Just hyperventilating

Although we had agreed to leave the Middle East at the end of 2007, realistically we were looking at January, possibly February 2008. When I was in Ireland, Andrew rang me one night to give me a pep talk on stress management: 

“Niamhie, I know we said the end of the year, but does it matter whether it’s January or February, or even March? Or April?” 

“Andrew. We’re leaving in December.” 

“Yes, but what I’m saying is, you’re going to get all worked up - you know, when things aren’t happening fast enough - and you should relax - take a chill pill! I mean, we know we’re leaving, so it doesn’t matter if the date slips a month or several. Does it?” 

“You know what I’m stressed about right now? That my husband obviously does not know me AT ALL.” 

“Niamhie?” 

“Just hyperventilating.” 

“You should breathe more.” 

Shortly after Andrew’s father was diagnosed with multiple myeloma, we booked one-way flights to Auckland, departing Dubai on 24 December.

Originally, we planned to sell the Springs villa before the end of 2007. However, in early November the resale market was sluggish and we decided to rent the property. 

The Tenants were the first people to view the house. Mr and Mrs Tenant were almost more anal than I am, so inevitably I fell instantly in love. When they were noncommittal, it was all I could do to stop myself dropping to my knees and begging them to move in rent-free. 

Later the same day, Mr Tenant called and offered to take the house and asked for first option to buy. The deal felt profoundly karmic: The Tenants were being kicked out of their furnished villa on 20/12, which was the precise date Andrew and I had agreed the house should be ready for occupancy. Then they bought our BBQ, fridge, oven, washing machine, wireless router and Andrew’s motorbike. 

The least I could do was invite them around for a barbeque. Mr and Mrs Tenant turned up accessorised with three children. The only tense moment was after the meal, when Mrs Tenant came into the kitchen to help load the dishwasher. 

“You’re not one of those people who washes things before they put them in the dishwasher, are you?” she said. 

“What, me?” I said. “NO! GOD no. Do people actually DO THAT? You’re joking. Scary to think there are nutsos like that roaming around in the world. Unsupervised. Must be a real worry when you have kids, is it?” 

But later it was hard not to feel resentful as I washed and reloaded the dishes. 

Shortly after signing the tenancy contract, with habitually spectacularly impeccable timing, Eid was announced to fall three days before The Tenants moved in on 20/12. As landlords, we were required to paint and clean the house, but we only had one day between the shippers and the Eid holiday. We realised we were going to have to clean the house ourselves. 

On 15/12 Husband and I had painters falling over us as we conducted a final sort through our stuff. Andrew didn’t take it well and there were Words. At least I didn’t have to go to the trouble of bursting into tears; at that stage I was crying pretty much permanently. On Sunday the shippers came and I wept through the entire ordeal. On Monday I finalised everything with The Tenants, closed our phone and Internet account with Du, went to DEWA (water and electricity) for our final bill, organised New Zealand dollars, picked up Andrew’s motorbike engine from KTM, and picked up Andrew from work.

As I drove him home, Andrew told me he would have to work over some of Eid. Again, I didn’t throw a wobbler so much as simply ramp up the bawling to full-blown panic attack. 

“You’re going to lee-hee-heave me with all the clea-hee-heaning!” 

“Baby! Of course I won’t,” said Andrew solicitously. 

Instead, while I spent Tuesday and Wednesday scrubbing the house down, Andrew fixed his motorbike in the back garden. It had been broken for six weeks. I’m telling you, THAT will feature in future arguments

Teeth

David was a bit plastered when he took this . . .

 

. . . and when I took this

 

I have no idea what Andrew’s excuse is

Wadi Beh

Men, cycling. Lucas dismounted his bike for the photo

 

Danny pulls a wheelie and a face

 

Husband hasn’t the puff to pull anything

 

David, Lucas and Danny striding manfully towards food

 

Danny can’t face a camera without pointing. Not sure why Husband is joining him

 

Rare image of David without his hand in front of his face

 

Goat contemplating lunch

 

End of the road

Operation Muppetation

Over two years ago, I closed my bank account with HSBC because they were not so much unhelpful as scrupulously useless. You can actually smell the apathy and unfulfilled potential from the street. 

