Road to Damascus

I'll never forget the time I was kidnapped by Yasser Arafat. Well, I suppose 'kidnapped' is too strong a word for it really; I and my party were merely 'inconvenienced' for a while, that's all. I'd been travelling through Jordan and Syria with my great aunt Dolores Mackliskey (she's the one who was knocked down by a lorry and survived; the one who later became a xylophone player), and we were staying in a lovely hotel in Damascus. One day, while we were having our usual breakfast of chilled fruit and honey - accompanied by mint tea of course - a gang of armed men stormed into the hotel and told us that we were all Arafat's prisoners. I can't remember the reason why, I presume he wanted to hostage us for some kind of advantage, but I remember Great Aunt Dolores being very affronted by this. The hotel wasn't air-conditioned and she wanted the doors to the small, stuffy breakfast-room opened, she said. We were told by a rather sweet-looking youth who was nervously brandishing a Kalashnikov, that this was 'impossible'.

Well, being a pedantic old soul, Dolores took issue with this. 'Of course it isn't impossible,' she said. 'Pushing a camel through the eye of a needle is impossible; getting my great-nephew here to buy a round of drinks is impossible; but opening a dining room door is not impossible; it's as easy as pulling the handle. Now get on with it.'

Faced with such logic, I half-expected him to do it. Instead, he looked warily at her and gestured with a circling of his forefinger to the forehead, indicating that he thought she was mad (and actually, many of us in the family might have agreed with him). 'Impossible,' he repeated.

Dolores was having none of it. She moved forwards saying, 'Let me show you, young man.' And before he could even slide off the safety-catch on his weapon, she'd yanked open the door, only to come face to face with Mr Arafat himself. Moving into the room, he became charm personified, and apologised profusely that we were all being so inconvenienced. He explained that we could not leave the hotel, but that we were free to move into the bar and lobby where there was more room, and more air.

Muttering, 'Well, I suppose it's never too early for a Martini,' Dolores made her way to the bar followed by myself, a fat Swedish man (unusual that – you hardly ever see a fat Swede), and two American women called, unforgettably, Mindy and Marta. We then joined up with the remaining hotel guests who by now had all been gathered into the lobby by various masked gunmen. There was a lot of noise and confusion. Arafat left the building.

About thirty-six hours passed before we'd drunk the bar dry. By then, Dolores had taken total charge of the group and was negotiating in her inimitable way with the young soldiers (unsuccessfully, I might add). However, she had prevented one American gentleman from phoning the White House in protest, suggesting that his call could only enflame the situation; she'd also ended an Italian woman's panic attack by slapping her repeatedly about the face (it looked to me like Dolores was enjoying it); and she'd recruited three Japanese students into helping her cook lunch and dinner for us all (the hotel staff had all mysteriously disappeared hours before). She even offered to feed the gunmen but they politely refused (they said) on religious grounds, but more likely because they feared they might be poisoned. They didn't know Auntie – she wouldn't hurt a fly.

Eventually, Arafat reappeared. Again he apologised most sincerely for the hardship caused, and thanked us all generously for our patience and understanding. Apparently - he rather sheepishly confessed - the whole incident had proved to be rather unnecessary, and something of a mistake. We were free to leave. Dolores shook hands with him, told me to get on with the packing, and teetered into the garden clutching the last of the gin. 'Next stop, the Dead Sea', she warbled.