The drone of the generator (if you are lucky enough to have one) reminds you that you will have to spend hours searching for petrol on the lawless streets — the normal electricity supply functions barely four hours a day.

Distant bomb blasts raise the familiar questions. How will I get to work? Which roads have been closed by fighting? There used to be a morning postal service, but I have not received a letter since the war. All my communications now are through email or telephone — many of them to friends overseas.

Three dozen of my class of 2003 have gone, many to Syria because Jordan is overflowing with exiles, others to the Gulf or London. In the past two weeks five of my neighbours have also fled, abandoning their houses.

I’ve lost count of the people I know who have been killed or wounded.

My local grocer vanished two weeks ago when a suicide bomber walked into the café where he was eating. They found only his shoes and phone.

I now have to venture further afield to shop for my mother and sisters, a dangerous chore in a city where death squads drive past shops and fire indiscriminately.

Before leaving for work, I used to check the street for gunmen, American soldiers or any other threats.

Now, worn down and fatalistic after years of killing, I’ve stopped taking even that basic precaution.

Others are less cavalier. Some parents escort their children to school then wait outside during classes to make sure they are not kidnapped.

This week, as students went to my local school to get their exam results, drive-by gunmen killed the guard. No one knows why.

My route to work always changes, because each day a different road is blocked by checkpoints manned by police (who might be disguised terrorists), or plainclothes people with guns (who might be police).

Sometimes residents, terrified of car bombs, block off their own streets, squeezing traffic through ever-narrowing arteries. It can take three hours to get across the city.

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