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

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 Husband 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. Husband 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


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