Born to wear diamonds

Yesterday afternoon, Róisín and I went to Cactus Cantina where free margharitas are served to ladies (I qualify, but only barely).

 

 

 

 

 

 

We ended up comprehensively sousled and on the way home - convinced it was the best idea ever conceived - called in to Kieren’s to check the status of Róisín’s jewelry. 

 

While Róisín debated when Kieren said he’d have her pendant ready and Husband (who had kindly fireman’s lifted us out of Cactus to convey us home) guffed tremendous yawns, I admired how a US$ 10,000 diamond ring graced my finger. I was keeping it away from Andrew’s mouth for fear he might vacuum it down his esophagus; however I obviously didn’t take enough care because when I took it off I accidentally hurled it across the room. As I scrabbled drunkenly around the floor, a man walking into the shop kicked it into the corner.

 

Astoundingly, Kieren did not confiscate the ring and threaten me with Security before booting me out of his shop. Which he really should have done because five minutes later, waving the same ring under Andrew’s nose in a vain effort to convince him that I was born to wear it, I flung it across the floor again

Genuine fake

A few days after we waved Husband’s business partner off, Róisín arrived for a week’s holiday.

 

Having Róisín here was fabulous and I loved loved loved spending time with her. After she left, Andrew said: “But you didn’t DO anything!” He is clearly baffled by our ability to talk for eight solid hours a day.

 

In our defense, we did go to Karama, where Róisín bought a genuine fake Cartier watch, a leather wallet and a seriously ethnic bed cover. After half an hour the watchstrap on the ‘Cartier’ broke, so we returned the following day to have it fixed.

 

This time it lasted three quarters of an hour.

 

Before going to the shop again, I grilled Róisín on the course of action:-

 

“Now, you don’t want them to repair it again-”

 

“Because they’ve already fixed it twice-”

 

“So either they give you another watch-”

 

“Exactly the same style - or they return my money-”

 

“New watch, or money back. You’ll say-”

 

“‘Give me my money back, you Dodger-”

 

“With interest-”

 

“No compromise.”

 

“Right.”

 

“Right.”

 

There was a big palaver in the shop about what a highly unusual occurrence this was, how their products are top quality genuine fakes shipped in fresh from Hong Kong that morning, this is the first time anyone has ever been dissatisfied with one of their goods, in fact they’ve never had complaints before, and was Róisín mistreating the product? Perhaps she was checking the time too vigorously?

 

Of course, they didn’t have another identical watch. Róisín directed Rahi - for we were on first name terms at this point - to fix the original watch yet again and provide a full report on the reasons for its breakage. While they took the watch to their ‘workshop’ (an upturned box round the corner), Róisín chatted to Rahi about the weather, where he was from, how long he’d been in Dubai, whether he liked it here, what the names of his family and all his relatives down to second cousins were.

 

By the time Rahi’s Dodger-In-Arms returned, Róisín and Rahi were best friends.

 

Allegedly, Róisín’s original watchstrap had broken because when she bought it they removed some of the links and the pins used to reconnect the links were too small. It sounded almost plausible. However, if Róisín was unhappy with the explanation, they had a Cartier watch that was almost very similar to the original.

 

Of course, Róisín ended up buying the second watch as well

Creative outlet

My Old Crusty was discharged from hospital last week after hip replacement surgery. Last time I spoke to him, he’d been moved to a public ward and sounded a bit dejected. Apparently his private room was required for some ‘old boy’. He perked up a bit when I pointed out that he was evidently considered a sturdy young snapper in comparison.

 

He’s not high-kicking around the house just yet (I’m sure he misses that particular creative outlet - he was always at it - used to drive Mum spare the way he kept knocking over table lamps). However, he’s in good form and getting about slowly

Irish as a riverdancing leprechaun

Husband’s business partner is currently staying with us on a two-week business trip (The Company budget doesn’t stretch to the Burj Al Arab and a four figure per diem). I’d never met him before, so the pre-visit prep was more rigorous than usual.
 
Every now and then I question my Irishness - maybe I’m becoming detached from my heritage? Well, when it comes to visitors, I’m as Irish as a Riverdancing leprechaun with a pint of Guinness. Or maybe I’m just my mother’s daughter. I laid out the towels, the best bed linen (alright! I admit it! It was polyester! Happy now?), made sure the guest bathroom was stocked with shampoo and soap. Then I turned my attention to dust, dirt and smudges. I scoured the house, scrubbing down walls, jiffing kitchen appliances, wiping down every level surface.
 
