Sushi in your beard

The other day I met up with my ex-CEO for lunch and he offered me my old job back. I considered and rejected any or a combination of the following responses:-

 

(a) Ha ha! Ok, ok, I’ve got one for you. A CEO of a telecoms company accidentally swallows a lever arch file. PAHAHAHA! Yeah, that was the punch line right there

(b) Not if you paid me in 15kg bars of gold bouillon

(c) You have sushi in your beard

 

Instead, I went for a pithy, restrained response (’no thanks’, in case you were wondering)

The Great Escape

So this is the year we finally leave Dubai. In the same way that a cross-dressing 70s swingers Tupperware party seems like a splendid idea three weeks in advance, the time to make good on the lip service now approaches like a swarm of killer termites.

 

For so long I’ve talked about leaving the Middle East ‘in 2007’, but you know, it was YEARS away. I would say: ‘I’m not spending a decade in this place,’ but then I’d only been here a couple of years. Maybe three, or was it four and a bit?

 

Now 2007 is upon us; our departure is imminent; and I’m absolutely terrified.

 

It’s hard to believe that nine years ago a 25 year old Me rocked up in the UAE toting a family sized bottle of SPF 370, a rucksack and a truckload of enthusiasm. I was so green about the gills people occasionally thought I was afflicted with mould. The world was my oyster.

 

In fairness, I totally underestimated the effort it would take to digest said oyster. People tried to warn me. They said, ‘but you’re leaving all your friends!’ I’d respond, ‘Meh. Friends come and go. I’ll make new ones. People are interchangeable.’ [Of course, I was wrong: people AREN’T interchangeable, as I discovered when I tried to find another hairdresser.]

 

The loneliness nearly killed me – seriously, one day I actually had to run away from The Light. I’d failed to anticipate the sheer exhaustion of setting up home in a new country: making friends, settling into a new job with 6-day working week, buying a car, finding and furnishing an apartment. It was a phenomenal shock to the system.

 

So in theory, moving to NZ should be easy. After all, I’ve had two practice runs (three, if you count the time I moved to Dublin to live with the nuns). Since I’m not doing it alone, there is not the same imperative to bribe strangers to be my friend. Andrew will share the workload of wrapping up our life and tying up the loose ends. Should I be crushed in a freak accident involving a van, a leather sofa and a burly mover called Hamish, Andrew can alert the ambulance services (i.e. less risk).

 

Yet it doesn’t matter how many pep talks I give myself in the bathroom mirror: I’m still dreading it.

 

Much as I despise the place, I have lived in Dubai for over a quarter of my life. As I get older I find that I like routine (next I’ll be preceding sentences with ‘in my day’ and taking up gardening) (last week I changed my computer accessibility options to ‘disabled’ for the bigger fonts) (at least give me credit for knowing where to locate the Accessibility tab). I like knowing exactly where to find pickled peanuts in Spinneys, cycling to The Lime Tree for my soy latte, playing tennis with Andrew in the evening, or cooking dinner in my kitchen. Also, this is where Andrew and I met and, for better or worse, it is our home. We have been so happy here.

 

But whereas before, moving halfway around the world was a madcap screwball adventure, now it is a tedious chore fraught with anxiety. When I think of the preparation that needs to be done – getting our affairs in order (and I’d like to know: exactly when did we become equipped with AFFAIRS? We’re too young to have affairs!) - I feel quite panicky.

 

There is not much I will miss about this city, but those things include: the beach in the mornings, swimming in The Gulf, the muezzin call to prayer, barbeques in the garden, sunshine in winter, and most importantly (not to make the same mistake again) our friends.

 

And yet I will not miss the smog, the roads, Ramadan, the transient nature of this place, the casual discrimination that passes as normal, the disregard for human life, the hypocrisy, the summer, the cockroaches, the way every little bit of emotion and kindness is censored while gore-smeared violence is presented in all its glory.

 

According to weight, the bad far outweighs the good. I am sure we will settle into NZ and wonder why we waited so long. But I’ll be sure to spend the interim fretting about it

Doing my bit for the aged

The other night, Wayne and Keren invited us out to meet Keren’s father, who was passing through Dubai.

