Party on...

Summer is returning. The sun is getting hotter. The air is starting to feel thick with heat and moisture, and the vicious, unrelenting glare of the sky, sand and light-coloured buildings is getting brighter and brighter. The glass windows of buildings feel warm from the inside, rather than cold now, and you really notice the difference when you enter or exit a building. The air conditioning makes you shiver monentarily as you enter, and on the flip-side, getting into a car - especially when it has been parked out of the shade - is like entering a sauna - fully clothed, with a red hot steering wheel to hold.

My third weekend in Doha has been and gone. On Thursday, I spent the day recoiling from a barrage of sardonic and annoying e-mails from one person who seemed to have it in for me that day. I was glad of the opportunity to take a bit of a flier and drive down to the site on the Corniche for a little party they were holding to celebrate the end of a particular phase of work in the Big Hole in the Ground.

I got there just in time. The portacabin meeting room was full of people standing with their arms folded, looking longingly at the Arabic-syle feast laid out on the tables in the middle, with kebabs, pickles, hummous and breads waiting to be consumed. Two large plates took centre stage, but foil concealed the delights upon them. The Project Managers made their little speeches, the staff appluaded politely, then everyone eagerly tucked in. Foil was ripped away from the two large plates to reveal the almost complete roasted carcasses of lambs laying on beds of yellow rice. I waited a moment to see what would happen, and watched as the others around me started ripping the meat from the carcasses with their bare hands. Well, their right hands, to be precise. No-one uses their left hand to touch food here, for reasons of hygiene. Left hands are for dealing with sanitary matters, shall we say.

So I dived in as well, feeling like some early hominid without a spear or a loin cloth as I tore cooked flesh from the bones of the dead beast in front of me, piled it onto my plastic plate, and stuffed it into my mouth. It felt good, and it tasted even better. I wouldn't like to hazard a guess as to when this animal had been gamboling around in a field, completely unaware of its final destination, but I imagine it wasn't long ago. This thought, along with the sight of the lamb's body with leg bones and ribs protruding from it might have put some people off, but there weren't many around me that showed any signs of being so. Within ten minutes, there wasn't much meat left at all, just bones and gristle and skin, as if a pack of ravenous hyenas had just taken its fill, before washing it down with a can of Coke.

Greasy hands and faces were wiped clean and Arabic sweets were passed round. They were sweets which I hadn't seen before; a kind of sticky orange, crispy cigar filled with custardy cream. One was more than enough for me, and then the party seemed to disband, and everyone began to shuffle away from the meeting room, wiping their mouths clean as they went back to their desks, or straight out of the door towards home. A few of the big cheeses were meeting for a cup of tea in another room, but I decided against joining them - not that I'm a big cheese, more of a half-pack of Dairylea, if I'm honest - and slipped back to my car and started driving towards my hotel.

With the sun on its way down and the air cooling a bit, I decided to park up on the Corniche front and take in a little fresh air. I didn't walk very far, deciding to sit on the thick, white, sectioned wall at the water's edge and watch the world go by. Joggers, families and random single people passed by, the odd one greeting me with the traditional, "A Salaam alaykum" as they passed. I still haven't got the hang of answering straight away in Arabic, favouring the silent nod or the quick, "Hi" in reply. I hope they aren't offended.

After 15 minutes of peaceful reflection, I went back to the car and completed my journey to the hotel, wondering what I was going to do for the weekend, since it was upon me again, and I was alone again. I ended up ringing a chap I know who works for one of the companies I deal with and we agreed to meet at the Australian bar in Rydges. We'd both had hard days, so a quick drink was definitely on the cards.

We met and chatted and drank, and I was introduced to a handful of people from various places and various companies - mostly construction related - and had a thoroughly pleasant evening, drinking the black stuff and smoking other people's cigarettes, which is a filthy habit, especially when you take one without asking. Oh well, they're only 90p a packet here. So maybe I should buy my own. But if I did that, I would smoke more, and I really shouldn't smoke, even on this ad-hoc, "only when I drink" basis. It's asking for trouble with this ticker of mine on top of the alcohol.

The bar was pretty busy by 10pm. The music gradually got louder, and so did the people, and when I decided to leave at 11.30, there was a small group of people waiting to get in, standing impatiently in front of the velvet rope manned by gargantuan, glowering bouncers. I smiled to myself as I walked past them all and into the waiting lift. I've been there before, and I'm sure I'll be there again. Everyone wants to get in somewhere, and everyone wants to keep everyone out. Unless you're a VIP, of course.

Friday was lie-in day. Though I miss my children, the one advantage of being away from them is not having them jumping all over me at 6.30 in the morning on a weekend. So I had a nice long sleep, before ordering room service for breakfast and watching old movies on the TV, sitting there in a hotel-issue bath robe that just about fitted.

Boredom got the better of me by early afternoon, so I decided to ring another chap, this time an ex-colleague, who had suggested earlier last week that we visit the (in)famous Garvey's for a drink and some food. Their roast dinners are legendary. Especially in their own lunchtime. The suggestion had been made on Wednesday night when we had met up with other ex-colleagues and current incumbents over a curry at a very impressive and cheap Indian restuarant next to the tennis stadium.

So we drove out of central Doha, towards the Sports City area, and eventually arrived at a complex tucked away from view behind some shops and villas. The complex calls itself The European Families Club, and has a collection of low buildings, including villas and fitted-out cabins which they rent out to expats. Garvey's is the bar, and lies behind a solid, dark wooden door near the swimming pool area. Even on this hot day, the pool area was busy with lobster-skinned Brits sitting in the midday sun supping cold beers. Unfortunately, there were no canines in need of therapy to be seen anywhere.

Garvey's itself has been described as having the feel of a working men's club, and this assessment is spot on. It has undergone a recent revamp, with fancy wooden venetian blinds being added to the windows, and dark blue paint slapped on the walls, but it can't betray its roots. The tables and chairs are old and wobbly, and the once-white ceiling tiles now resemble a heavy smoker's teeth; yellowy-brown and quite unpleasant. Newer, cleaner tiles fitted with recessed lights have been fitted, obviously to provide some light, but they just serve to highlight the griminess of their older neighbours. In the corner, a TV shows sport on a permanent loop, interspersed with information about forthcoming Karaoke and Quiz nights, and messages imploring people not to drink and drive. The obligatory pool table and large screen telly hide round a corner at one end.

The clientele all seemed jolly enough when we entered. There was a mix of middle-aged, shaven-headed men in long shorts and football shirts, younger men in long shorts and football shirts with designer sunglasses and Crocodile Dundee hats, women in short skirts and cropped tops trying to ignore their young, boisterous children, and a few older, red-bonced men in long shorts and football shirts with faded tattoos extoling the virtues of female parents on every spare scrap of bare skin. My colleague informed me it was still early, and it was reasonably quiet for now, but most of these people would spend all day in this one place. Fights, he told me, were quite a regular occurence in the darker hours.

But before I come across as some sort of insufferable snob (moi?), I have to point out that the food in Garvey's is superb. I plumped for leek and potato soup and roast beef with all the trimmings, and was not disappointed. In fact, it was excellent, and really cheap. The soup was as good as anything I've ever made myself, the roast potatoes were crunchy and moist without being greasy and the beef was just a little bit pink in the middle, covered in dark, thick gravy. Oh yes. The only slight let-down was the Yorkshire pudding, which was a little on the soggy side, but it didn't ruin the whole experience of eating a home-made roast dinner again. When I'd eaten everything on my plate (except the cauliflower), I sent my wife a rather cheeky text message telling her what I'd just eaten. Her reply was short, sweet and effective: BOG OFF.

After a couple of non-alcoholic drinks (don't let the halo slip, now), my colleague and I headed off into the cooling late afternoon. It had certainly been an experience, that's for sure. It's like a real, authentic piece of UK culture has been lifted from a Northern industrial town and transplanted into the middle of this Middle Eastern city. The only hint that you're not in the UK is the high percentage of Asian staff behind the bar. It serves its primary purpose, which is to give people a home from home while they are overseas, and it keeps people happy. And drunk. Of course, I could go on about cultural integration and the criticism immigrants to the UK suffer because of their lack of integration, but that would be remiss of me. The point is made, and will be made again.