I realized maybe I’d gone a bit too far when I caught myself polishing the plants. Oh yes, every leaf. After wiping the dust off, I went to apply some leaf shiner I’d bought months ago - great stuff - really er well does just what it says on the can actually: shines up the leaf.
 
Unfortunately, I picked up the wrong can, and spray-painted our plants silver

Arse-shaped imprint

The writing is going well, as evidenced by the arse-shaped imprint in our extremely expensive leather sofa. Even though I expect the imprint to shrink with more cross training at Level 12, I’m considering a rotating seating plan

Punks plural

Andrew still talks about getting fit. It’s always a prolonged, energetic discussion so it must burn some calories. The only exercise he’s had in the last couple of weeks is another trip to Ski Dubai. This time we went with friends of ours, Pete and Em, who are roughly the same standard as Andrew and me respectively.
 
The boys swished off to race each other downhill, although every now and then they waited for us so they could throw snowballs.
 
Although I am doing much better and can achieve relatively high velocity (I am now bordering on swishing almost), I still attract the kamikazes. I seem to possess an irresistible sex appeal for nutters, weirdos, losers, combinations of all the above, and anyone yearning for co dependency.
 
This time, two blokes charged me from behind. I might have felt picked upon except that they then crashed into each other and fraggled out on the slope.
 
Now here’s what gets me - these psychotic Anti-Dudes never say sorry! Never! What is it about me? Do I look particularly unforgiving? (Admittedly, on this occasion I probably did.)
 
They always act like I should be apologizing to THEM for inconsiderately throwing myself under their skiis.
 
From the lift I heard Pete, who witnessed the whole thing, roaring: “Niamh! Get them!” I’m not sure whether he expected me to spank them with my snowboard or what.
 
I decided on shaming them.
 
Emma got there first.
 
“You know, you could at least say sorry,” she said in her cut glass accent.
 
I went for a more direct approach.
 
“Hey assholes! Yeah! I’m talkin’ to you, Punks Plural! What the fuck d’you think you’re playing at?” <10 second skunk-eye intermission>
 
“Sorry,” muttered Asshole #1.
 
“Sorry,” muttered Asshole #2.
 
“I should think so,” I snapped. “Be more careful the next time. Oh and by the way, when my husband catches up with you, he’s going to HURT you. Really badly.”
 
When Andrew did catch up, all he did was look cooler than them, which I’m sure cut them to the quick but was not as devastating to their cell structure as I had hoped

Negative paraging

Now that I am regularly going to the gym, I’ve put on two kilos. I’d like someone to please explain that particular injustice to me - and don’t say muscle weighs more than flab because I’m hardly bursting with biceps and triceps. This is surely conclusive proof that there is no God.
 
Yesterday I went to the health club to work up a sweat and pretend I know how to use the weights, and there was a skinny cow on the next cross-trainer huffing up a storm. She was really going for it - think ‘Twist and Shout’ by the Beatles on fast-forward. Her legs were a blur.
 
I was a bit intimidated; she kept on toweling herself down, like: “See how hard I’m Working Out - I’m THIS SWEATY!” and demonstrating by flicking it around the place. But I wasn’t about to be psyched out by a woman who could arm-wrestle me into a coma, because I’m made of sterner stuff. So I clambered onto the other cross trainer and worked up to ‘Killing Me Softly’ by Roberta Flack.
 
Now I was trying to ignore this malnourished slapper because I was at 75% maximum heart rate which is where I want to be and I’m quite happy with that, I don’t have to get to 150% maximum heart palpitation to feel like I’m exercising. But she was shooting me disparaging looks from the depths of her towel, and I was starting to feel depressed. As if all that’s not bad enough, her compact lycra clad arse twinkling away was taunting me.
 
BUT THEN I throw a glance at her control panel - and she’s on level 1. LEVEL 1! So if anyone was going to be indulging in negative paraging, it should have been me.
 
So I threw a few sneery looks in her direction, along with some sweat (two can play at that game), and comforted myself with the knowledge that in an arse-off, my bottom would totally annihilate hers.
 
It’s cut throat at the gymnasium

Errant kissing

A man has received a three-month jail sentence for kissing a woman by mistake.

Note: In the Middle East, you should always take a moment to correctly identify your kissee before puckering up.
 
The 54-year-old woman can’t have too many lads queuing up for a snog, but rather than reveling in her new found pulling power she reported the 49-year-old Lebanese man (identified as NY) to the police.
 
NY told the Dubai Court of First Instance: “I met her near the elevator and a conversation happened, and I kissed her by mistake.”
 
At least he didn’t shag her by mistake, in which case she might have been seriously traumatised