I wasn’t looking forward to persuading the bank to give me a clearance letter stating that my car loan of six years prior was closed. However, contrary to expectations, it took only minutes to make the request and sign a form. The document was ready on the appointed day; I paid Dhs 50 and left triumphantly waving my letter. Whilst marginally tedious and failing to qualify as a Kodak Moment, the whole experience was not fulsomely awful. 

Until Andrew told me it was the wrong letter. 

Since I had agreed to transfer the car yesterday evening, there was no option but to return to HSBC. It was mid-day. I had to park the car in a tree and hike three miles on pavements that were melting in the heat. Having already spent the morning at the bank, and had my brain tortured by HSBC’s Customer Neglect Centre for ten LONG minutes, I arrived at the bank in what you might call spicy humour. 

The lady who processed me was still in situ. 

“My dearrr-” 

“Don’t you my dear ME!” I snapped. This, it turns out, is not a prologue to constructive conversation leading to better mutual understanding and personal development. 

Ten years in the Middle East has taught me that the louder one shouts, the better one is understood. Within a short period of time, the entire bank understood me pretty well – with the exception of its employees. Eventually, after working my way up the ranks of management to a dizzying level of ineptness, it turned out that the HSBC Bur Dubai branch did not issue clearance letters for car loans. For that, I had to go to a totally different building, which closed in an hour. 

“Is there anything else I can assist you with, Madam?” enquired the Branch Manager as he fingered his comb over. 

“Yanno, the question implies that you have already assisted me, whereas in fact all you did was charge me Dhs 50 for a useless letter and remind me EXACTLY why I closed my bank account with HSBC in the first place which, although possibly counting as significant personal achievements, did not actually ASSIST me AT ALL.” 

“Please do not hesitate to call-” 

“Oh like yeah and I’ll have a nice what’s-left-of-the-day, will I?” 

In Deira, I arrived at the relevant office 40 minutes before closing time. At this point, I projected the personality of the Incredible Hulk in a pique or, if you prefer, a raging bitch. 

“I’m here for a clearance letter. Car loan, six years ago-” 

“Six year?” 

“That’s correct. Here are the details: model, registration number, chassis number-” 

“Sorry Madam, is closed.” 

“You’re not. You shut at 3pm. It is currently 2:12pm.” 

“Yes, but the letter, it take time-” 

“Thirty seconds to access my record on the computer, twenty seconds to print out the letter, five seconds to sign it. I calculate that at less than a minute altogether – now, that’s what I call customer service.” 

“But this file, it is old file-” 

“So what?” I barked. “It’s on the computer system, isn’t it? Not as if you have to rummage around in a pile of boxes under the stairs-” 

“But the man, who get the file, he is in meeting-” 

“You’re telling me there’s nobody else IN THE ENTIRE BUILDING who can access my file?” 

“Yes but no, the department, they are in meeting-” 

“I’ll wait.” 

“The meeting, is long meeting.” 

“Listen,” I leaned in confidentially - although this proximity came with an inexorable urge to grab the front of his dishdash, scrunch it into a ball and staple it to his face. Repeatedly - “I’m not leaving here until I have a clearance letter clutched in my five sweaty fingers. I’m. Not. Leaving. You see that yucca over there? That’s what I will eat. You see that corner? That’s where I will sleep. You see this stapler? Don’t tempt me. For the moment, I’ll wait here. Ok?” 

As I threw myself into a chair, my mobile rang. It was the HSBC Bur Dubai branch. 

“Ms Niam? This morning, do you pay Dhs 50 for a clearance letter?” 

“Yes.” 

“There is problem. Our system will not accept this payment.” 

“Woah, back up. Just- ok- would you- sorry but- could you remind me exactly why I give a toss?” 

“<silence>” 

“You know I paid cash, don’t you?” 

“Yes. But our system, because your account it is closed, it will not take the money.” 

“So you want to return it? Great! I accept cheques - with the appropriate amount of interest, of course – let’s say 8%, shall we? I’m feeling generous. You can make it out to Niamh Shaw, and mail it to One, Upyer Bum. That’s U-P-Y-E-R space B-U-M.” 

“Maybe I will call you back.” 

