Willpower of a toddler
Kudos to anyone under 50 years old who lives in Bahrain. It is b.l.e.a.k. Bored. Nearly to death.
Just back from a week there (went for Big Dave’s 60th then stayed for work – updating the residents’ guidebook… which might not be hugely different from the first edition. Ahem)
Of course, I arrived full of good intentions; up for early morning run, writing all morning then exploring in the afternoon, evenings would be spent eating steamed vegetables, sipping hot water with lemon while reading something worthwhile and educational. Like the Bible or a medical encyclopaedia.
INSTEAD, I enjoyed lots of red wine, Thornton’s chocolates, sleepy mornings (after being woken throughout the night by the nearby mosque) then lounged in the garden with my book ‘Fake: forgery, lies and eBay – confessions of an internet con artist’. Quite educational though. I interspersed this shameless relaxation with writing the Exploring chapter of a book for holiday-makers in Bahrain. It is taking all my, albeit minimal, willpower not to say “Go home! Why are you here? Only stay if you like forts, shite beaches and Fashion TV on a loop!” I’m currently trying to work out a code to incorporate this advice into the text – maybe a letter on each page so when used as a flip-book readers will get the message.
So my parents have moved from a swanky apartment with disgusting lemon leather sofas to a lovely villa in a crumbling compound. Admittedly it is a lot more green and you can hear birds sing instead of sirens wail but the place is a little depressing; broken swings, a gym from 1983 (I know this because the safety notice is dated) and lots of men who spend their days knocking dust off the leaves of bushes with brooms. I spent the whole week singing ‘This Used To Be My Playground’.
On the upside, I saw old friends – it took the rest of my willpower not to tell them that leaving Bahrain was the best move I ever made – and seeing the folks was fun. And Dubai was very appealing after the trip. Maybe that can be the strap line on the book “Sick of having fun? Spend 3 hours in Manama and you’ll be running back!”
On another upside, those trainers with wheels are massively popular there and provided some much-needed amusement as I watched kids go arse over tit in the malls – saw one 8 year old fashion victim get his caught on the escalator which just about ended me.
A low point was a big meal at some friends’ villa where I met the most objectionable woman I have ever been unfortunate enough to encounter. Just the perfect nightmare example of an expat wench. Rich husband, braying about how she’s a lady of leisure but said “WE’RE retiring in June to the English countryside”. No love, your poor bastard husband who has been working his bollocks off to keep you in ugly Victoria Beckham jeans and obvious highlights is retiring. There was bragging about her hideous children, bitching about new arrivals and the instructor at the Brit Club, awful awful awful. Anyway, I have made mum promise to never give up her job and I have vowed to never buy VB jeans. Rant over.
To counteract this hideous bitch comes a tale about a little expat. Mum is working with 5 year olds and they all sound like characters. This week they were playing a game where they went around in a circle and said where they were from. Of course, some were a bit confused – being half Irish, half Palestinian but raised in South Africa could do that to anyone – and when one little boy (called Basil – legend) said that he didn’t know where he was from, some bright spark said “Oh come on Basil, where you go on holiday, THAT’S where you’re from!”. Classic.
So I’m back in the action and the bootcamp has begun. Went to the supermarket last night which is called Sunrise City and is a cultural experience in itself – I could have bought a ‘banana stump’ and a sack of rice if I so desired – and bought all manner of healthy things. On a fitness mission. This could be difficult given we finish some books tomorrow and will be enjoying a work-related piss up at the fake Irish Village then it’s the Dubai World Cup on Saturday. A day at the races only means one thing – getting smashed in a pretty dress and high heels. Work on Sunday morning won’t be a pleasure.
No photos I’m afraid so I’ve stolen some from the net about five minutes ago. Lame I know. The panda above is to further prove my theory that they aren't real animals. That's clearly a man in a suit. The first one is a doorbell by the way....
h
Just back from a week there (went for Big Dave’s 60th then stayed for work – updating the residents’ guidebook… which might not be hugely different from the first edition. Ahem)
Of course, I arrived full of good intentions; up for early morning run, writing all morning then exploring in the afternoon, evenings would be spent eating steamed vegetables, sipping hot water with lemon while reading something worthwhile and educational. Like the Bible or a medical encyclopaedia.
INSTEAD, I enjoyed lots of red wine, Thornton’s chocolates, sleepy mornings (after being woken throughout the night by the nearby mosque) then lounged in the garden with my book ‘Fake: forgery, lies and eBay – confessions of an internet con artist’. Quite educational though. I interspersed this shameless relaxation with writing the Exploring chapter of a book for holiday-makers in Bahrain. It is taking all my, albeit minimal, willpower not to say “Go home! Why are you here? Only stay if you like forts, shite beaches and Fashion TV on a loop!” I’m currently trying to work out a code to incorporate this advice into the text – maybe a letter on each page so when used as a flip-book readers will get the message.
So my parents have moved from a swanky apartment with disgusting lemon leather sofas to a lovely villa in a crumbling compound. Admittedly it is a lot more green and you can hear birds sing instead of sirens wail but the place is a little depressing; broken swings, a gym from 1983 (I know this because the safety notice is dated) and lots of men who spend their days knocking dust off the leaves of bushes with brooms. I spent the whole week singing ‘This Used To Be My Playground’.
On the upside, I saw old friends – it took the rest of my willpower not to tell them that leaving Bahrain was the best move I ever made – and seeing the folks was fun. And Dubai was very appealing after the trip. Maybe that can be the strap line on the book “Sick of having fun? Spend 3 hours in Manama and you’ll be running back!”
On another upside, those trainers with wheels are massively popular there and provided some much-needed amusement as I watched kids go arse over tit in the malls – saw one 8 year old fashion victim get his caught on the escalator which just about ended me.
A low point was a big meal at some friends’ villa where I met the most objectionable woman I have ever been unfortunate enough to encounter. Just the perfect nightmare example of an expat wench. Rich husband, braying about how she’s a lady of leisure but said “WE’RE retiring in June to the English countryside”. No love, your poor bastard husband who has been working his bollocks off to keep you in ugly Victoria Beckham jeans and obvious highlights is retiring. There was bragging about her hideous children, bitching about new arrivals and the instructor at the Brit Club, awful awful awful. Anyway, I have made mum promise to never give up her job and I have vowed to never buy VB jeans. Rant over.
To counteract this hideous bitch comes a tale about a little expat. Mum is working with 5 year olds and they all sound like characters. This week they were playing a game where they went around in a circle and said where they were from. Of course, some were a bit confused – being half Irish, half Palestinian but raised in South Africa could do that to anyone – and when one little boy (called Basil – legend) said that he didn’t know where he was from, some bright spark said “Oh come on Basil, where you go on holiday, THAT’S where you’re from!”. Classic.
So I’m back in the action and the bootcamp has begun. Went to the supermarket last night which is called Sunrise City and is a cultural experience in itself – I could have bought a ‘banana stump’ and a sack of rice if I so desired – and bought all manner of healthy things. On a fitness mission. This could be difficult given we finish some books tomorrow and will be enjoying a work-related piss up at the fake Irish Village then it’s the Dubai World Cup on Saturday. A day at the races only means one thing – getting smashed in a pretty dress and high heels. Work on Sunday morning won’t be a pleasure.
No photos I’m afraid so I’ve stolen some from the net about five minutes ago. Lame I know. The panda above is to further prove my theory that they aren't real animals. That's clearly a man in a suit. The first one is a doorbell by the way....
h
posted by Desert Woes at 3:09 PM
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