Wish list

Yes, standards have slipped and months have gone by without comment. I wish I had an excuse but I don’t and am currently feeling so ill that I can’t even create one. And before you jump to conclusions, it’s not a hangover. Last night was spent eating free sushi (is there anything better?) and gossiping, a few episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm then bed. Only to wake three hours later with the distinct sensation my throat was being pulled out of my nose. A few Wilco albums later and I was still awake. And now, 12 hours later, I’m on shite form.

To cheer myself up here is my birthday list. You have five months to save up.

1. Mr Frosty Snow Cone machine
2. Frank Gehry for Tiffany jewellery
3. Eyelash extensions
4. Guitar lessons - and indeed, a guitar
5. Leather-bound photo album
6. Louboutin slingbacks
7. 24 season six boxset
8. Edward Thomas poems
9. More vouchers for unlimited sushi at The Fairmont
10. A lovely bunch of peonies

Not much to ask for is it? I removed the puppy and car after putting them on my Christmas list and Babs hilariously giving me a miniature VW Beetle and plush basset hound. Probably for the best.

In other news, if all goes to plan I’ll have a new car in a few weeks – an oldish Pajero that I have been dreaming about for a while now. While I’m in the Middle East I might as well drive a white 4x4. And yes, I’m fully aware that ‘pajero’ means ‘wanker’ in Spanish but if I can get over it I’m sure you can too.

I hereby solemnly swear to write more (and in proper English like) when I can. Just feels a bit weird with work, Dubai and home friends all on Facebook. How can I possibly bitch about anyone?

h

My own Little Britain over here

I have concluded that while I love many, many English things, the reality of living there is actually rather rubbish. I therefore propose to bring elements of the Motherland to Arabland. I could even create a small version of home in International City where the country already exists in the form of apartments OR on The World, where an England-shape island is waiting to be filled with authentic Anglo stuff.

Items to be imported include:

Warm socks
Autumn leaves
Pimms
Homemade strawberry jam
The 6 o’clock news
Steve Jones of T4 fame
Cold water from the bathroom tap
Little second-hand bookshops
Diet Coke NOT CocaCola Light
Deal or No Deal
Fern Britten
Daffodils and snow drops
Narcotics
Hollyoaks (only to be administered during hangovers and even then, purely for moral guidance)
Pubs not attached to hotels
Salt and vinegar Snack a Jacks
Non-commercial radio
Men wearing scarves
Conkers
Warm towels from the radiator after a bath
A hairdresser I can trust
Frosty mornings (the weather, not Sir David)
Weekend magazine from The Guardian on Saturday
People who use the indicator in their cars
Tesco
Location, Location, Location
Real Christmas trees
Nice dogs you meet in parks
The Tyneside cinema

I'm feeling a little homesick now and off to self-medicate with some ginger tea and a look at amusing graffiti on signage.

Dubai roads get even more dangerous.

After much agonising and countless smelly, insane taxi journeys I have rented a car. It's white to reflect the sun but doesn't have a CD player, despite being made in 2006. The UAE time pocket strikes again. Actually, I suspect there is a CD player there but there's some ominous black plastic on the dashboard which suggests that Go Rent A Car are HIDING it from me which seems unnecessarily cruel. Well, screw you Go, I'm off to buy one of those cassette-adaptor things for my iPod. Although the volume will be low for the next few weeks for Ramadam because, as we all know by now, music leads to dancing and dancing leads to sex.

As an aside, did you know that Muslims who indulge in...well... self-love during daylight hours in Ramadan have to start the month of fasting all over again? What a gutter. How would you explain that to your mates when they're out at Starbucks during Eid and you have to stay at home? "Well guys, I just enjoyed not eating and reflecting on my life so much that I'm going to do it for another three weeks". What if you couldn't help yourself and had to start all over AGAIN? This could go on for years. Years of date eating, dehydration and no music on the radio. A lesson for us all I think...

Warning: these words might induce vomiting

It’s official. I have the sense of humour of an 8 year old. This list has been going on for a while but I wanted to record it for prosperity and involve more people. Long gone are the days of Chris Holmes calling me at work with another addition, and I can no longer make Jonathon dry heave by showing him ‘lady products’ in Boots.