“Oh, please don’t.”

I have, we go, come

Over the years, the Yukon attracted a certain amount of interest. In a way, it was like a mobile landmark – after all, you couldn’t miss it. Practically speaking and on the surface, you could interpret as insanity the fact that a car the size of a jumbo jet featured only two doors, but I considered it quirkily eccentric. 

I wasn’t the only one, because strangers would knock on my window at 120kph on Sheikh Zayed Road to ask whether it was for sale and for how much and did I have a husband? 

I should have known better than to place the car in Gulf News Classifieds for sale at Dhs 32000, BECAUSE THAT’S HOW MUCH I WANTED. If you’ve ever lived in the Middle East, you will understand my error. 

For the first week, I fielded many calls, all following the same basic script: 

“Salam a’ Linkum. Walla yallah <lots of throat clearing>” 

“Hello, Niamh speaking.” 

“<silence>” 

“Hello, can I help you?” 

“You have carrr.” 

“That’s right.” 

“Yukon G-M-C.” 

“Yes.” 

“How many cylinder?” 

“Eight cylinders.” 

“Very good, very good. How many wheel?” 

“Four wheels plus spare.” 

“Very good, very good. What is colour?” 

“Gun metal grey.” 

“Bad colour.” 

“No, it’s a good colour.” 

“Ah! Good colour, very good.” 

“That’s right.” 

“<silence>” 

“Was there anything else?” 

“I give you Dhs 10000.” 

“No thanks. Bye now!” 

“Wait! Wait! How much you want?” 

“Dhs 32000.” 

“Ok. I give Dhs 15000. Good price for this carrr. Very good.” 

“I don’t think so. Seriously, good bye.” 

“Wait! I give Dhs 12000-” 

“<click>” 

Every couple of days, I went out and gave the Yukon a Brazilian Wash (due to the V-shaped swathe of dust extending from the roof down the centre of the windscreen according to my reach). This was for the few people who came to view the car and absently readjust their dishdash before offering Dhs 10000. 

Although I wanted to sell the Yukon – knew I had to – I was secretly glad when negotiations failed. It was like Sophie’s Choice: the tragic decision between my car and a wad of cash. (Before you denounce me as shallow, do remember that Sophie and her children were FICTITIOUS CHARACTERS.)

 

After one close encounter, wherein a caller flirted with the asking price, I put down the phone and burst into tears.

“He- he offered thirty thousand!” I blubbed, throwing my body on Andrew. 

“Ah-” said poor Andrew. 

“The Yu-yu-yukon! It was a serious oooffeeer!” 

“Well- that’s great! Isn’t it?” 

“I suppooose!” 

“Niamhie,” said Andrew with perplexing patience as I prowled miserably around his lap. “You don’t have to sell the Yukon if you don’t want to. Hey- we can get a 40 foot container and just- bring it with us! I know - we could live in it! We’ll put what we save on rent towards petrol. What d’you think?” 

“Boo hoooo!” 

Finally, Mosabeh and Mohammed came all the way from Dhaid to see the Yukon, and adhered to the standard procedure for viewing the vehicle, as follows:- 

(1) Circle car kicking tyres

(2) Circle car checking stubble growth

(3) Circle car knocking randomly on the body while doubled over

(4) Open bonnet and peer intently at engine

(5) Unscrew radiator cap

(6) Replace

(7) Tweak spark plugs

(8) Check how much pressure can be applied to the running fan belt to draw blood

(9) Test-drive car, preferably off-road

(10) Ignore all potentially major trouble spots in a car this age and obsess at length about some minor and happily fully functional feature

(11) Haggle Jihad 

Mohammed checked out the 4-wheel drive function at 100kph and hurled it over some lorry ruts to assess median bounce tolerance, while Mosabeh turned the interior light on and off, on and off: ‘Hey! Light works. Hey! It still works. Hey! What d’you know? . . .’ 

Back in the carpark, I tried to persuade my legs to stop trembling. 

“Very nice car,” pronounced Mohammed. 

“Oh!” I said in some surprise. “Yes, it’s in great condition-” 

“But,” said Mohammed holding aloft a doleful finger, “there is scrrratch. Here. You see.” 