Friday night was a lazy night. I watched Mission Impossible 3 on the hotel pay-per-view system, and it passed the time well. When will that Tom Cruise fella start showing his age?

If Friday was a lazy night, Saturday was a lazy day. I spent it almost entirely in the hotel, only leaving it to get some lunch across the road in the neighbouring hotel, and having a little wander around the grounds to look at their impressive multi-level, lagoon-style swimming pool. The rest of the day I spent watching TV or playing the PSP, in between contemplating my future. I have two solid job offers for other work on the table now. One is in Doha, the other in Russia, and I keep changing my mind as to which would be the better one to take. I have pretty much decided to leave the company I'm with now.

The last film I watched last night was Luc Besson's take on the Joan of Arc story. It came across as a sort of Braveheart with a French woman, with maybe a little more historical accuracy, and wasn't TOO damning on the English for once. The ending, where a 19-year-old Joan is burnt at the stake, made me squirm a bit, serving as a reminder of humankind's propensity to savage brutality. I had to watch a little bit of the comedy channel to take my mind away from the images of Joan being consumed by the flames.

And here we are. The start of another week. I should get home this week. Home being Dubai, of course. Strange how I see it like that now. But home is where the heart is, and my heart is with 3 people who I miss. I miss them a lot.

A Life of Goodbyes

I'm still in Doha.

Over 2 weeks staying in a hotel alone is not really my idea of fun. Especially in a hotel that is completely disorganised and still finding its feet. The fact that the staff are in your face all the time, bowing and scraping and grinning like simpletons makes it even more annoying. I've taken to staring at the floor as I walk about just to avoid them. It doesn't work. I suppose they are only doing their job, but come on guys, stop laying it on so thick. If I want something from you, I will talk to you.

At least the weekend was a bit more interesting. Once it was clear I wasn't going to get away last week, I booked the WIFE and kids on a flight from Dubai on Thursday night. So they arrived at around 5.30pm, and we all trundled towards the hotel. The kids were pleased to see me, or at least they acted well enough to convince me. I was definitely pleased to see all of them, even after just 2 weeks. As we drove along the Corniche, they took in the different surroundings, remarking on the lack of cranes and traffic. 5 minutes into the journey, the boy exclaimed: "this place is much better than Dubai!" Well, thought I, don't judge this book by its cover.

I took the liberty of booking an extra room for the kids, and that meant I had to decamp to the 21st floor, so they could give us 2 adjoining rooms with a door between them. Privacy for Mummy and Daddy was the order of the day. The BOY was impressed with having his own mini-bar and TV to watch, but most of all, he was excited at the prospect of swimming in the 26th floor swimming pool. The GIRL was excited at having a huge bed to sleep in. There might at last be some room for the menagerie of soft toy animals that seem to follow her everywhere.
It was an early night that first night. After a quick bite in the restaurant we pretty much hit the sack straight away. Everyone was whacked. I still found myself listening to the wind whistling around the corners of the building. With the curtains shut, it was hard to tell we were at a height, but when I remembered where I was, I had to swallow the rising terror before it threatened to rise up to more than a nagging, but manageable fear.

So Friday dawned, and we had a leisurely morning eating breakfast, watching telly, playing on the PSP and so on. Then we tried to go swimming, but found out that the pool was closed over the weekend for maintenance. Grrrreat. Two disappointed children, and not a clue what to do. The hotel, in its infinite wisdom, had no alternatives to offer me. The weather was too hot to go outside, so the zoo and the beach were out of the question.

So we drove to the Villagio mall to see something the kids have never seen before - a themed shopping mall. Well, OK, a themed shopping mall with a canal going through it. And they got to see the Asian Games stadium, the Aspire tower and the giant shopping trolley. This is the stuff dreams are made of, people. They will tell their grandchildren about this. When they want to make them go to sleep.

Anyway, on this particular visit to Villagio, I was with other people, so I discovered one of the unique features of the mall. There are two circular plazas with high, domed ceilings. One has a bright blue day-time sky painted on it; the other a starry night-time sky. But if you stand anywhere under the domed ceiling and talk, it echoes all around the plaza. You don't even to have to shout to get an echo. I didn't know this before, because the only voices were in my head last weekend. But now I was with my noisy children. Of course, once this was discovered by the GIRL, she started whooping and screeching and giggling as the echoes of her voice bounced around the plaza.

Most of the shops and restaurants were shut as it was just approaching lunchtime, so we moved to the City Centre mall, which is nearer the hotel. I remembered that they have the ice rink there, and they also have ten-pin bowling, so there was at least some potential for something to do other than walk around malls. So after lunch we headed down to the optimitically-named Winter Wonderland (i.e. an ice rink). But nothing doing there either. You had to buy your own socks for the ice-skating, and the timings were all to pot, with sessions starting every few hours. The bowling alley was taken over by a birthday party.

What a fabulous weekend we were having. If I had been trying to sell Doha as a place to live for the family, I might have been more successful trying to persaude them to eat camel's testicles. We eventually returned to the hotel and the kids watched TV for a couple of hours before boredom got the better of me and I decided we would get out of the hotel and head to Rydges Plaza and eat at their better-than-average Italian restuarant. And that's what we did, before heading home and putting the kids to bed.

Saturday was much the same. A lazy day, without anything much to do. We whiled away the hours in the hotel and here and there, and before long it reached the time for the WIFE and kids to go back to Doha airport and make their way home. I stayed with them for half an hour until it was time to check in, then said goodbye. Again, it was the GIRL who made a fuss, and she cried and wailed as she was lead through the security scanners towards check-in. I waved one last time then returned to the car, alone again.

It sucks, it truly sucks. This refrain ran through my head all the way back along the Corniche towards the hotel. I hate saying goodbye, even though I have said it so many times in my life. My whole life seems to have been one goodbye after another, from the early years of moving every 3 years between different postings with my father's work, to the teenage years at boarding school, to my adult life, spent travelling to different places around the world for work and for life-enriching experience. This is the price to pay - the life of goodbyes. It hurts now as much as it ever has, especially when I've got such a close bond with my wife and children. Worst of all, I know that I am going to have to separate myself from them for longer periods when they go back to the UK and I stay here, or go wherever I go. That is going to be really hard.

I have choices, of course, and I have to think it all over. Do I go back to the UK with them and face a massive tax bill? There's my health to worry about as well. When I am on my own, I have lower self-control. I get bored and lonely weaken, and eat and drink to comfort myself. That could be a bad thing for me, with my high blood pressure, high cholesterol and high poundage, as well as an arrhythmia to contend with. My only hope is that I can throw myself fully into work and keep myself occupied and think of the money that I'm earning which will give my family a good life in future.

I'm getting all maudlin again. Let's get back to Saturday night, after I dropped the WIFE and kids off:

I got back to the hotel to find it in near-darkness. The power was down. It seems that there was a cable-strike in a nearby site, and the whole area was affected. One hotel worker told me that the whole of Doha was without power. I looked back along the Corniche and across at the Four Seasons Hotel and all the lights quite obviously working there and wondered about the poor man's sanity. He had probably had several sweaty businessmen spraying spittle in his face already, so I spared him my particular brand of ashen-faced, menacingly monotonic complaint-making. Inside, people milled around like moths without a light to bounce off, staff back-breakingly bowed lower than ever before, and lights blinked and dimmed on and off. The lifts seemed to be working, but I didn't trust them at all.

I was slightly annoyed, as I had some work to do. The problem with being stranded in Doha is that I've struggled to keep in touch with some of the other jobs I work on back in Dubai. I've had several phone-calls from the boss, alternating between sympathetic, best-mate banter to blood-curdling ranting and raving at my lack of omnipotence. So I ended up needing to work, and the power cut was surely the last straw. No access to computers or internet. I gave up waiting for the power to return after nearly an hour, having raided the hotel cafe when offered a complimentary drink, then strode across the road to the Four Seasons. They had also suffered a power cut, but they had a back-up generator that powered the entire hotel, and not just a few deemed-to-be essential systems. It must be some bloody beast to do that, thought I. Luckily for me, the business centre was fully operational, and best of all, it was cheaper than the Movenpick, so I was able to do the work I had to do, before treating myself to a snack and a couple of drinks in the Library bar.

