Last week our neighbour invited my family and I round for a fast breaking party the following weekend. Talking to Muslim friends in the past they’ve told me, if I’m remembering correctly, that fasting gives them a better appreciation for those people of the world who have no choice but to go without food.
Having seen some work colleagues go through Ramadan’s paces before it looks a pretty brutal process. Especially at this time of year: there’s very little time between sun-down and sun-up and therefore a lot of time where no food or drink may be consumed. Still, no mercy was shown to those fasting whilst at work - smelly lunch being eaten at the desk an ever-present fact of life.
Going without food I’d imagined being entirely feasible. Getting up in the middle of the night to eat & drink bizarre but entirely necessary. I didn’t know until a few years ago though that it also meant going without water during the day. The whole day. Nothing to drink 
But back to the party. Now, let’s be clear, my neighbour said not to fast. And not to bring anything. Well, plainly, I can’t not bring anything to a party. So the kids have made cakes. More on that later.
More to the point though, I also thought I’d give the fasting thing a crack. It’s not like I haven’t been building serious internal stores, with a high level dedication and commitment you understand, over the years 
so it’s not going to cause me a problem. Well, not a physical one. So I thought I’d walk a mile in another man’s shoes (note: this categorically does not mean I’m doing this ‘cos that looks really painful - ladies, you’re crackers 
).
So how did I do?
Friday night saw the usual knock-about at the squash club although, unusually, I decided to come home to stuff my face in preparation for the time of no food. Actually the only bit that’s unusual is that I came home to do it rather than stay in the club bar.
Saturday morning also witnessed the usual 8am gym visit. That’s painful every time but at least gave me an excuse to drink. Water only of course and I reckon I had my last sip before 10am.
From there the day went vaguely same-old, same-old. Just without the food or drink. So no breakfast after the gym - that’s fine I’ve been without breakfast plenty of times. I took the kids to their usual run around a squash court whilst I lounge in the (closed) bar … but I don’t get a diet coke or sly choccy bar. Back home … to no lunch whilst the kids tuck in to something bread-related. With the usual assortment of veggies and cold meats. Drool. But at least I have an excuse to slope off and watch F1 qualifying (a good session too!).
The afternoon drags by. I can think of almost nothing but food. And drink. Ah, yes, the kids are making cakes to take tonight. So I take our eldest to the supermarket to buy the supplies we’re apparently missing. Drifting round a supermarket not as disastrous as I’d expected but I’m aware of a pretty constant voice in my head saying ooh, I just fancy one of those whilst another voice says not today pal. On the way back home I’m simply grateful I don’t have to do this tomorrow. Or next year. Or ever again. So the purpose of the fast is being achieved: I’m also thinking of those less fortunate.
I’m not as thirsty as I thought and I definitely don’t want alcohol until I’ve had a couple of gallons of water - even the thought of that threatened a hangover. So not thirsty. But certainly dehydrated - I had a mild fuzzy headache since late afternoon. But at least the tennis has provided a welcome distration. And an elicit kip on the sofa has killed some time. But not enough. We’re miles away from sun-down.
The hunger comes in waves. But it does subside much more than I’d expected, it’s really a case of getting through each wave - that required more discipline than I’m accustomed to and I’d expected the smell of baking cakes to be torture but I managed to avoid the majority of it despite being the responsible adult on oven duties (the kids handle basically everything else). Although the lack of food wasn’t as tortuous as I’d expected it does ram the point home: to make you think of those less fortunate who have no choice but to fast. Sobering.
But, still, how do you do this every day for a month?
To the party…
We rocked up at our neighbour’s house pretty much bang on 9pm as requested. Well, we don’t have much excuse being approximately 30 seconds walk away. Immediately it’s clear the convention is to remove shoes in this household; that’s no problem - we have basically the same rule to protect our wooden floors. Although I think we’re overly protective sometimes 
We’re then segregated - ladies to the left, men to the right. It had occurred to me a couple of days beforehand that may happen but I didn’t think it’d actually happen in a private house and forgot to mention the possibility to my wife and daughters Tradition rules though so we followed through.
I got chatting to a couple of other folk, one of whom a Kiwi who works for my neighbour. He’d been through the whole fasting thing too - he’d done it on previous occasions so kinda knew what to expect. And of course the Germany / Italy football was on. Now I’m not the most loquacious of folk in this sort of environment, really not a small talk kinda guy, and being segregated from my family did make me feel a bit odd. But I’m keen on a bit of tradition and it was an honour to have been asked … so I bashed on.
Another neighbour turned up and talk briefly turned to the referendum. And, reasonably quickly, back away from it. The time for fast breakage was upon us - dates, fruit and water were shared. A date never tasted so good and although the water was also hugely welcome it was the rice and curry that followed that raised the culinary bar. Possibly because I hadn’t had food for a while, possibly because it was simple, honest, tasty home-made food. But I’m rushing - between the fruit and curry came prayer. There were perhaps a dozen of us, not praying, sitting in respectful silence at the back of the room (it’s a big room). It felt a little as if I was intruding on a rather private time. A privilege indeed.
Dessert was served post-curry. I skipped the rice pudding style dessert but dived right into the baklava and macaroons. I love macaroons on a normal day. This wasn’t a normal day. And these weren’t normal macaroons. I found out later they’d been hand-made by another of my neighbour’s guests. They were hands down the best macaroons I’ve ever had. Spectacular. Just spectacular 
At that point, around 11pm, people started to leave. And the male / female segregation lifted so I wandered in to see how my wife and kids had got on. Suffice to say the kids were loving it - running around in the pitch black in the garden with the other children. I think they were asleep within about five seconds of heads hitting pillows when we got home 45 minutes later 
So whilst the kids were in the garden refusing to go home I sat in the kitchen chatting with my wife and some of the other guests - whether they’d fasted, how they found it, how I’d found it, the macaroons they’d made. Spectacular.
Overall we all found it an educational experience and we’re grateful to our neighbours and their friends for the opportunity to share this time. Don’t think I’d ever get used to the male / female segregation though