Under the weather

For the last couple of weeks, Andrew and I have been struggling with the concept of thriving and surviving (or general existence).

 

Last weekend I took to my boudoir with a grippy stomach. Thankfully, I made a full recovery after a couple of hours lying around looking beautifully wan and tragic – this effect sadly diminished by the ferocious burping. The following Wednesday I was sick, and on Friday I once again involuntarily considered that course of action. Not sure what’s going on with my capricious tum but am reviewing my diet.

 

Last week, Andrew returned from work with an elbow the size of an alien birthing pod or a kiwifruit - whichever is easier to visualise. It was right gnarly.

 

Andrew needs to be spurting blood all over the Pearly Gates on a slow afternoon before he’ll consult a doctor, so I stuffed him full of Brufen. That drug makes me seriously question the purpose of the medical profession. Sore arm? 400mg. Gangrenous leg? 600mg. Brain tumour? Hey, take the whole bottle, no really I’ll get another.

 

For the next couple of days, Andrew’s pulsating elbow created its own sound waves. Andrew bore his gammy arm stoically, apart from the occasional sharp intake of breath which sounded a bit like he was trying to suck a raw egg through his front teeth. Although I’ve never heard Andrew trying to suck a raw egg through his front teeth, my Imagination has reliably informed me that if he did, that’s exactly what it would sound like - although why in the name of goodness he’d wantonly risk salmonella like that, my Imagination has no idea.

 

Over the weekend, the swelling retreated before the rampaging swarms of Brufen but his elbow and surrounding areas remained a savage shade of thermonuclear liver. He finally announced that he would pay a visit to the doctor. I suspect it was more a PR stunt than a statement of intent, designed to (a) stimulate my sympathy gene; (b) illustrate the severity of the elbow situation; and (c) make me stop unwittingly jogging his elbow.

 

“I need a doctor,” he announced dramatically. It would have been more successful had he woken me at 03:00hrs covered in green sweat, rather than waiting until Saturday morning after he had stuffed his face full of breakfast and enjoyed a leisurely coffee.

 

“Good idea.”

 

“I don’t know a doctor.”

 

“How about Dr Fowler in the Dubai London Clinic?”

 

“He left.”

 

“I think the Clinic has more than one doctor.”

 

“I don’t have their number.”

 

“It’s on my mobile.”

 

“I can’t find it,” he said, flopping his head against the passenger window in an agony of frustration.

 

“My phone’s in the centre console.”

 

“No, I mean the number.”

 

“It’s under: ‘Dubai London Clinic’.”

 

“But I need an appointment today.”

 

“Ok.”

 

“They probably won’t have anything free.”

 

“Hmm. Would you like me to psychically access their appointments database? RING THEM!”

 

“Rumble grumble mumble. Yeh, hi, is that the Dubai London Clinic? Yes. I know this is late notice, don’t suppose there is a slot available, but . . . oh there is? Now? Er-“

 

I drove him to DLC and while Andrew saw the doctor, I amused myself imagining what the other patients were in for. At the DLC, the nurses like to share the results of urine samples and sperm tests with everyone in the waiting room. You’ll be looking at someone thinking, “Yep, definitely congenital afibrinogenemia, or maybe low motility. Oh, rete tubular ectasia. Who’d have guessed?”

 

When Andrew reappeared, I said – relatively sympathetically for me: “Syphilis?”

 

But according to the doctor, it was a build-up of fluid in the joint.

 

“She said she’d NEVER SEEN an elbow so SEVERELY INFLAMED,” said Andrew proudly. “She even took a blood test.”

 

The bill came to US$ 250 – roughly two thirds of which was the charge for the blood test. At least the experience has given Andrew something new to complain about – he is still jamming on about how he paid US$ 250 for a doctor to tell him to take anti-inflammatories which was exactly what he was doing anyway. (Technically, I paid the doctor US$ 250 to tell him to take anti-inflammatories, since Andrew had forgotten his wallet - but I haven’t pointed that out.)

 

Husband also likes to rant about how the doctor only arranged blood tests because she thought his medical insurance covered it. After she recommended the tests, she gave him a BUPA form and he said, “That’s ok. My insurance only covers in-patient treatment.”

 

Apparently she looked at the request form she had just filled out – which recommended that Andrew’s blood be tested for just about everything including rabies and pregnancy – and charged accordingly – and said, “Oh. Right. Really? Ok. Well, let me give you some drugs.”

 

After she gave him a lifetime supply of Voltarin anti-inflammatory ointment, she said: “Any stomach problems?”!

 

Andrew passed up on scoring quality drugs – I rather resent the fact that he didn’t wangle me some decent antacids

Husband shows his claws

Under normal conditions - ie average humidity, light westerly, minimal spore extrapolation – Husband’s public persona is mild to agreeable. His character could be likened to a koala bear choosing between tucking into another eucalyptus tree or a nap.

 

(You might not agree with that description, and I should point out that Andrew is not happy – not happy at all – about being compared to a koala bear. He says they are nasty, smelly, vicious creatures and that the appellation ‘Hounds of Hell’, whilst charmingly alliterative, is in fact mistaken; they should actually be Koala Bears of Hell.)