When I returned to my own hotel, there were still no lights on in the windows of the guest floors. I approached the reception desk and asked a grey-suited, smiling man with deep, brown, puppy-dog eyes for any new information. He deflected my queries with a straight bat before embarking on a bizarre and frankly unsettling critique of Great Britain, having spotted my British English speech patterns. Yes, English came from England. I am aware of that. No, it's not a paradise. Nowhere is. It hasn't been the same since Lady Diana died? So very, very sad? What?

When he started with the Diana stuff I had to walk away before I poked him in the eye with the blunt end of a champagne (alcohol-free, naturally) bottle. I think I let a "for fuck's sake" slip out as I turned away. Thinking about it now, it was probably all a ruse to get rid of me. So after more milling about and more shrugging platitudes and little in the way of hard facts from various members of the hotel staff, I ended up sitting at a table on the terrace talking to a couple of Dutch chaps and a Malaysian guy till nearly 11.30pm about Dubai and Doha and anywhere else we could think of. We smoked Marlboro Lights and drank Sprite. We considered moving to a place that sold alcohol, but couldn't really be arsed. It was a pleasant distraction, even if one of the Dutch guys was sarcastic beyond reason, and it was made slightly surreal by the sight of a green Jeep Wrangler going rapidly round a long bend in the nearby road before rising onto 2 wheels, like a stunt car in some ridiculous movie, before disappearing round the corner. If there hadn't been other people there who saw it with me, I might have thought I was hallucinating.

In the end, with no prospect of power returning soon, we all decided to risk the lifts, leaving the increasingly hysterical complainers in reception to their pointless ranting and the increasingly desperate hotel staff to their calming gesticulations and made our way to our darkened bedrooms. They at least provided us with torches, and the electronic locks on the room doors still functioned. Fortunately, the lack of air conditioning hadn't caused the hotel to heat up too much. It's just as well the power cut had happened late in the day, and not in the morning. The place would have been like a greenhouse.

I slept quite well, and was woken up at 5am when the lamp in the corner of the room suddenly came on and the air conditioning began to hum. I went back to sleep and woke up at 7am to an empty, quiet room. The whole power cut episode had done the job of distracting me from the previous evening's goodbyes. Distraction, it seems, is the key.

Weekends - Doha style.

I have just spent my first weekend in Doha. The potential for loneliness and boredom was high. So what better way to waste the hours than drive around the place exploring and getting one's bearings. And with the loneliness and boredom at the forefront of my worries, I doubled my exploration with looking for a PSP on Friday. I decided that now I am going to be alone for long spells, I need something to alleviate the boredom. So out I went.

Dubai has a lot of shopping malls. It's supposedly one of the attractions of the place. On a stupidly hot day, what is better than wandering around an air-conditioned temple of consumerism or sitting in Starbucks sipping on a half-fat soy latte?

And what Dubai can do, Doha wants to do better.

There are a suprising amount of malls here. The main one is the Doha City Centre Mall (they seem to have City Centre Malls in all the major cities in the Gulf). It has an ice rink and a cinema and lots of shops, including Carrefour. It also has lots of shops that are not yet open, and new extensions with massive hotels being constructed all around it. I digress.

As I said, I was looking for a PSP, so I tried Carrefour. They only had pink ones, and I am not having a pink one. Call me traditional. Call me gender-role-compliant, but pink isn't my colour. I tried a few other shops in the mall. No luck there either. They seem to be in short supply, unless you're a girl. So it was time to explore Doha. It is very quiet on a Friday; a lot of the shops are just closed, or don't open till after lunch, and the roads are much quieter. It reminded me of how Sunday used to be in the UK. As it was, I didn't head out till the afternoon, so the malls were at least open, if not all the shops within them.

Looking on the map I had borrowed from the hotel, I spotted the Sports City area and a new mall called Villagio nearby, which sounded promising. So I pointed the car out towards the desert, and drove along a quiet, straight boulevard lined with closely-grouped crane-like lamposts adorned with spotlights. Within a short time I saw the elongated egg-cup of the Aspire tower and the skeletal roof of the main stadium used for the Asian Games last year, and impressive structures they are. I drove round the empty car-park getting different angles of the buildings.

There is something eerily peaceful about sports venues when they are empty. They stand like this for most of their existence, as if sleeping in dignified, empty silence, waiting to wake up to the noise and colour of a sports event to bring everything to life again as the car parks fill up, the crowds take their seats, the concession operators and programme sellers fill the concourses, and the competitors take to the field in pursuit of glory and adulation.

Right next door to the stadium is the Villagio shopping mall. In contrast to the sports stadium, this place is awake a lot more than it is asleep (except on Friday mornings, of course). After I'd finished looking at the stadium, I drove into the car park of the mall and parked. As I approached, I noticed the intended theming straight away. Even the exterior is built to resemble an Italian town, with pastel-coloured, terraced buildings of different shapes and sizes huddled together. Even so, I didn't expect to see what I found inside.

As I entered the mall, I was immediately aware of the similarities with Ibn Battuta mall in Dubai, where the malls boulevards and shops are styled and themed to make you feel like you are in an old Andalusion village, or in ancient China. Villagio is themed on Venice, and the theme of closely-huddled, terracota-rooved buildings is even more prevalent inside. The ceiling of the mall is painted to look like a summer sky; azure blue with whispy clouds here and there. The floor is tiled to resemble a Venetian street.

Then you notice it: Right in the middle of this mall is a canal with real, life-sized gondolas that you can actually ride in. The word Vegas sprung into my head, as I shook it side to side in disbelief.

So I walked along the canal, in the fake Venice. I stopped briefly when I heard a bird singing from the roof of one of the shops. I couldn't see a bird, but it sounded real enough. I wouldn't be surprised if it was just a loudspeaker. Walking further along, I crossed the canal over an ornate bridge, and turned a corner to find a food court and a large area with high white hoardings all around that was obviously not finished. Who knows what lies there? I've been told since that it might be an ice rink. It's not quite Ski Dubai standard, I'm sure, but the wish is there, you just know it.

As it happens, the Villagio visit was fruitless. The huge Carrefour (is there any other size?) had only pink PSPs again. I was told to try the Virgin Megastore, and did so, but while they had loads and loads of games and accessories for PSPs, they didn't have a single PSP. How annoying.

So I wearily headed back towards the car, stopping for a late lunch of lentil soup and bread at a French-style cafe. There were no Italian cafes. Note to self: do not eat baked beans, eggs and lentils on the same day again. It might keep you warm, but the odour is not a good one.

As I drove away from Villagio, I noticed yet another mall, just past it. Right next to it, in fact. It was a much older one, called the Hyatt Plaza or something. At the front, near the road, there is a giant - I hesitate to call it a sculpture - model of a shopping trolley. It must be 30 or 40 metres high, at a guess. So it's not just Dubai that has a taste for the incredibly kitsch and mind-boggling. This kind of thing belongs in a U2 concert (Popmart tour), or a pulp sci-fi novel about giant killer shopping trolleys. If I shake my head much more, it'll fall off.

This mall is a lot older, and it showed. There is a large hypermarket with a name I can't remember, and a cluster of small shops, fast-food outlets and kiddies play areas all around it. I tried the main shop for a PSP, but was again frustrated. Not even close. This particular hypermarket is really low-end, I thought. Netto makes it look classy.

Frustrated by my lack of success in getting my sweaty mitts on a PSP, I thought about other options. The hotel has a swimming pool, and a bit of exercise would do no harm. I could even have a jacuzzi without turning the bubbles on. So I looked for swimming shorts. I found some, and every single pair was size L. The shop assistant I collared looked at my bulk and shrugged, mumbling something about the size L being generous. He pointed me towards a changing room to see for myself.

I say changing room. It was four planks of MDF held together with nails in the middle of the clothing section. The "door" didn't have a lock, it had a shoe-lace and a metal eyelet to tie it around. It did have a mirror, I'll give them that. So I squeezed into this little structure and tried on the shorts, being careful not to knock the walls of the structure for fear of knocking them down, leaving me standing there in the middle of a low-rent hypermarket with my trousers round my ankles.

As luck would have it, the swimming shorts were of a generous size, and they fit me, so I made my purchase and left the shop. On my way out, I spied a small electronics shop to one side, and through the window I saw a range of PSPs in different colours. GET IN YA BEAUTY! As usual, salvation came from an unexpected source. I dived into the shop, bought a PSP and made my way back to the hotel with my newest toy and a smile on my face.

