Not an optimal way to learn a language

Warning: This post may be in questionable taste!!

I'm one of those people for whom a visit to the throne room is incomplete without a good book. Seriously, if there's nothing worth reading, I'd rather not even go in there. I have even been known to have two or three books piled up alongside the porcelain receptacle, just in case I get bored of one of them, as the time - for want of a better word - passes.

Not that I am unaware of the inadvisability (lots of 'I's in that word) of this particular habit. One of my mother's favorite admonitions to me as a child, in this particular context, was: "it'll give you hemorrhoids!" That, it must be said, usually as she herself made her way to the zone of contemplation, a large tome tucked under one arm.

This afternoon, as I was about to enter into a parlay with nature, I noticed that the chamber was bookless! I had finished a masterpiece yesterday and had not yet had the chance to replace it with anything suitable. So, I went to my bookshelf to see what the literary world might have to offer.

Having already read all of the novels and other assorted fiction on my bookshelf, several times, including several of them at the same time (see above), I really didn't feel like "going there" again. I mean, how many times can a person read the six-part Hitchhikers' trilogy? (Ok, lots. I admit. But after lots ...?) And although he still makes me giggle every time I reread his books, I am in desperate need of a new Terry Pratchett novel - after all, it's Spring. He must have written something new by now, right?

But if he has, it was not to be found on my shelves.

So, scrounging around the nether reaches of my own little corner of L-Space, and putting nature on hold for a short while as I did so (but being certain to hum to her, so she wouldn't think I'd hung up), I stumbled across "Mastering Arabic" - a teach-yourself-Arabic book that I bought years ago when I had thought, erroneously I suppose, that Arabic should be an easy language to learn. Noting that the book contained exercises, I armed myself with a retractable mechanical pencil (truly the only kind worth using), and skipped happily off to do what, by then, really had to be done.

Now, "Mastering Arabic" is not a novel - strange as that may sound to some. It is in fact quite a complex book of exercises which starts off with learning some of the letters, making words with those, and so on, and ends, I presume, when one is ready to read A Thousand And One Nights in the original, and then go and debate it on Al-Jazeera. I'm a fair way from that, but I've managed to work out that Jihan is the wife of Ahmad, which is probably a good thing, seeing that Ahmad is the husband (according to the book, that is) of Jihan. I had thought that Jihan was the wife of Anwar, but perhaps that is another book.

However, as fast as I seemed to be plowing through the exercises, practising the twirls and squiggles and dots that are the maze of the Arabic language, and mildly pleased with the fact that I could actually read the names Ahmad and Jihan (and several others), albeit slowly, I was horrified to realize that I had reached page 38, but was still, well, you know - there!

As I extricated myself from the plastic furnishing that was fast threatening to become a part of me, I realized, with some dismay, that "Mastering Arabic" is clearly meant for other kinds of rooms, with seats that perform a different function.

Reluctantly, therefore, I have abandoned my plan of learning Arabic during my "quality time". I shall have to try and find some actual free time for that particular pursuit. And perhaps, a teacher.

I shall also have to find a slightly lighter kind of read for those special moments.

Otherwise, my quest to learn Arabic might indeed give me hemorrhoids.