 

In other words: apart from the occasional pout and a lot of dormant rumbling, it’s not often that Andrew displays pure, distilled rage. These days, you really need to detain him for eight hours and refuse to release him unless he turns over his passport. Even that time I pointed at the policeman and got him pulled over, he was very laid back about the whole affair. He didn’t call me names once – not even in his head.

 

When we first dated, I used to be able to induce Andrew to such extremes of wrath that he would storm out of the room slamming doors in his wake. He was much more emotional back then – or maybe I was more irritating, take your pick. I kinda miss those days. Maybe when I’m finished this post, I’ll see if I can goad him into a flash fury, just for old times’ sake.

 

I’m starting to realise the payoff to this story is not going to live up to its introduction. Sorry about that.

 

Given his cuddly, consonant character, it was somewhat startling when Andrew arrived home from work last week in – while not full-blown rage – a state of advanced irritation.

 

As you know, in Dubai it is customary to fork out for a paid parking space and return half an hour later to find someone parked directly behind you: hazard lights on, driver MIA. When they finally wander back, they douse you in exhaust fumes and screech off with a high-pitched cackle.

 

Whenever it happens to me, I glower a lot and think really hard about letting the air out of the offending vehicle’s tyres. Once, when the missing driver returned, I said, “Yeah well, don’t do it again!” before jumping in my car and locking all the doors.

 

Once, when someone left the keys in the truck blocking my exit, I moved it. I’m not sure I’d try that these days: I’ve lost a lot of the cutesy feminine charm over the years. Nowadays my giggle sounds a bit musty.

 

Well, Andrew has finally taken a stand for the common man. Late one afternoon, he popped into the bank and when he came out, some clown had parked behind his car. (I don’t mean a clown with floppy shoes and a rubber chicken; I imagine it would be difficult giving out to a real clown, you’d keep wanting to laugh. Also, you could stand into their car and just walk it over to another location).

 

When the man came back, he’s all: “Terribly sorry, terribly sorry.”

 

Andrew said: “I don’t accept your apology!”

 

 “What?” says yer man.

 

“I don’t accept your apology! What are you going to do about THAT then?”

 

“I said I was sorry.”

 

“Well, that’s not acceptable! You say you’re sorry, but you’re obviously NOT sorry, because if you WERE sorry, you wouldn’t have parked behind my CAR!”

 

God, we get more expattish every day

Gratitude

Andrew rang me yesterday:

 

“Now, you know our anniversary tomorrow?”

 

“Yes . . .”

 

“Well, I was wondering about presents. Do I buy you a present? Or do you buy me a present?”

 

“You buy me a present.”

 

“Oh. So you don’t buy me a present?”

 

“No.”

 

“That doesn’t seem fair!”

 

“Really? Well, those are the rules. But since I revel in anarchy in the pursuit of a perpetual anti-establishment lifestyle, how about I buy you something?”

 

“Eh no, that’s ok. It’ll probably be crap.”

How deep is your love?

The longer I am with Andrew, the more I come to realise how conditional my love is:

 

Me: “Will you ever STOP biting your nails?”

 

Andrew (between nibbles): “No.”

 

Me: “Ah, come on. It’s really rank.”

 

Andrew (spitting out half a finger): “It’s natural! What do you think people did before nail clippers were invented?”

 

Me: “People didn’t used to need clippers. Their nails were worn down through daily interaction with clay and bulrushes and . . . stuff.”

 

Andrew: “What are you talking about? They bit their nails! Look! See? Nice and trim. Mind you, toenails are a bit of a problem. I need someone else to bite them.”

 

Me: “Don’t you be looking at me.”

The value of a good, deep conditioning shampoo

At the end of May, Aerosmith played at the Dubai Exile Rugby Club. In the weeks preceding the event, at least one Aerosmith song played at any given point in time on one of the local radio stations.

 

The band was interviewed on the day of the concert, the interviewer so over-excited he referred to them as ‘Air Supply’ throughout. One of his inspired questions was:

 

“So, yeah, uh, how, ah,” - (finally locating his notes) – “what is the secret to the band’s longevity?”

 

And the response: “Maaaan, we just love ta rawck. Ya dig? An’ when ya love ta rawck, man, ya can go on forever. No draggin’.”

 

Rock ‘n’ roll: the secret to eternal life.

 

(I’ve always wondered how come rockers never discovered the ampersand? – I suppose it must be all the cocaine.)

 

Now, I’m not what you might call an enthusiastic concert goer; never have been. During a four week Gaeltacht boot camp at school, the teachers brought us to see U2 play Slane Castle. By rights, it should have been one of the defining moments of my young life: getting drunk for the first time and losing my virginity to ‘Pride In The Name Of Love’. Instead, I spent three hours stalking Niall O’Sullivan around the muddy field.

 

Nowadays, although I always cite the event as one of my all-time great concert experiences, truth is I can’t remember any of the songs and Niall O’Sullivan snogged Clodagh Wartey behind a bush.

 

Going to concerts always feels great AFTER the event - kind of like the way a steaming hot power shower feels after a camping trip. But these days, faced with all the pneumatic flesh on display, I feel like a fossilised relic. It’s also difficult to appreciate the music when I’m concentrating on not stuffing my fingers in my ears.

