4 female traders (the one wearing the black mules) positioned herself, accordingly: standing directly in front of my protruding head, with her back to me; the backs of her heels, right in front of my face. And with the large wooden bowl of; by now, heavily stained, brownish-black water, positioned at her darkly-tanned feet, just in front of her toes.

Without ceremony, she slipped her right foot from her colour-faded, scratched and scuffed, extremely well-worn, black mule. Standing, now, upon just her left foot, she was elegantly poised. Her one-legged balance, was assured, effortless; seemingly a quite natural, innate ability.

She was steady and unwavering, balletically graceful, as she reached her right foot behind her ... her bare, brown sole, seeking my conveniently positioned face.

Upon cupping my nostrils in her toes, she sharply yelled something at me, in Arabic: an authoritative command. By now, I was understanding their incessantly repeated, ritualistic, harshly issued instructions: 'Slave! Breathe in, deeply, of my foot scent!' ... 'Look at the bottom of my heel, as you do so!'

She then placed the sole of her foot upon my face, in an attitude of relaxation: her toes, curling under and gripping the underside of my chin; her heel, resting against my forehead, for a few moments, as she relaxed her weight against my face.

Then she again harshly shouted something at me in Arabic: another authoritative command: 'Slave! Kiss my foot!'

She eventually removed the sole of her right foot from my face, and I watched her dip it into the large wooden bowl of ever increasingly dirty water, at her feet. She let her foot soak for a few moments, luxuriating in the refreshing, although by now, lukewarm water. She swirled her foot around in the water; sighing her pleasure at the highly agreeable sensations, as she wiggled and scrunched and flexed her toes in the already unpalatable, already dirty, unhealthy water. Making it even more unpalatable, even more dirty, even more unhealthy - even more undrinkable ... which was, of course, the whole point.

She then lifted her wetted foot out of the bowl, and she hovered it, vertically, over the bowl. I watched, mesmerised; in horrified fascination, as the brilliant Arabian sunlight reflected from her glistening, gleaming, milk-chocolaty brown sole. Her sole dripped and drizzled water. In path-carving rivulets, the precious, life-sustaining fluid ran down from the bottom of her heel, down her arch, over the ball of her foot, to the tips of her toes. And I watched, entranced with revulsion, as dirty, brownish-black - almost tar-like - fat drops of water formed, and then sluggishly, reluctantly dripped from her toes, and back into the bowl. Contaminating the large wooden bowl's remaining contents, even further. Then, she ... let me drink.

This, too, would become a custom - a weekly custom. Every Tuesday. It would become an intrinsic part, of the monotonously regular pattern of my miserable existence, in the God-forsaken village of Wadi Ya Noh.

Every Tuesday, without fail, I would be performing the time-honoured, traditional: foot-sniffing, foot-kissing, and foot-cleaning rituals, as I demonstrated the sincerity of my respect and humility, at the hot, dusty, dirty feet of 4 - not always, the same ones - caravanning female traders.

My God! This was one hellish nightmare, that I had found myself in. I still could hardly believe it: that it had actually happened.

But, every morning, at first light, after yet another restless night's sleep, Meena would kick me awake: "Wake up, sleepy head!". And every morning, Meena would proprietorially lead me to Humility Hole, pulling me along by my tie ... My pale blue silk tie, that my Sandra ...

And, it was all thanks, to my boss - Miss Susan Smith. Oh! That woman!! All of this ... this Wadi Ya Noh affair, was all her fault! All of it! She was to blame. The lecherous, blame-deflecting, bottom-pinching hussy!

Each new day, seemed a littler hotter than the day before, as the days turned into weeks. The weeks, into months.

Christmas Day had come and gone, without me even knowing about it ...

For, there had been no Christmas tree, gaily hung with fairy lights and colourful, tensely balls; an angel or star decorating the top, presents, at its base.

No Christmas Dinner: no turkey with sage and onion stuffing, roast potatoes, sprouts, and all of the other usual trimmings, that I customarily stuffed myself stupid with.

No Christmas pudding with brandy sauce. No sumptuously rich Christmas cake, covered in thick, white icing.

No one wearing silly, multi-coloured party hats, clinking glasses of mulled wine, and saying Cheers! And, Merry Christmas!

No one kissing under the mistletoe.

No one imitating Father Christmas, and saying Ho! Ho! Ho!

No one pulling Christmas crackers: the lucky winner laughing inanely; yet triumphantly, at getting to unfold the enclosed slip of paper, and reading out the naff joke.

No one exchanging yule tide gifts; compliments of the season, and generally having a merry old time, on that festive occasion.

No ... There was no such thing as Christmas, in Wadi Ya Noh. Hell! I doubt if there was a mince pie within a thousand miles.

Then, and worse still - My God! The worst! - I was given the most terrible, the most heart-breaking news. Claudia, upon returning from one of her flight duties to Manchester, had passed onto me a letter from Miss Withenshaw, the British Consulate official in Wadi Ya Wan.

Miss Withenshaw's message was that my fiancee, my darling Sandra, had broken off our engagement. Sandra's reason: she and my boss, Miss Susan Smith, were now ... 'together'.

