Field notes, Ramadan's first Friday

Every first Friday of the fasting month has the same notes.

A quarter to six and the roads empty inside ten minutes. Six lanes going one way and nothing coming back.

The delivery bikes parked in a row outside the restaurant by five, engines off, riders sitting on the kerb, waiting for a hundred orders that all arrive in the same four minutes.

The supermarket at four, everybody buying the same four things, nobody looking at a shelf they were not already walking towards.

Terrace heaters still out in Riyadh in February. The evenings have not decided yet, and the outside tables will be the good tables for another few weeks.

The mosque emptying into the cafes at nine. The cafes take an hour to fill and then do not empty until two.

The family group arguing since the middle of the week about whose house, settled in the end by whoever has the longest table rather than by whoever offered first.

This year the flags go up between the lanterns, because Founding Day falls on Sunday, and both sets of decoration are on the same street with nobody finding that odd.

No lesson today. Only this. The first Friday belongs to the grandparents' table. The food is cooked by people who are not selling it, the guest list was set by blood, the seating was settled thirty years ago, and the whole thing runs for four hours with no brand anywhere in the room.

Every plan I have ever seen for this week was written for the nights after it.