 

Husband is a big Aerosmith fan. He owns two – perhaps three - of their albums. The only other artist featuring multiple times in Andrew’s CD collection is Coldplay, but this is a recent thing motivated by appreciation for their artistry rather than that their music speaks to his angst-ridden, mixed up little soul and can blow a 30AA bra off at high volume. He has owned one Aerosmith CD since college (it features a faded sticker in the corner with his surname written on it hee hee hee).

 

Now, I won’t switch radio stations if an Aerosmith song comes on – in fact, on occasion I have been known to turn up the volume at the opening bars of ‘Walk This Way’. The ringtone on my phone for male friends is ‘Dude Looks Like A Lady’. I am vaguely ashamed that I like the power ballad ‘Dream On’ as much as I do. And yes, I find Steve Tyler unsettlingly sexy – doesn’t everyone?

 

Despite all this, I would be internally conflicted about calling myself a fan.

 

But Andrew was keen on attending, so a week before the event, when it was still far enough in the future to seem like a great idea and totally overlooking all that I have written above, I agreed to accompany him. After all, if I’m going to attend any concert, Aerosmith is one of the all-time great rock bands. Every member has been in rehab and Steve Tyler once collapsed on stage. Let’s face it: Bono has never so much as pulled a hamstring on stage, never mind collapsed (although once, his mullet was slightly dishevelled on telly).

 

I am so ungroovy I volunteered to drive to the venue. We didn’t want to be relying on the local taxi service if Steve and the guys wanted us to come back afterwards and help them superglue their hotel furniture to the ceiling – it’s not a good idea to keep rock stars waiting. They might throw you out the window into the pool after the piano – or before the piano, if you really piss them off.

 

Because the concert was outside – outside being particularly hot and damp right now – I dressed lightly, foregoing leathers and thigh-high boots with honed stilettos. Halfway to the venue, I kicked off my sand-covered flip-flops and spent the rest of the night in bare feet.

 

I half-heartedly tried to persuade Andrew to let me clamber up onto his shoulders, but my heart wasn’t in it, and I suspect Andrew’s even less so. A couple in front of us demonstrated the correct execution of the manoeuvre: willowy girlfriend floating around her boyfriend’s shoulders; then, in one graceful movement, he swung her 180° and, her ankles wound around his neck, they gnawed the face off each other. I practically pursed my mouth to oblivion before I caught myself at it, but I mean really: the concert HADN’T EVEN STARTED YET.

 

Then the band took the stage and belted off with ‘Pink’ and while Fitz and Andrew stuck their faces in plastic pints of beer, Belle and I tried to work up lustful feelings for Steve who was writhing minutely around a stage half a kilometre away.

 

“I mean, where else in the world would you be this close?” shouted Belle.

 

I don’t know what she was so excited about. We were so far away I couldn’t even make out Steve Tyler’s monstrous gob, never mind get showered with rock god sweat.

 

Despite this, I was starting to enjoy myself. Now don’t get too carried away: this is not a tale about how rock ‘n’ roll can change your life; or how unexpected joy comes from opening your mind; or how Steve seduces me into a life of champagne Jacuzzis before I realise the glitz and glamour is an empty dream not to mention somewhat sordid so I return to Andrew who won’t take me back and I’m broken hearted because now I realise he is my one true love and I can’t imagine what I ever saw in Steve (his hair being really quite dry with lots of split ends) but thankfully Andrew forgives me and we have a tearful reunion with lots of unfocussed slo-mo snogging and live happily ever after, never again referring to that unfortunate interlude when I abandoned him because after all I’m a much better person now and we both learned valuable lessons not least the value of a good, deep-conditioning shampoo.

 

No.

 

Where was I? Oh yes. I was starting to enjoy myself when a roadie brought a chair out on stage and Steve Tyler SAT DOWN. Admittedly it was a slow song, and the man is 59 years of age, and it was about 45° in the shade, but I’m just making excuses here. I paid good money to see Steve Tyler writhing around on his belly, shagging groupies between songs, doing mid-air splits and snorting coke off Joe Perry’s guitar – not sitting on a seat.

 

It wouldn’t even have been so bad if he’d sat on the edge of the stage and let adoring fans touch his groin – that I could forgive. But Steve Tyler: Rock Legend, former fully-fledged member of the Toxic Twins, the man who used to bring a bottle of JD on stage - THAT Steve Tyler sitting on a fold-out wooden slat chair?

 

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, Steve started CHAIR DANCING. Yes. Writhing around and tossing his dry, split-ended hair. It was absolutely tragic. It’s not even that chair dancing could be disdainfully dismissed as ‘so seventies’ or ‘so eighties’ – it is simply a crime against humanity.

 

Well, that was the beginning of the end for me. What am I talking about? It was all over, right there. Even afterwards, when Steve Tyler jived with a belly dancer, and put a camera on his microphone so that we could finally see his famous gob, I just could not find it in my heart to forgive him. Rock & Roll will never be the same for me again.

 

Just reliving that experience has made me too depressed to write any more