So, my boss's dreadful prophesy had actually come to pass, then. I remembered my boss's fateful words to me; Miss Susan Smith's confident prediction: "One day, Sandra and me - we'll be an item."

This dreadful news devastated me. It knocked me for 6. It was just all too much, for me. My Sandra ... had left me.

Sandra had not even sent me a Christmas card. But then: why would she? She had dumped me, hadn't she? We were 'over'. I was history. Consigned to her past.

I was distraught. 'Us' - me and Sandra - was the only thing that had kept me going, for all of this terrible time. But now, we were 'over', and it was the final straw.

Now, I was totally, utterly crushed. Bereft. Inconsolable. Now, I felt really, really alone.

Suddenly, there was no light at the end of the tunnel.

Now, I had nothing to hold onto, anymore. Now, there was nothing to pull me through the traumatic trials of my seemingly endless, sun-blasted days ... and my equally trying nights.

Now, there was nothing to help me endure the daily, awful torment of my hideously humiliating subjugation, in Humility Hole: demonstrating the sincerity of my respect and humility, at the feet of the females of Wadi Ya Noh ... who were overjoyed, and who celebrated my terrible news; revelling, in my abject misery and despair.

Sandra ... My God! My throat hurt excruciatingly, every time I thought of her. The yearning, the longing, was terrible; a vice clamped painfully around my heart, every time I remembered her lovely, sweet face. Every time I remembered what I had lost.

Sandra had recently told me, that I was "Putting it on a bit," that I could stand to lose a few pounds in weight. But this was ridiculous. By now, on my subsistence diet of Claudia and Meena's scant, leftover scraps, I was half-starved. Hardly more than a bag of bones - the mangy village dogs were better fed than me. But then, they were better thought of, weren't they?

My thirst was a devil. The very devil. The females of Wadi Ya Noh revelled in denying me water, almost as much as they revelled, in ... letting me drink.

And, that was the worst thing of all: That, in the intolerable torment of my ever raging thirst, I had actually been reduced, to begging, pleading, beseeching, pathetically imploring the females of Wadi Ya Noh, to allow me to drink the water from the soles of their grubby, grimy, filthy dirty feet, when they deigned to present their wettened soles to my conveniently positioned face, in Humility Hole.

Every day, the glaring, relentlessly pummelling Arabian sun seemed to shine for longer, seemed hotter ... I could feel it through my turbans.

Then, it was March, and I had served the first 3 months of my 'A Thousand Suns' sentence, in Humility Hole.

And, for the 4th time, I was recovering from a session with the Katang. I was recovering from the harrowing, devastating effects of a vicious, malicious, expertly administered caning by the females of Wadi Ya Noh, when Claudia amazed me ... by making a proposal. Or, more accurately: a proposition.

I would reflect, later, that the timing of Claudia's proposition - immediately post-caning - was no coincidence. Claudia was striking while the iron - or, rather, my bottom - was hot.

I couldn't believe it. Claudia's proposition was, in fact: for me, to make her a proposal. To ask Claudia, for her hand in marriage. Or, more accurately: a Civil Partnership. Claudia told me that it would be just like a marriage ... only different.

Claudia proposed to go and live in my home, in England. And bring Meena with us.

Claudia, in outlining her proposition, told me that she had a number of non-negotiable terms and conditions. Non-negotiable terms and conditions, that I must agree to - in writing; and signing on the dotted line - before she would allow me to marry her.

The British Consulate official at Wadi Ya Wan, Miss Withenshaw, was legally empowered to marry us, Claudia informed me.

To these ends, in the presence of Miss Withenshaw, as official witness, I would be obliged to sign a pre-nuptial agreement contract, that would then become a legally binding document: both, in Arabia, and in England.

Under the terms of the contract, explained Claudia, it was not necessary to consummate the marriage, to make it legal. And divorce was only possible, if Claudia wished a separation.

As Claudia reeled off to me her long, seemingly endless list of non-negotiable terms and conditions - term, after term; condition, after condition - I grew increasingly appalled. Aghast. I was shocked. Stunned. Utterly disbelieving.

Claudia's terms and conditions, I told her, were beyond the pale. Wholly unreasonable. Quite unthinkable. Totally unacceptable ... But, I told Claudia that I would accept them.

With a heavy heart, I capitulated. Resignedly, I gave Claudia the green light (if not, exactly, the thumbs up) to approach Miss Withenshaw ... and to have her damned contract drawn up.

Well, anyone would have!

If I refused, I would have another 2 years and 6 months - another '900 Suns' - to endure, in Humility Hole. In that sun blasted hellhole!

Every day, all day, I would be performing those soul-crushing, utterly humiliating ... rituals.

Every day, all day, I would be performing those time-honoured, traditional rituals: the foot-sniffing, foot-kissing, and foot-cleaning rituals, as I demonstrated the sincerity of my respect and humility, at the soles of the always dirty, always demanding feet, of the females of Wadi Ya Noh.