I also bought a couple of games - Pro Evolution Soccer and Call of Duty. I was worried when I noticed they had a different region number on them to that on the PSP, but after a quick battery charge, the software updated and all was well. The games are great, and look great. Pro Evo plays and looks almost exactly the same as it does on the PS2 / X-box. Yeah, the commentary isn't so good, and you can't edit the strips, but that's not an issue to me. I now have something to waste the lonely hours with.

Saturday came, and I decided to go for that swim in the hotel. The first part of this venture was to push down and swallow the fear of heights I have. The pool is on the 26th floor, which is high enough for me, thank you, even though I have lived on the 29th floor before during my short stay in the USA. Luckily the pool is enclosed, not open-air. So I donned my new shorts and took the lift from the 7th to the 26th floor. I was impressed with how fast the lift moved, and I watched the electronic display count them off at a floor every second or just over. I had visions of it shooting out of the top of the building, but it came to a quick stop at 26 and I got out.

The views were amazing. The pool area is surrounded by full-height windows giving a superb view across the bay and along the sweeping arc of corniche. As I stood there, I saw an airliner taking off from Doha airport and rise slowly and quietly towards me, before passing over and to the side of the building and heading out towards the Persian Gulf. At 100 metres in the air, things look small on the ground. I can only imagine what the view will be like from the top of the building I am working on, which will be nearly 100 floors and 500m high. I might struggle to contain my vertigo for any length of time. Like with most fears I have, the key seems to be confronting them and reducing their impact by just getting on with it.

So I had a little swim, then had some lunch right next to the window, looking out across the calm blue bay and down at the green arc of the corniche. It was really quite pleasant.

The afternoon was spent playing a few games on the PSP, completing a couple of tough missions in war-torn Europe before seeing off Newcastle 7-0. I think a combination of the two games would be entertaining. Hoying a few grenades at the Geordie midfield would certainly liven things up.

And Saturday night was here. I ventured out to the Ramada Hotel and an expat bar with big screens and a smoky, working men's club vibe. The name escapes me. Shezadne or something. After watching some football, I went for a very reasonable curry at the Bombay Balti. A very kind lady from the reception had guided me all the way there, telling me it was popular and always very busy. It wasn't. I was the only one there.

To round off the night, I went to the Library bar at the Four Seasons Hotel, just across the road from my hotel. It's the second time I've been there, having been there on Wednesday night when I struck up a conversation with a very nice American chap who is also working in Doha without his family. It all started when I falteringly asked about the stuffing in the stuffed olives, and he confirmed it was indeed cream cheese, which is often the way these conversations start. Anyway, the bar is a pleasant, quiet bar, with darkwood panels on the walls, large sofas to lounge in, and some delicious mini-poppadums to snack on. Last night it was quiet in the bar, and no-one struck up converation with me, so I had a couple of whisky and gingers (something I've just started drinking, but I got the idea from my old man), a cigar (which is naughty, but I didn't inhale) and read the paper.

Then I returned to my hotel room and caught a movie starting on TV called Hellboy, which was entertaining enough, and then I went to sleep. I'm loathe to say I'm becoming used to this lifestyle, but it's getting easier to bear. I'm missing the WIFE and the kids, but I'm still not missing Dubai.

Down and Out in Doha

Not really. Stranded, lonely and confused maybe. But what's new?

I'm stuck in Qatar for a few days. I have been here since last Saturday, waiting to get my residence visa. I'm not sure how long I'm going to be here. I've had the blood test and chest x-ray done after the now-familiar queuing at various windows and waiting my turn. Thankfully, I had a friend with me this time, a Mister Fixit if you like, a chap who works for our company who speaks Arabic and who can pull strings. It's the same guy who drives the complete wreck of a car that I had a ride in on my first visit here. Surprisingly, the car is still going.

Anyway, my Mister Fixit managed to get me through the blood test part quite quickly, but I ended up having to wait over an hour for an x-ray. The wait was made worse by the number of people who jumped the queue, most of them wearing dish-dashes, it must be said. They don't even need a Mister Fixit. I was seething at the injustice of it all, conveniently forgetting that I'd jumped past a queue of at least 50 people to get the blood test. All in all, however, the system seemed a bit more efficient than in Dubai. Or maybe I'm just imagining it after having gone through it once already.

So now I have to wait for the results, before going to some other government building to have another blood test (finger prick) to establish blood group, then going to have my fingerprints scanned. They used to take your fingerprints with Indian ink until recently, which meant you were left with black fingertips for about a week, but now they've caught up with the 21st Century and use electronic scanners. After this, I should get the visa a day or two later. Insha'allah!

Luckily, I've been quite busy, and the time has gone fairly quickly. We've had a lot of meetings about the Big Hole in the Ground, and I've been going here there and everywhere to get different things sorted. I also went to the Traffic Department to get myself a temporary driving licence so I can use a hire car. This involved more queuing, a very quick eye test (AH! One of your eyes is very bad! Oh well! STAMP) and a few short, barked conversations between Mr Fixit and veiled women at counters, but after only an hour I left with a credit-card licence very similar to the UAE one, which will become a permanent licence when I get my visa.

So I now have the pleasure of driving around Doha, albeit in a car with less power than a three-legged zebra with stilletos on. It is different to Dubai because there is no Sheik Zayed Road-style 20-lane highway going through it (although one is under construction). The main roads seem to be the 6-lane ring roads, all given letters to identify them (C-ring road, etc) and there are traffic lights and roundabouts galore, which seems to put paid to any real speed. The roundabouts are a challenge, however. It's a bit of a free-for-all with people pulling out when they shouldn't and changing lanes without any warning. Traffic can build up at certain times in certain places, but generally moves at a better rate than in Dubai.

The worst part of the days has been the nights. Going back to an empty hotel room is a pretty lonely experience. It's when I miss the family the most, and this time I seem to be missing them more. I think it's because the GIRL was upset when I got out of the car at the airport on Saturday. It's the first time she's done this kind of thing, and it broke my heart to see her crying because I was going away. The WIFE tells me she has been asking for me, and the BOY keeps asking when I'm coming home. They're going to have to get used to me being away. Explanation later.

I'm in a different hotel this time; the Marriott was deemed too expensive, so I've ended up in the new Movenpick Towers hotel at the West Bay end of the Corniche. It's almost brand new, only opening 4 months ago, and it smells new, with the damp smell of new plaster and paint hitting the nostrils as you walk around. The roads around it aren't even finished. I think it's still going through teething problems. The staff are over-the-top in their attentiveness to the point of being annoying, and the main restaurant invariably serves cold food in the dinner buffet. Most shockingly of all, for an international chain hotel, there is NO ALCOHOL. I found this out when the Russian concierge showed me round my pleasant-enough, darkwood-filled room. He opened the mini-bar fridge, and saw my eyes light up, and then told me the hotel is dry. After letting me cry on his shoulder for half an hour, he told me I could get my fix over the road at the Four Seasons Hotel. So I did just that. Rather that than drink another fruit cocktail or watch a clumsy, nervous waiter take a plastic bottle of water wrapped in a napkin out of a champagne bucket. Ooh, it must be a vintage year for Evian.

Another night I thought I would try the noodle house restuarant, and it was pretty good, spoiled only by the presence of a plump American woman with a loud, whiny voice who was patronising some male work colleague sat opposite her. She was sat at a fair distance away from me, a distance you would assume would render normal conversation levels inaudible, or at least reduce it to a low murmur, mixing with the nondescript oriental music piped into the restaurant. But no, I heard every damned word of what she was saying. I was willing the waiter to bring her some food just to shut her up.

As is customary on these occassions, I sat in the darkest corner available, read a book, and sipped a very nice glass of ginger ale while I waitied for my food. Dining alone whilst away is never the most pleasant experience, particularly if you start talking to yourself out of loneliness. Other diners and staff tend to shoot you worried looks.

An explanation is due now. I mentioned that the kids would have to get used to my absence. Unfortunately, they are going to have to get used to seeing me only every 3 or 4 months. The WIFE and kids are going back to the UK. Our intended aim of making some money whilst abroad isn't working. Dubai is just too expensive, and Doha isn't much better. Villas are even more expensive here, and with the prospect of the GIRL starting school (with ever rising school fees), it has been decided that I will stay in the Middle East, work in Doha (working long hours to avoid boredom), and live as cheaply as possible. I will go home twice a year, and the family will visit me once a year or so.