“Well yes, the car is eight years old. Look: here’s another one.” 

“It have only six cup holders.” 

“The car only seats five!” 

“But, what if someone, he have two drinks?” 

“Yeah, that would need six holders-” 

“Ah! You see! What if TWO person, have two drinks?” 

“Hmm, I see the problem.” 

“Ok. You will give us good price?” 

“Absolutely. Dhs 32000 is a fabulous price for this classic car featuring six cup holders which, let’s face it, is excessive by a factor of about four.” 

“I give you Dhs 20000. Final offer.” 

“No thanks. Sorry you wasted your time, I hope you find another car-” 

“Wait! Final offer. I give you Dhs 21000. Very good price.” 

“Mohammed, I’ve been offered Dhs 30000.” 

“I give you twenty two. Final offer.” 

“Did you miss my saying I’ve been offered thirty? Or do you think you’ll persuade me via the powerful magnetism of your personality?” 

“Twenty three. Cash. We go now to police. I have, we go. Come.” 

“<putting the Yukon in gear>” 

“You will call?” 

“It’s looking unlikely, but bear in mind I am occasionally given to exaggeration.” 

“Wait! I give you-” 

“<Drives away with excessive revving>” 

Later that evening, I received the following text message: I offer 25k it is good price for YOUR CAR mosabeh 

My response was phenomenally polite under the circumstances. Which is probably why Mosabeh called me two days later offering thirty. 

“No.” 

“How much you want?” 

“I will take thirty one if you stop arguing with me for the love of margharita.” 

“Yallah.” 

We arranged to meet at the Police Station the following evening to conduct the transfer. Dan had just sold his Range Rover and emerged from the experience uncharacteristically bitter. “Make sure the git has thirteen months insurance,” he hissed, “and brings a copy of his passport. And don’t bother going to the Police Station until they tell you they’re already there. And then tell them you’re two minutes away and instead have some lunch.” 

Upon Danny’s advice, I sent Mosabeh three text messages instructing him to bring his passport and thirteen months insurance - which made it all the more embarrassing when, after two hours of car tests and paperwork and teaching Mosabeh and his cousin dirty English words, the police refused to complete the transfer due to a HSBC car loan listed on my registration card. 

Four days later, after a daring mission (Codename: Operation Muppetation) to extract a clearance letter out of HSBC, I returned to the police station and transferred ownership of the Yukon to Mosabeh. 

Despite the increasingly frequent squalls of tears leading up to the event, I was not prepared for the devastation accompanying the sale of the car. I couldn’t understand it. After six years of ownership, I was always pleasantly surprised when the Yukon started which, considering it’s a core functionality, is hardly a selling point. The car featured spongy brakes, soggy suspension and an oil leak on the right hand side.

Yet after handing over my car, I wept all the way home - much to the consternation of the taxi driver, who spent far too much time looking under his seat for a box of tissues considering he was slaloming past speed cameras on Chicago Beach Village Road. At least by the end of the journey my tears were inspired more by terror than loss

Reason we will not regret departing Dubai #32,557

Our water pump in the villa has been broken for about a year. At one point Andrew tried to fix it, but instead he broke the bypass tap. Now that we plan on renting the villa, we realise we have to address the problem, so it fell to me to call Emrill and schedule an appointment.

About a year ago, we had Emrill come to look at the water pump. In fairness, they did indeed look at it; they might even have kicked it a couple of times. Then they charged us US$ 300, which they claimed was for fixing the problem, but was ACTUALLY for standing around feeling their armpits and the inestimable pleasure of their company.

So I called 800-EMRILL:

Me: Hello, I’d like to have someone come and fix our water pump, please.

Customer Service: What is the problem, Madam?

Me: The water pump is broken.

CC: What’s wrong with it?

Me: It’s not working.

CC: Ok. Where are you located?

Me: Springs 2, Street 12, Villa 66-

CC: Villa 9

Me: No, Villa 66-

CC: Yes, Villa 9-

Me: No, Villa 66, S-I-X  S-I-X

CC: Someone will come.

Me: Thank you. Er, when?

CC: Maybe today.

Me: Ok, can you give me an idea what time?

CC: I say, today.