Telling them, in welcome, as they shuffled towards me, at Humility Hole: "Claudia ... I am your slave." "Meena ... I am your slave." "Fatima ..." "Nagga ..." "Kandi ..."

Not to mention, "refreshing" the 4 female caravan traders, every Tuesday.

Claudia was offering me a deal. And it was a deal, that; as truly heinous, as diabolical, as it was, I was going to grab with both hands.

I would, I'd thought at the time, just have to regret my hasty decision at leisure, later - when I was back home, in England.

The following Monday, when Claudia returned to Wadi Ya Noh in the police Land Rover after her usual flight duty, she was accompanied by Miss Withenshaw, the British Consulate official. Miss Withenshaw had Claudia's Civil Partnership pre-nuptial agreement contract with her, all ready for me to sign - Claudia had already signed. Miss Withenshaw was there, to formally witness my signature upon the legally binding document. And, of course ... to 'tie the knot'.

My God! But I wouldn't have thought that an even deeper humiliation was possible, until I beheld Miss Withenshaw's facial expression, as she looked down on me, in Humility Hole. The ineffably pitying look on her face, as 5 of the females of Wadi Ya Noh unceremoniously dragged me out of Humility Hole; one of them - Kandi - lending her usual supplementary assistance, by hauling me out by my tie ... My pale blue, silk tie, that my Sandra ...

"I take it you know why I am here, David ..." said Miss Withenshaw, in her plummy, Home Counties accent.

As she went on, I was surprised to hear that her former tones, of 3 months ago: tones, of official, cold formality, were actually softened towards me, slightly. There was a definite hint of compassion, in her voice, upon seeing for herself, the ravages that 3 months in Humility Hole had wrought upon me. Well ... better late, than never, I suppose.

"I am legally obliged to ask you ... are you sure, quite sure, David ... Are you absolutely certain, that you want to sign this Civil Partnership pre-nuptial agreement contract? Won't you think again ...? It's not too late. Once you have put your name to this document, David ... there is no going back. The terms and conditions, as laid down herein, will then become legally binding: both, in Arabia, and in England," advised Miss Withenshaw gravely.

"Yes, Miss Withenshaw, I am. I am certain. It is a case of 'Hobson's Choice', I know. But I must grasp this chance to get out of here. I simply must! To get back to England! I simply can't abide the thought, Miss Withenshaw, of another two and a half years, stuck here ... Stuck here, in this damned hell-hole ... Waiting to be caned half-to-death, every month!" I told Miss Withenshaw, feelingly.

"David, I understand. Really, I do ... But, I advise you - I strongly advise you, to consider your position carefully, very carefully indeed, before you sign this document. Just ... just think about what it will mean, for a moment, David ..."

Miss Withenshaw paused, to let me think about what it would mean, for a moment.

"Thank you for your concern, Miss Withenshaw, but---"

"Under the terms of the document," continued Miss Withenshaw solemnly, "you promise to serve, honour, and obey Claudia. Unlike a conventional marriage, it is not necessary to consummate this Civil Partnership, to make it legal. And so it cannot be annulled, for that reason. Furthermore, David, divorce will only be possible, if Claudia wishes a separation. And, that's not to mention, all of Claudia's other ... stipulations."

"Yes, Miss Withenshaw, I know all of that, but---"

"Think about it, David ... is it really worth it? Really ...? After all ... your remaining time here will soon pass. Before you know it, David, you---"

"Soon pass! SOON PASS!!" I yelled incredulously. "What ...? Another two and a half years, here? In this place? Another two and a half years, of being fed on leftover scraps. Scraps of ... of ... of God-knows-what, that even the dogs turn their noses up at? Another two and a half years, of ... of ..."

(I couldn't bring myself to mention, to the decidedly prim and proper, Miss Withenshaw, my being made to sleep at Claudia and Meena's feet, every night. And; more to the point, of Meena's ... highly disconcerting - appallingly invasive - habit).

"... of being stuck in that baking-hot hole, every day, from dawn until dusk? Every day, bollock-naked, being subjected to ... to ... to the village women's dirty, stinky feet in my face, all day long?" I demanded of Miss Withenshaw, not unreasonably, I felt.

"Another two and a half years, of being forced to perform their ... rituals! Forced to sniff their feet! Forced to kiss their feet! Forced to lick the soles of their feet clean, as my one and only means of getting water? And - muddy, filthy dirty water, at that! No! NO!! Can't you see ...? I want out! I'm getting out! Get a grip, woman! And give me a pen! Now!!" I demanded of Miss Withenshaw, the poor woman. Who, after all, was only trying to act in my own best interests ... to save me from myself.

"Very well, David. I can see that your mind is quite made up. That there is no persuading you to see reason; no making you see sense," said Miss Withenshaw stiffly. Yet, with a distinct undertone of resigned disappointment, in her voice. And of regret, too, as if she actually did feel sorry for me. And, was it my imagination, or did I hear a note of dismay, too? Dismay, at what she knew lay in store for me; my future plight, as Claudia's 'husband'. "I did my best for you, David," she said gravely.