So here it is people, the list of disgusting words. It’s a work in progress and all contributions are welcome…

Moist (the classic)
Gusset
Used
Discharge
Fungus
Fluids
Intimate wipe
Feminine hygiene
Panties
Frottage
Gash
Rutting
Rooting
Sanitary
Insert
Roger
Pellet
Towelette
Gush
Probing
Afterbirth
Felch
Frock
Flange
Crusty
Secrete
Viscous

Over to you....

Good, Clean Fun. For Once...

In my mind, a ladies-only night at a waterpark would involve no-one else; just me and my buddies running around in our togs. No queues and no pervy men. Sweet. So I was a little gutted to see how popular it is – until I recognised the people-watching potential of it all. Women wearing jeans in the wave pool? Check. A woman wearing a dress (that I can only assume was bought from Monsoon for her sister’s wedding) while trying to surf? Yup. Some people of very questionable gender kissing on sunloungers? Yes, they were present too. It was bloody brilliant.

Floating along the lazy river in a rubber tyre, looking up at the stars, it was hard to imagine I had been at my desk just a few hours before. Stranger still was the fact that usually at this time on a Thursday I would be in a bar somewhere making regrettable conversation with someone (usually male, usually an engineer…) that I wasn’t interested in seeing ever again. If only I’d known that Wild Wadi waterpark was also on offer!

By the light of the moon we slid, floated, got propelled uphill by jets, nearly drowned in the wave pool trying to swim away from an ever-present plaster that followed us around, just about shat ourselves going down a kamikaze-style ride at 80km/h but most of all giggled like schoolgirls. We sometimes giggled at ourselves, but mainly we were totally blown away by the sight of women swimming in saris (maximum garrotting potential) and trying to spot the elusive Burkini. Sadly, the tranny pictured above in her modest swimwear for the Amish wasn't there - maybe next time....

It might sound a bit lame, but it truly was the most fun I have had in ages. Pure, laugh out loud I-can’t-believe-what-I-am-doing fun. To make it a truly juvenile evening we got milkshakes on the way home and cruised down Beach Road with the windows down and the system up. It appears I have a mental age of 16 and an untapped desire to have a boyfriend called Gary who drives a Nova. I fell into bed happy, knackered and stinking of chlorine - and woke up hangover-free.

If only I could say the same for Saturday morning… 14 hours drinking does no-one any favours. Luckily, a chilled pool, several beers and some good chat came to the rescue. Hair of the dog is not a myth – it is medicinal.

It's getting hot out there...

Honestly, I don’t know what all this whinging about the heat is about. Admittedly, we went desert driving yesterday in 45 degrees and the sand was so hot it made the glue in our shoes melt but that’s about it. You might be able to fry an egg on the bonnet of your car but surely that’s quite a good trick to have up your sleeve when starving in the wilderness (with a carton of eggs)? And if you like slipping into a pool the same temperature of soup then you’d love Dubai in August. Want to get burnt in record time? Book your flight!

Aside from all that I don’t know what the complaining is about. Whiners are wieners. Barasti might be off limits for a while and The Lodge’s outdoor dance floor might not be used by roller skating djs or be-suited midgets for another month or so, but I really was expecting worse.

Truthfully, thanks to a hotel review I was able to escape Dubai this weekend and chill out (literally) by a temperature controlled pool. If I was in the city the options are a little limited: shopping or boozing. Or the combined sport of drunken shopping which inevitably results in some regrettable purchases. Of course, the DVD lady with her suitcase of dodgy goods offers some respite from the heat and my recent (and well over-due) discovery of Jack Bauer means I have several seasons of 24 to work my way through. Thank Allah for genuine fakes.

