My dear departed Nana’s bible

This morning we were getting ready for the Ellerslie races, when:-

“Andrew,” I said, “where’s the brown bag?”

“What bag?”

“My big, brown leather bag. You know? The one I got in Istanbul with Róisín.”

“Ah-”

“Andrew-”

“Yeah, er, ok, look, um, the thing is . . . Was there a brown leather bag?”

“YES! You put it on a trolley in Dubai Airport - remember? It has my dearly departed Nana’s bible in it, and the Oxford English dictionary I’ve had since the age of four.”

“Oh yes- I mean, now that you mention it- but I don’t remember seeing any brown leather bag in baggage reclaim-”

“You didn’t see it, or you weren’t looking for it?”

“There’s a difference?”

“AAAN-DREEEW!”

So we returned to Auckland Airport where I clenched my spleen until customs tracked down the bag

Unfeasibly large bottom

Shortly after David waved us off at the airport yesterday I finally stopped leaking, but nearly started right up again when the check-in assistant informed me I would not be allowed into New Zealand without a return ticket. She toyed with us a while before bringing us to the Emirates ticket counter, where I purchased a refundable one-way ticket from Auckland to Brisbane. We were on our way.

The flight was pretty uneventful, except for Andrew chatting up the girl on his other side. I could hear him yapping away through my MP3 headphones – this from the man for whom saying ‘How are you?’ constitutes an emotionally draining conversation. He was so engrossed he didn’t notice me sulking, even when I closed my tray on his fingers.

I felt much better when we disembarked in Singapore and noticed her unfeasibly large bottom.

(I mean, he could have chatted up someone with a nice arse.)

At Auckland Airport, Andrew collected the bags and pulled faces at me from the other side of passport control where I queued for nearly an hour. The welcoming committee consisted of Brett, the rest of the family having buggered off to a party.

Brett and Andrew

Happy Christmas from the Demon Lord

Bloke with a modem

These two months leading up to our triumphant departure from the Middle East have been entirely surreal. Andrew got increasingly caught up in work as he and David tried to identify investors/partners for The Company. This involved high summit meetings, gritty discussions, presentations, vats of coffee and what I considered an unnecessary amount of air-chopping. 

In my spare time - between interviewing and commissioning shipping agents; dealing with Real Estate Agents to identify tenants; showing people around the house; arranging maintenance; changing mobile numbers; selling my car and anything we couldn’t take with us; arguing with our mortgage company; (etc) – I worked for The Company: 

“Andrew, are you MANAGING me?” 

“Not at all, I’m just suggesting the best way to do it.” 

Part of my role was providing feedback and sanity checks to the guys, who were preparing presentations for potential investors. Neither Andrew nor David appeared to consider it excessive spending half an hour discussing a single presentation point and whether it should go on slide 3 instead of slide 2 and should they use the word ‘disk’ instead of ‘hard drive’ and did it really encapsulate the essence of The Company’s spirit? 

(I’m not sure I ever fully grasped what exactly was the essence of The Company’s spirit; David arguing that it was feisty and daring, not cheeky but a little bit saucy with a spicy, sexy fragrance, and Andrew seeming to feel that it was more the timely provision of software solutions.) 

The day before a key presentation, we were running through the slide show. 

“The third bullet point,” I said, “’The Company has a corporation in the UK’ – do you feel maybe this is overstating a bloke with a modem? I mean, it might give rise to awkward questions if you imply The Company runs a sweatshop in Manchester.” 

“Hmm,” said David. 

“No,” said Andrew, “Potential Partner never gives us enough credit for the number of employees The Company has and it’s about bloody time they realise we have fourteen employees in Dubai and an office in the UK as well. They act like we have, like, three people in the Dubai office and it really PISSES ME OFF!” 

“Em, ok,” I said after a brief pause. “I’m sure tomorrow’s presentation is an ideal opportunity to vent your frustration and tell them what a bunch of assholes they are!”

Packing day

This is Andrew on packing day. Yes, that is his laptop

Fitz and Belle at the Montgomerie

Put that tongue away

Pics from Raff and Carol’s Austin Powers party last night.

Raff and Carol

 

Nice!

Still on married terms

Only two weeks left – where the hell has the time gone? - to organise maintenance and house painting; coordinate the shippers; close bank, electricity/water and telephone accounts; and the rest of the madness that goes with packing up a life. 

Although Andrew has had little to do with the leaving preparations, he liked to keep involved by questioning all my decisions: “Why didn’t you draw up the tenancy agreement for 12 months instead of 18?” “Couldn’t you have haggled him down a bit?” “Couldn’t you have talked her up a bit?” “Aw Niamhie, you should have told him a two inch bypass tap instead of three,” “Why the morning instead of afternoon?” 

After the last two months, the fact that we’re still on speaking terms – never mind that, MARRIED TERMS – is largely miraculous. I only mentioned divorce eighteen times, sometimes light-heartedly. Andrew didn’t mention the ‘D’ word at all, but only because he’s too nice. 

Four weeks ago, around about the time I sold my car, I started crying and haven’t really stopped. It rather took me by surprise, since I still talk passionately at length about how I can’t stand Dubai and can’t wait to leave. Foot over the threshold, I appreciate that Dubai has been our home for ten years, with all the good and the bad. And we have been happy