It ain't ideal, but it's the best option out of the few available, I believe. I could go home as well, but would face a rather hefty tax bill having not spent a full tax year (April to April) out of the country. It's a stupid rule, if you ask me. I don't want to stay in Dubai alone. Well at all, really. I've had my fill of the place.

Now I've got my first weekend in Doha ahead, and I have no idea what I'm going to do. At least I have a car to use now. Come on Qatar: Entertain me!

Hazy Daze in Doha

Doha. Very Homer Simpson-esque, isn't it? I still don't know how to say it. I say "Dough-wuh" sometimes, but then hear someone else say "Doh-Hah", giving much more emphasis to the second syllable.

Anyway, I got there eventually. I had already checked in on the morning after being bumped onto the afternoon flight, so I just stopped by check-in to get the gate number before proceeding through passort control. I had the pleasure of using the e-gate system for the first time, and even though I managed to cock it up (as usual) by forgetting which finger I was meant to scan, I got through. It is a fantastic system. You scan your card on a reader at the first electronic gate, which is a bit like the barriers in the London Underground, then when it opens with a Star-Trek style swish, you move into the next section where you are instructed to scan your finger on the infra-red reader. Then (if you use the right finger) it bleeps and opens the next gate and you are through, laughing at the sad sacks queueing to get their passports stamped. It's even better on the way back in. You can be out of the airport in 15 minutes if you don't have any baggage checked.

The plane ride was a bit of a bumpy one. The crew gave us our snacks of roasted veg sandwiches and Arabic sweets before snatching them back as we took the first bite. It is a short flight, admittedly. They must have known we were likely to hit turbulence, and we did, especially as we approached to land in Doha. As ever in these situations, I planted my feet firmly on the floor and gripped the chair arms tightly. As if that would have helped.

But we landed safely and I was lucky enough to find a shuttle bus to my hotel waiting outside, so took the opportunity to check in before heading over to my company's offices. Within an hour we were having a long meeting about the Big Hole in the Ground with the people assigned the lovely task of building something nice in the Big Hole. It went quite well - well enough for us all to remain on talking terms, and then it was home time. It was decided that a few of us would head out to watch the England v France rugby game in a bar called Aussie Legends in the Rydges Plaza Hotel. I went back to the hotel first to freshen up before joining the others in the bar.

It was one of those typical expat bars, full of large televisions and chain-smoking antipodeans. A couple of nice pints of Guinness were consumed while we watched the English rugby team pull out all the stops to beat the French. It was a good atmosphere, without the slightest hint of bother even bubbling under. The only annoyance was a large, hairy man of unkown nationality (but definitely not English) who shouted "WAHEY" every time France had the ball near the try line or when England made a mistake. His braying soon quietened towards the end of the match as England romped home.

After the rugby we headed down to the Italian restaurant on the Ground Floor (been there before - the scene of an interesting political discussion previously) and ate a pleasant, if unspectacular meal, and waffled for a good couple of hours. My early start again caught up with me. I was almost falling asleep at the table and I was glad to get back to my hotel for some kip.

Monday morning, and after a bit of room service breakfast I made my way over to the office, from where we drove over to the site on the Corniche. As we drove along the corniche, with the sun shining down on the city, I again noticed what a pleasing-on-the-eye place Doha can be. There aren't many cranes, but there are loads of palm trees lining the roads and expanses of grass everywhere, and the buildings are nicely spread out. The Corniche is a large sweeping U-shape, with a small, deserted island in the middle of the bay, which used to be home to a restaurant at one time. At one end of the big U is the airport and the sea port, and at the other is the beginnings of a Sheik Zayed Road-style skyscraper zone, with shiny new buildings rising on the shore. Past that is the new Pearl Island, which sounds like an impressive development, in the shape of a string of pearls. They are definitely copying Dubai in some respects, but like I said before, I hope they don't try too hard. The place has a real Middle-Eastern identity and feel that should be retained. I think they are trying to strike a balance.

So we entered the site complex, walking along the precariously-balanced scaffolding walkway along the front of the cabins that are perched on the side of the Big Hole in the Ground. The Hole was a hive of activity, with cranes and piling rigs and all other manner of machines banging and digging and grinding away. The noise of construction was reaching ear-splitting levels, and the ground beneath us shuddered and vibrated unnervingly.

We met with the client Project Manager in his office overlooking the site, and even with the door shut the noise outside was obtrusive. The PM glumly admitted that he would often leave the site and find somewhere else to work just to get some peace and quiet. Even so, he soon perked up when he remembered the news from Dubai. He cheerily told us that there had been an accident at Dubai Airport this morning, where a Bangladesh Airlines plane had failed to take off and had slid off the runway. The airport was therefore closed and all flights to and from Dubai were cancelled. Once again, it looked like I would be staying in Doha for longer than I expected.

So we get going with the site progress meeting, half of which I missed due to the noise of banging and digging outisde. The other half passed right over my head with engineers talking technical jargon. I should record these meetings for when I have insomnia. The worst bit is, whenever I am right on the verge of slumber, or daydreaming about dancing hippos being hunted by cougars in smoking jackets, someone will turn to me and ask my opinion. Er... let me get back to you on that one.

Actually, I do wake up when I'm needed, pretty much always at the end of the meetings, when they deem it appropriate to talk about commercial matters, or how much money it's costing to make a lot of noise with over-sized Tonka toys in a Big Bloody Hole in the Ground.

I managed to blag it once again and after the meeting adjourned we returned to our offices. The secretary told me that there was a flight now. My original 2.25pm was now scheduled to take off at 3.30pm, so I got a lift to the airport, checked in, passed through passport control and had a quick browse in Duty Free. As I was looking at something to buy the kids, there was a BING BONG from the Tannoy. First came the Arabic version, but my ears pricked up when I heard my airline's name (out of kindness, I will call them BLOODY EMIRATES) in amongst the husky tones and throat-clearing noises of the announcement. Then came the English version, and the words: "We regret to inform you that..." told me all I needed to know and my flight was cancelled. Bugger.

So, I was stuck in limbo, with my passport still freshly adorned with an exit stamp and a boarding pass. I asked an official-looking lady milling around near passport control what was going on and what we should do, and they said they would ask before hurrying off. The departure information screen showed the words CANCELLED in large white letters next to my flight. Bugger.

The official-looking woman returned and said that a representative of BLOODY EMIRATES would be through soon to update us. A couple of other people had joined me by now, looking at their watches impatiently, shaking their heads and looking back up at the information board in case it changed. We were told to wait by the gate, but then the BING BONG sounded again, telling us that the flight was just delayed. The board still said CANCELLED. Confusion reigned, but most of us decided to wait by the gate for someone to come and tell us what was going on.

It was a long wait. No-one from BLOODY EMIRATES appeared. It transpired that 70 people had been allowed to check in before the flight had been cancelled. Mobile phones were hammered by people ringing home, the office, the airline or even their dog, who would probably have been of infinitely more use than BLOODY EMIRATES. Their Doha operation actually closes for 3 hours in the afternoon. How very professional of them. I rang the Dubai branch and was told that our flight was definitely off. The next one was at 11.15pm. Bugger. Then someone piped up with the quite startling information that Doha International Airport actaully closes between 3pm and 7pm every single day for maintenance or something like that. Bugger, Bollocks and For F*ck's Sake.

I rang our Doha office to tell them about the situation, but without any real knowledge of what to do in this situation (could we just go out through passport control again?) there wasn't really much to be said. After a little bit more waiting, a sheepish man shuffled towards us (not from BLOODY EMIRATES, surprisingly) and said we could go upstairs to the café and have a sandwich and a drink. Information would have been nice, but that wasn't on the menu, apparently. We just had to wait.

As it was, no-one from BLOODY EMIRATES showed up to tell anyone anything. I only found out what to do by spotting the lady who had checked me in (non-airline affiliated, natch) sitting in the café and asking her what to do. She told me to go to the Transfer desk. Why couldn't someone have told us that before? It seems that the message had been spreading, and a gaggle of tired, confused passengers was gathered at the Transfer desk by the time I got to it. We were all offered passes to the Business Lounge and a seat on the 11.15pm. Marvellous, thought I. An 8-hour wait for a plane that might not even leave. I could have taken them up on this offer and drunk their bar dry, but thought better of it and asked if I could come back the next day instead. I was told I could, and instructed to leave through the arrivals section by passing through the Transfer security section backwards and getting my exit stamp cancelled.