 

We all met up outside Le Royal Mirage, and I thought it might be a nice gesture to kiss the old boy in greeting. I was going for his left cheek, but as I zoomed in it appeared that he was going for my right. So I corrected – unfortunately in the split second that he did also. We were heading right for each other, dead centre, bang on target; we were both committed and there was no backing out of the deal and it all went a bit slo-mo and well, I smooched the man.

 

In the past I have been known to misjudge the social kiss. Occasionally I’ve inadvertently headbutted my target and once I licked someone’s nose. On this occasion, I am sorry to report that it was a xxx-rated full-frontal snog. Well, there were no tongues involved, so maybe it was xx. But I think I displaced his dentures, which would elevate it to xx›. I was so caught up in the moment I only just stopped myself squeezing his arse (it was a close thing), but as I disengaged there was a glorious suction sound effect with a slurpy bass.

 

Of course, I was MORTIFIED. I’ve always assumed there is a natural force field surrounding my obicularis oris which automatically repels everything venturing within 1cm of it with the exception of Andrew, Ceara and a variety of foodstuffs.

 

It appeared to have failed.

 

“Oh my god!” I said to Keren. “I’ve just snogged your father!”

 

“I hate to think what she gets up to when I’m not STANDING RIGHT BESIDE HER,” said Andrew.

 

We went into the restaurant and when I sat down, there was a big kerfuffle between Andrew and Frank (hey, I snogged the man; we’re on first name terms) as to who should sit beside me. Frank was closest to the available seat, but he was obviously worried his daughter’s nymphomaniac friend might grope him under the table or try to feed him bite-sized portions of hammour off her fork. He pushed Andrew at me and sat at the other side of the table.

 

I dreaded taking leave at the end of the evening. Should I attempt another kiss? Try a hug? Go for full coitus in the lobby? I mean, after that start we couldn’t revert to shaking hands.

 

“How about I go for that cheek?” I said, pointing with some trepidation. So he presented the cheek indicated, which I chastely kissed. Then the other – daring man.

 

Probably the most action the old boy has seen in years

Too old for cake

On Husband’s 36^th birthday, I asked him how he would like to celebrate this glorious occasion. He opted for a BBQ in the back garden with a few friends.

 

Earlier that day, I called Andrew at work:

 

“So, about this party-”

 

“It’s not a party! It’s a quiet barbeque at home.”

 

“Right. Er, what if it WAS a party? Would that be a bad thing?”

 

“No. Hang on – no, I mean yes.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Now, there were only 7 people attending, which is really not sufficient to qualify as a ‘party’. Technically, a party is defined of a gathering of 10 or more people, later joined by police after a complaint from the neighbours, with at least one person catching an airborne pie with their face.

 

However, after the above-dictated discussion with Andrew, I put away most of the balloons - although I glued two to the front door just so people would know where the party BBQ was. And I prepared a gallon of frozen margharita, which is only hospitable.

 

I had baked a surprise birthday cake for Andrew, complete with frosting and milk chocolate nipples (they’re not marketed as such – but Hershey’s Kisses are quite patently chocolate nipples).

 

For the life of me I could not track down cake candles. Whatever happened to small, candy-striped candles with tiny plastic flower-shaped spiked holders? Couldn’t find them anywhere across the length and breadth of Dubai, but eventually I located some novelty candles with a farm theme going.

 

As I walked into the garden bearing the cake topped with a flaming-headed chicken, the entire party group launched into an enthusiastic if drunkenly tone-deaf rendition of ‘Happy Birthday To You’.

 

Andrew’s response was to roll his eyes so emphatically I’m surprised he didn’t dislocate his retina. At that point, the only correct and appropriate counter response would have been to pie him with the cake. However, I would first have had to put out the chicken. Also, it was presented on a solid plate which was a wedding present from Edel and I didn’t want to break it.

 

Nor Andrew’s nose, of course.

 

Even though the event fell short of a ‘party’, when I went downstairs the following morning and saw the state of the kitchen*, THEN it felt like a party – or the aftermath anyway.

 

* Can anyone tell me what IS IT with men and bottle tops? After we have friends around I find bottle tops strewn about the place like some hillbilly shack – on the floor, across the counter, in the toaster, under the coffee filters, stuck to the grouting

Rain

Dubai puts on another spectacular show: rain shower, picture taken at Chinese Court in Ibn Battuta Mall