Me: Well, I’m not going to be in the house this afternoon-

CC: Please call if you go out.

Me: You have no idea when someone might arrive? Do you really think this is an efficient way to do business?

CC: What is this word: ‘efficient’?

Me: Listen, I have much better words than that.

When I put down the phone, it took me half an hour to unclench my buttocks.

Now, according to Murphy’s Law of Existentialism, the only way to guarantee the maintenance man would show up was to leave the house. This is absolutely sound, failsafe logic with only one flaw, admittedly a large one: I would not be there when they arrived.

I spent ages agonising about whether to call Emrill to inform them I was going out; or to not call Emrill in order to fully convey the extent of my pettiness and ire; or whether I should call them – not to tell them I was leaving - but to communicate just how much I RESENTED calling.

Then I forgot all about it.

When I returned to the house that evening, there was a card on the door informing me that I had not been in the house, and that I should call Emrill to reschedule.

It took me a week to summon the energy. Finally, one morning, I was feeling up to it. The sun was shining, the birds singing, I’d slept well. My coffee was just strong enough to be peppy without burning my eyes.

Me: Hi, I’d like to reschedule a maintenance appointment.

CC: <in thick accent> Job number.

Me: Sorry- did you say job number? Right. <reading off the card> S-

CC: <thicker than three day old custard> S-P-R-B-D-F

Me: What? Sorry, the card only says S-6249.

CC: <big sigh demonstrating superior lung capacity> The full job number is SPRBDF-6249.

Me: Ok, that’s nice.

CC: The man, he went to your house. But there was nobody there-

Me: Yes, and I’m really terribly sorry about that.

CC: Oh dear, oh dear. The job, it is very old.

Me: Well, I logged it last week.

CC: Very old. I will have to be making the new job card.

Me: Yanno, WHATEVER.

CC: I am making new card. What is the problem, Madam?

Me: Same problem I reported last week.

CC: What is this?

Me: Is it not on the old job card?

CC: <silence>

Me: Ok, the water pump is broken.

CC: What is wrong with it?

Me: It’s <expletive deleted> BROKEN! If it was <expletive deleted> WORKING, I wouldn’t be <expletive deleted> CALLING YOU, WOULD I?

CC: Is there someone being in your house?

Me: Indeed, I will sit around all day on the off chance that someone from Emrill might grace me with a visit at any moment hereby unspecified.

CC: I am thanking you for your call, Madam.

Me: Gnrnragh!

This time, my buttocks were so clenched I couldn’t get up off the chair. I banged my head off the table for a while in a futile attempt to relieve frustration. In the end, the only thing to do was call Emrill back.

Me: Hello, I’d like to CANCEL job number SPRBDF-6260.

CC: What is the job number?

Me: S. P. R. B. D. F. Siix. Twooo. Siiiix. Zeeroooo.

CC: So, you logged this yesterday-

Me: This morning.

CC: No, you logged it yesterday.

Me: You know, I remember quite well when I logged it, because it was only five minutes ago-

CC: No, the date on the card is twelve November.

Me: I think you will find, with a bit of research and some relatively untaxing powers of deduction, that today is twelfth November.

CC: Is it?

Me: DOES IT REALLY <EXPLETIVE DELETED> MATTER WHAT <EXPLETIVE DELETED> DATE THE <EXPLETIVE DELETED> CALL WAS <EXPLETIVE DELETED> LOGGED? I JUST WANT TO <EXPLETIVE DELETED> CANCEL THE <EXPLETIVE DELETED> JOB WITHOUT LOSING MY <EXPLETIVE DELETED> MIND!!!!!!!!!!!!

CC: Ok, the job is cancel.

Me: Do you want to know WHY I’m cancelling a job I logged five minutes ago?

CC: No.

Me: Well, I’m going to tell you anyway! So there! It’s because Emrill is rubbish! I hope the quality of maintenance is better than the level of customer service, because if not, there are a whole bunch of houses that will probably collapse into a whole pile of rubble after your maintenance men visit! So far, I have found Emrill’s customer care to be possibly the most tragically awful, uninformative, apathetic, enraging bunch of goons - which is saying something in a country hardly renowned for its customer relations!

CC: <silence>

Me: Ok, bye.