That I did, walking through an eerily deserted passport control manned by one official and past static, empty luggage carousels and out into the open air again. I rang our Doha office to tell them to book me a hotel room for the night then caught a cab (there were loads of them, probably as no flights were arriving or departing) to the office where I worked for what was left of the working day. The Doha Manager was receptive to the idea of having a beer and a bite that night, so we took off at 6pm and had a very pleasant evening eating a seafood buffet at my hotel. We got on very well, and the seeds of something were planted that night. That sounds slightly pervy, if you've got a sick mind, but I mean that future plans were considered. I have been working in Dubai on a project taking place in Doha since I arrived in August last year, and aside from the odd blip, have done a good job, or so I'm told. Personally, I feel like I've half-blagged it. But then the job is as much about being able to hold your own in negotiations and confrontations. It's about saying the right things at the right times to the right people.

Whatever. I know what I mean. The possibility of me moving to Doha, either alone on a weekly basis, or with the family in tow, has now entered my mind as an option. The people in Doha seem to be keen to get me there on a permanent basis, even if the people in Dubai would probably not want to lose me (they've said as much). I know the job and I know the people on the job, I wouldn't actually be changing companies, and honestly I would like to see the job through to its end. I would like to see this 90-storey tower sparkling in the sunlight of the Arabian Gulf. I've seen the drawings; now I want to see the reality, even if I'll have to take some tranquilisers before even thinking about going to the top of the finished building.

And of course, I know that I have previously expressed doubts about Doha as a place to live, but it's grown on me. Dubai is great in its own way. It has the bright lights, the malls, the hotels and all that. It also has traffic and hassle and maddeningly conspicuous consumption that jars with my personal outlook. It's also a very cliquey kind of place. Someone said it's like Hong Kong, where it's difficult to make friends amongst the numerous established expats who have lived there for years and like to stick to their closed circles of friends. I will say that it's definitely more suited to the single person than the family, and I've heard it said by plenty of others. Bahrain and Qatar are more family-friendly, some have said. Doha may be a small place, with less in the way of tourist attractions, but it is quiter, calmer, less materialistic, it has far less traffic and isn't far from Dubai if you fancy a mad weekend in the Vegas of the Middle East. It's a real quandary. The WIFE and KIDS are settling in. They've made a few friends. I think they like it here. Well most of it. Nowhere's perfect. Even though it's still just a possibility, I've got a lot of thinking to do. For one thing, the title of this blog would have to change.

Knowing me, I'll feel completely different tomorrow, and after another weekend of eating out in great locations and having a good time with my family, I might never want to leave. Who knows?

Anyway, I did finally get back to Dubai on Tuesday. The flight was only half an hour late.

Off to Doha again...

It's been a tiring weekend. I'll tell you more about it when I get back from Doha on Monday night.

Update: Got to the airport this morning and was bumped off my early morning Emirates flight to the early afternoon one. Ho-hum. The nice Emirates man said it was really busy today and they had loads of people being bumped. I suppose that's the risk when they over-book the flights.

So, while I'm waiting to go back to the airport, I can expand on the weekend.

Yesterday we decided to try the Dreamland Aqua Park over in Umm Al Qwain (sorry if that's not the right spelling). We've already done Wild Wadi, and a friend of mine (who we shall call the GEORDIE) told me it was nicer at Dreamland. Nicer, much cheaper, and best of all... they sell alcohol.

So on Saturday morning we set off, with the GEORDIE and his GEORDIE BOY coming along for the ride, and drove along the Emirates Road, passing through the delights of Sharjah and Ajman on the way, and after an hour or so we arrived at Dreamland, which sits next to a lagoon. You know you're nearly there when you see a giant, ancient Russian cargo plane casually abandoned on the side of the road. I looked for POLICE ARE AWARE stickers, but I don't think they could reach the windscreen. The BOY and the GEORDIE BOY spent the whole journey annoying each other and the other passengers with dog impressions, pillow fights and truck-spotting contests, so it was relief to arrive and emerge from the car into the warm sunshine.

In the park itself, it soon became apparent why it is cheaper than Wild Wadi. It is much, much older, and it shows. The metal grates in some of the pools are spotted with rust, the grout in between the tiles is somewhat grubby, and the slides and other playthings are faded and worn. That said, it is a more pleasant area than Wild Wadi, with large green areas and plenty of loungers to soak up the sunshine on. It was also much quieter, with hardly any queues for even the major rides.

After a short play in the kiddies pool we had a lunch of cheap and nasty fast food. After that, the GEORDIE and I couldn't persaude our BOYs to join us in riding on anything higher than 6 feet off the ground. We tried bribery, blackmail, threats and just general cajoling, but to no avail. My BOY even climbed to the top of a ride ominously called the Black Hole. I knew he wasn't keen, but he was hoping for a large ice cream when he did it. He finally cracked at the sight of the pitch-dark tunnel. His soft whimpering turned into full-scale screaming and crying, and without any masking tape to hand, we had to come back down the stairs past people wearing smug, knowing smiles. In the end, the men had a few goes on the big slides, but soon tired of walking half a mile up a slope and some stairs to reach a ride that lasted all of ten seconds, and which invariably resulted in swimming shorts having to be surgically extracted from bumholes.

With the day drawing on, we decided to leave. The BOYs had a short session in the tatty, half-closed video arcade, playing a best-of-three round of air hockey, which my BOY won. GET IN! I'm not competitive really.

So we left Dreamland behind, and drove round the corner to the more adult-orientated attraction which everyone in Dubai talks of in fond terms, often with misty eyes: Barracuda. Barracuda is basically an off-licence, but the attraction is that it sells tax-free alcohol. It's a useful place to go when you need to stock up, so that's what I did. With visitors coming in less than 4 weeks, I used it as an excuse to go on a trolley dash round the spirits and wine section and equip myself with a half-decent drinks selection, including gin, whisky, vodka, bacardi, baileys and a few bottles of wine. The trolley-full of booze I left with cost me 700 dirhams, about 100 quid. It would probably have cost nearly twice as much in Dubai.

Then we drove through Sharjah, the dry Emirate, at quite a pace. I don't think there's a problem, but it's technically illegal to have booze there. Then again, Sharjah airport has a Duty Free section. Work that one out.

On the way home we stopped at the Irish Village, a Dubai expat institution, where a couple of pints of the black stuff and a bit of stodgy food rounded off the day. It's quite a pleasant location, with a lake and playpark and a massive terrace to sit and watch the world go by. It's situated right in the heart of Garhoud, and is a bit of an oasis. The standard pub food comes quickly, the bar staff are either surly or deaf, but it's popular and pleasant enough.

Well, that's the time used up. I'd better make my way back to the airport.

Things to do in Doha when you're ...

bored and lonely:

Visit the Pearl Lounge bar attached to the side of the Marriott hotel. There you will be made to feel completely unwelcome, brusquely quizzed like a criminal suspect about your hotel room number and name and hastily ushered to the bar because all the tables are reserved even though the place is emptier than Paris Hilton's head. Even when you manage to convince them to let you sit at a table, by telling them you won't be staying long, they watch you like hawks wearing bi-focals as you slide down the leather-clad low seats with shallow-sloping sides, toying with your over-iced Jamesons and wondering what kind of people come to a place like this, apart from lonely and bored businessmen, of course. The lighting is non-existent, so much so, that the drinks menus have little torches attached to them. There are large Plasma screen TVs dotted around the walls, showing scenes of snowy mountains and trendy people skiing down them on a permanent loop, all accompanied by instantly forgettable chill/trance/technopap. You should probably have more than one drink, just to annoy them, and see if anyone comes in. When people do appear, they look at you like you are sitting there in the altogether. Finally, when you've had enough of feeling as welcome as Timothy Mallett at a wake, the bill appears in your face and you leave, tutting to yourself about the utter absurdity of it all, and swearing never to go that kind of place again. Until next time you're alone and bored in a strange city. Still, you feel slightly amused and smug as a couple of Japanese businessmen (dressed smartly enough) try to get in as you're leaving and get turned away from a 90% empty club because they aren't hotel guests. You think to yourself that the club must resent the arrangement with the hotel.

