The deadliest, jelliest site ever. Brought to you by Niamh Shaw

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 Husband 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 Husband 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 Husband 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 Husband 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, Husband 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.”

Husband 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


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