I had promised myself that these balmy days would be used for self-improvement. Learning to snowboard, reading something worthy, re-learning the clarinet after selling it aged 14 to have money for more clothes… but instead I’m planning brunches, beer festivals, shopping trip and weekends away. Much more fun. After a trip home to see everyone and a family holiday to Barcelona (which just about killed me – who knew we walked so little in Dubai? My legs nearly fell off on day two) I was truly happy to be back on the plane to my new home. Weird. It was strange to be a visitor to my own country and as much I loved seeing everyone it was difficult to imagine myself living there again. Or paying council tax. If I’m spending money on bills I’d much prefer it was going towards a maid. Rani is my heroine.

We've had some great weekends in the last month or so, from drinking games to dune bashing, house parties to haute cuisine and as the weather cools down things can only get better. In the meantime, which boozy brunch are we going to on Friday?

Expat Brat

When we arrived in Bahrain last year Mum looked me in the eye and said “This is a small place. You should behave yourself and watch your reputation”. It has taken me nearly 25 years, countless scrapes, mishaps, upsets and hours – no, days – of emotional trauma to realise that she is always right. Always. I wish this wasn’t the case but it is.

So, as it happened I DID behave myself in Bahrain - for the most part anyway, with the exception of a few evenings with the hot Italian neighbour and several hours on New Year’s Eve that I have blocked out. And so to Dubai. Again, there have been some VERY messy nights out but probably not as many as would occur in the UK. For instance I have only suffered once from alcohol-induced muteness and no-one really knew me then so they just thought I was being coy.
Until this weekend. I’ll spare you the details but let’s just say that my already dubious reputation isn’t in great shape – and I’ll never be drinking white wine again. Especially with male friends (sorry Pringo – I’ll sit on my hands next time). I also will endeavour to lock the patio door so I’m not tempted to head to the shared pool when I get in after a few (read: many) drinks.

So this week will be pure. Utterly innocent. So far, I’m a paragon of virtue. Exceeding my ‘five a day’ fruit and veg quota, going to gym classes, drinking three litres of water a day, going to the movies (no films over a 15 rating though – there might be rude stuff or violence), getting 8 hours sleep a night, reading intelligent literature and so the list goes on. My only vices will be a mani-pedi and maybe the odd square of life-giving, organic, anti-oxidant dark chocolate. Red wine is ok though right? Practically medicinal apparently.

With the dreaded birthday approaching (5th July – if you send gifts to PO Box 34275, Dubai, by the weekend they’ll arrive in time) I’m determined to start my 25th year on good form. It’s a nice landmark – and yet utterly terrifying at the same time.

And on to better news; having a live-in maid is amazing. Yes, I admit I’m a horrible, spoilt expat brat but I don’t give a shit.
I LIKE opening my wardrobe to find someone has done my laundry, ironed everything and hung it up.
I LOVE having my sheets and towels washed and changed without me asking.
I RELISH coming home to a clean kitchen with the dishwasher unloaded and the bins emptied.
I ADORE not bickering with housemates about cleaning rotas or secretly resenting other’s sloppy habits.

However, someone putting your, ahem, undergarments away is a little odd and I’m actually finding myself being tidier (and making my bed very well, even though she will re-do it) because I don’t want her to think I’m a slovenly housemate or taking the piss. All in all, it’s all good. And yes, before you judge me, I know how lucky I am and whenever I see her small room at the back of the garage I feel appropriately guilty. I’m not a bad person – I just live in Dubai.

In other news, I went to BodyCombat last night and am now unable to straighten my left leg or raise my arms above shoulder height. The instructor was a sociopath, screaming "Finish him! Kill him!" as we bumbled through kickboxing moves - I lost a lot of dignity and a few pints of sweat.

Needless to say, we looked nothing like this:



It was a bit more like this:
This healthy living idea better improve.

h

Real Life Is Rubbish

Just had to share this amazing photo - shadow art made from items that don't resemble the result. Ok, that was very badly explained (professional communicator? me?) but check out the link for something a little more coherent.

http://www.pantherhouse.com/newshelton/freeze-frame-screen-the-shadow-hot-heads-under-silent-wigs/

Back to work for now but in the next thrilling installment; the pleasures and pitfalls of a live-in maid, my new villa, several messy weekends (edited version) and plans for my return to the UK.

h