Which is a shame, really, because the trip was otherwise a reasonably good experience. Well, OK, the plane was an hour late, and there were no taxis to be had when I landed, which meant a 30 minute wait for one, and then after popping into my firm's local office, I had a really interesting experience in the most banged-up, crappy car I've ever been in, because there just weren't any taxis. This car was a wreck. The headlights were smashed in and the wing mirrors hung off, and the rust was just about holding it together. I even had to push it to get it going, and jumped in as it spluttered and coughed into life. The Sudanese man driving it was quite a good driver, but without a working seat belt and a seat set at a permanent 45-degree recline, I didn't feel very safe. When we inevitably encountered a local in a white 4x4 who cut across us, my driver let out a stream of exotic-sounding expletives and gesticulated wildly at the other driver. Getting to the hotel was a relief.

The hotel itself was a smooth operation and they were falling over themselves to help me at every turn. Every corner I turned seemed to reveal another oriental person in bell-boy get-up greeting me with the now-familiar American-accented, nasal whine of, "Good Morning, Sir," or something similar. The restaurants had good food and excellent service. The room was pleasant, and the free use of the business lounge (with 4 free alchoholic drinks a night) was a nice touch.

The aims of the trip were met as well. We had loads of meetings about the Big Hole in the Ground, and how much it was going to cost to build something in the hole and how long it was going to take, etc., and in the end people were satisfied with what I did. I hope. A few of us went for dinner in a nice Italian in the Rydges hotel on my second night, and as if by magic, the conversation turned to politics. We had me, a Brit, a South African, and Australian, an Iraqi and two Palestinians (one Christian, one Muslim) sat around the table, and the Australian broke the shop talk up spectacularly with a question about the whereabouts of a certain Mr. Bin Laden. In the end, some strong (and surprising) viewpoints were aired, but everyone managed to come away smiling and still on talking terms. The consensus was that the British had managed to mess about with and fuck up the Middle East after both World wars, and now the Americans were carrying on where we had left off. Scars run deep round here, it seems.

Apart from everything else, I found myself thinking how lucky I am to be living in Dubai. Doha is trying desperately to catch up with Dubai, but the general feeling around here is that they are about 15 years behind at least. There are few things for tourists and expats to do, and the infrastructure is seriously poor. People who work there constantly tell me they wish they didn't. Some even fly to Dubai every weekend. On the other hand, I bet they don't spend as much living in Doha.

The Asian games that start on the 1st December are looming large now. It's quite obvious that Doha is going to struggle, because hotel rooms are just impossible to get now, and traffic is getting heavier and heavier whilst they attempt to finish all the new roads and tart up the airport and the unfinished roads and buildings and erect huge scaffolding structures covered in plywood advertising the games. The taxi situation sucks, truly sucks. It seems that they are all being used as chauffers now, driving officials and dignitaries all over the place, because public transport is even worse here than it is in Dubai, and that's saying something. Even so, I wish the city well. I hope they pull it off and show the continent a good time. I hope the games give the place a good kick-start towards catching up with its bigger, glitzier neighbour.

So I left Doha after 4 days, looking forward to seeing my wife and kids again. The week had gone a lot quicker than the previous one in hospital, that's for sure. The plane out of Doha was 40 minutes late in departing, and I spent the whole flight quietly fuming as men in National dress sat in their seats sending text messages all through the flight, despite the many in-your-face reminders to turn off all mobile phones. I try to be understanding of cultural differences, but this annoyed me. They knew they were doing wrong, because they hid their phones when any cabin crew passed close. Some, I stress SOME of these people just don't give a fig about rules, regulations, common courtesty and cultural norms and believe themselves to be invincible and above everyone else because they wear a dish-dash. It's a shame, because a few bad eggs end up giving everyone else a bad name.

Anyway, despite all this, we landed safely, and despite some of the strangest and most worrying mechanical noises I've ever heard on an (supposedly modern) aeroplane. I am getting better at flying, and I don't have a choice but to do so, with all the flying that is done round here. My fear levels are reducing every time, but I still have my little superstitions and routines that I have to go through. I always read the safety information card on both sides, I invariable end up praying to that God who must be pissed off with hearing from this agnostic again, and I always find my imagination running riot with the infinite number of ways a plane can come to harm on the ground and in the air as we taxi out to the runway. Statistics can say what they want, but there's just something unnatural about hurtling at just less than the speed of sound, 6 miles up in the air in a pressurised tube.

It took me just an hour to pass through Dubai airport this time. Passport control was a chew as ever, and will continue to be until my company get my residence visa sorted out, and there was a long queue as ever. I remembered to pick up some duty free goods this time, though, so it eased some of the earlier frustrations. I even managed to find a taxi quite quickly, as you would expect at an international airport, and less than an hour later, I was home, and my kids ran with outstretched arms to greet the bags of goodies I'd brought them. It's good to be home again

Doha or bust...

I get the feeling Doha doesn't want me to enjoy its charms again. The week after Eid I was meant to go and talk about the Big Hole in the Ground, but I couldn't find a hotel room for love nor money nor sexy shenanigans in the pantry, so I had to call it all off. Then last week, I managed to have a hotel booked, but ended up in the much-vaunted hospitel, so again the trip was off.

Today, back at work, and the owners of the Big Hole in the Ground are still insistent that I should go to Doha for a few days. Well, fine, but let me find a hotel room. I spent most of the day chasing various people hither and thither, than I finally phoned a lady who was supposed to help, and it transpires that I might actually have a room, but it ain't 100% certain, and the room in question is really expensive. There's the small matter of the Asian Games approaching, you see. There are tales of hotel rooms being rarer than an egg-laying bird with a smile like Tom Cruise and stories about the place not being ready for the event. They say it about everywhere they hold one of these things. People just like to whinge. Don't I, dear?

But anyway, I am undeterred. Tomorrow I'm getting on that plane for the short (but still nerve-wracking) hop to Doha. Even if I end up kipping in a bus shelter, I've got to be there and do my stuff. I've even changed my hospital appointment with the cardiologist so I can go. Committed? I should be.

Anyway, I think an important lesson today was (again) not to sweat the small stuff. I get stressed out about things far too easily, and it has to be affecting my blood pressure. A friend told me today that the frustration of living here with all the traffic and the bureaucracy and the over-use of the word Insha'allah was understandable. He also said that some people are just more stressed than others, and being told to calm down by other people is the worst thing they can hear. I agree with that sentiment. It makes me even angrier when someone says it to me.

But then, if it's my nature or not, I need to control it or focus it or something. I need to laugh more. And this picture of the under-construction Dubai Metro makes me laugh:

Wherever you go in the world...

there are universal constants, undeniable truths that will never change.

The sun sets in the West.

Beer gets you drunk.

Quantity Surveyors are boring.

And, most pertinent of all...

Hospital food is crap.

Anyway, it rained the other day. I missed it, because I didn't wake up in my private room in the hospitel (hospital/hotel) until it was gone. I opened the blinds to see strange marks on the car park tarmac which seemed to suggest that precipitation had occurred. The sky was white, misty and almost chilly-looking. The WIFE confirmed that, Yes indeed, it had rained that morning and it was that "really fine stuff".

Oh, yeah. I was in the hospitel because last Sunday, the day after my last posting, the day I was meant to fly to Doha, I had another episode of the dreaded Atrial Fibrillation. I thought about sitting it out and letting it go back in its own time, but since I was unsure of why it had happened this time (there's usually a definite trigger), I went to the local health centre. The doctor there was very nice and reassuring. He did an ECG on me, and told me what I already knew - I was in AF. Between us we half decided that my new diet might well have been the trigger this time. I'd been on a form of the Paleo diet since the 1st November, which was 4 days ago. Something didn't ring completely true to me, though. I was feeling quite good in myself up till Sunday night. I had got over the initial slight dizziness and my appetite was adjusting. More importantly, my ectopic beats (skipped beats that can be a precursor to AF) had reduced by a significant amount. What else could it have been, though: the ginger and lemon tea the night before, or the large diet pepsi consumed at lunchtime the day before, maybe even the handful of walnuts eaten as an evening snack? I was confused.

The doctor decided to send me to see a cardiologist at a new hospital in the Bur Dubai area, near Port Rashid. We got directions and more reassurance, and with the WIFE driving, we headed along the SZR towards the hospital. We landed and I booked into the ER. Another ECG was performed, then I was transferred up to a small white, functional room in the Intensive Care/Cardio Care Unit. That may sound alarming, but they have the best equipment for dealing with matters of the heart. Well, maybe not broken ones, and we all know that Padme Skywalker died because of a broken heart.

I digress. I told the WIFE to go home with the GIRL because the BOY needed to be picked up from school. She knows the drill by now, and so do I. I was soon covered in wires and needles were stuck in various places on my hands and arms. I ended up with 2 IV drips this time, one in each hand. They tried a drug on me, but it only slowed the fast rate down, so they ended up putting me under for a few minutes and zapping me with the defibrillator. I've had it before, and it invariably works. The best bit is being gradually more drugged up with various legal substances, which make you feel like you've had a bottle of wine in 30 seconds, then the oxygen mask descends and they add the real knock-out stuff. It was ever so slightly disconcerting to hear the nurse ask the anaesthetist if it was 50 millilitres, and the anaesthetist replying in a loud panicky voice that, No, it should be 15 millilitres, but before I knew it I was having a strange dream about being inside a computer or something, and then I was awake and back into blessed Normal Sinus Rhythm. It's hard to describe the feeling. It's one of utter relief, after being in AF and on edge for several hours. It's as if a huge, not agonising but naggingly painful splinter has been removed from your bum. Lying there with AF is pretty crappy. People can tell me it isn't life-threatening in itself, etc., but when your heart is doing a dance like a drunk uncle doing the birdy-song in your chest, it isn't nice. I always end up praying to God, and making deals with him about how I'll be good from now on, even though I'm a sworn agnostic with a leaning towards (without the utter certainty of) atheism.

I thanked the man who put me to sleep, who was a genial Libyan chap with an impossible name who had lived and worked in various UK locations for a good deal of his career. He melted back into the hospital hubbub as quickly as he had arrived, and I was left wondering what time I would be let out. Wishful thinking is what they call that. The cardiologist came and spoke to me and told me he wanted to keep me in ICU overnight, then transfer me down to ward for observation tomorrow. Blimey. In the UK, I've been pretty much sent home 2 hours after going back to NSR. The last serious obs and tests had been over 2 years ago when the AF had resurfaced. Not this time, though. This doctor wanted to watch me and prod me and poke me, so who was I to argue. The only worry for me was the insurance. Would they cover it? Would I have to pay it and reclaim it? I rang the WIFE and told her the good news. She was also surprised that I was staying overnight.

So I spent that night in that small white room. No TV. Nothing to read. I did get some food, nd it was pretty good, but then all food tastes great when you've not been allowed to eat for hours. I didn't get much sleep. The automatic blood pressure monitor inflated every hour through the night and then the nurses came to take more blood every 6 hours, and with all those wires and tubes, I defy anyone to sleep well under those conditions. In fact, they should use it at Guantanamo Bay as a new form of torture. OK. Maybe not. Anyway, I was ready for some more of that magic bottle of wine in a syringe from The Affable Sandman of Tripoli.

The next morning I rang work and the WIFE and the BOSS and told them the score. I was going down to the ward and was likely to spend at least another night there. Finally they released me from the drips and monitor wires and I performed a very unsteady stand up routine that wasn't funny at all, and managed to walk around for a bit. They wheel-chaired me down to the ward, and I was in for a bit of a surprise. Being used to the good ole' NHS, I expected a large ward full of old men in ill-fitting pyjamas surrounded by bored relatives. But of course, all healthcare is private here, and I got my own private hotel-style room, with a separate lounge and 2 TVs and a wardrobe and...an empty fridge. A minibar might have been too much to expect, in hindsight.

So I ate increasingly poor food and drank water and watched The Golden Girls on TV. The family came and went, soon getting bored of seeing Daddy in a open-backed dress. The vital sign checks and blood pressure tests carried on at 4-hourly intervals, but just before bedtime (Ha! You're always in a bed in hospital) they noticed my BP was up a bit. They took it again to check about half an hour later and it was down a bit. The next morning, as I waited for the doc to come and tell me to go home, they took my BP again, and again it was high. They started getting a bit more urgent about it, getting doctors involved, and another 2 checks later, they were asking me about hypertension and family medical history and all kinds of things. Hmm. Me - Hypertensive? Don't be so bloody stupid!

I was given a really nasty dissolving tablet to stick under my tongue and promptly wheeled down to the Cardio Outpatient clinic where they performed an ultrasound scan of my ticker. After 10 minutes of prodding with a gelled-up device, the doctor told me that I was definitely suffering from hypertension and my heart was showing signs of it that indicated a long-term problem, maybe going back 3 or more years, and which has avoided detection until now. He told me that the high BP was making my heart work harder, and it was now over-muscly, like some mad keen body-builder. The problem with big muscles is that they get stiff and eventually weaken. Oh bugger. But then, it dawned on me, and the doc was alluding to the fact that the hypertension could be the major factor behind my AF. It's not often you are happy to find out you've got a condition, but this time I was, because if it's true, I have found out what has caused all this crap I've been putting up with for the last 6 years. Now I can treat it. Now I can beat it.

I knew what was coming next. The doctor told me I had to stay another night. He told me I had to go on medication. He told me to go on a diet. He told me to exercise! Well, duh! The list of drugs was growing. Anti-arrhythmics, anti-cholesterol, anti-aircraft, and now anti-high blood pressure. It's kind of at odds with what I'm trying to achieve with this Paleo diet, because they are yet to dig up the remains of a Homo Erectus branch of Boots the Chemist from 100,000 years back. C'est la vie. I went back to the ward with a strange sense of elation mixed with terror. Now I know what has to be done. If I do it right, and lose the requisite weight and lower my cholesterol and blood pressure, I should be able to get off the meds within a year or two, one by one.I knew that from now on I held my destiny, or at least a great deal of it, in my own hands. I have been given control.

I left hospital yesterday, and was glad to get away in the end. The hotel-style room had impressed me to start with, but after 2 days in there, I was bouncing off the walls. The TV was my only companion for much of the time, and it was starting to grate with its repeats of Roseanne and Different Strokes and straight-to-video movies. I did see a couple of good ones late at night, mind. The doc gave me a final pep talk and told me that while nothing was outright banned now, I had to remember the simple golden rule - the more legs an animal has, the worse it is for you. It's like Orwell's Animal Farm in reverse - 4 legs bad, 2 legs good. No legs even better (Fish, that is). I wonder if this was a case for cannibalism, although I wouldn't eat myself given the choice.

It's kind of fitting that this has happened now. I came to Dubai for a new beginning, a new life, and all that guff. I was worried about my health, naturally, but carried on as normal, eating and drinking crap and living the luxury, lazy, expat lifestyle. My weight got to its highest ever, and my stress levels also got higher. I now realise that this has been a factor all along, and along with the obesity, it is a potent combination. I had a really bad stress-out session the day before my latest episode. That probably sent my BP through the roof and kicked the AF off. But every cloud has a silver lining. The thoroughness of the medical care here has impressed me, especially my cardiologist, who has been encouraging and reassuring and also frank with me about where I am. I now have a positive outlook, and feel ready to put right the years of abuse my body has suffered. I have gone right off fatty and sugary foods. I'm not a puddingy person any more, as my dear Mother says.

Oh yeah, and the insurance wasn't a problem. I showed my company insurance card, signed a couple of forms and didn't have to pay a penny. Suh-WEET.

Drunk and Dirty in Doha

Well, folks, I have now seen another place in the Middle East. On Wednesday I took the 7am flight from DXB to Doha, Qatar, for a meeting about the Big Hole in the Ground (which is supposed to turn into the Tallest Building in Doha). I was, as ever, over-cautious and boy-scoutish in my preparation, and got up at 4.15am to get to the airport. I arrived just after 5am and had a long, sleepy wait for the plane, taking in the delights of the crowded departure lounges (even at that time) and the crappy service at Costa (Bomb for a ) Coffee. The flight itself was only 45 minutes, about the same as Teesside (sorry, Durham Tees Valley) to Heathrow, if not shorter. Barely enough time to get nervous, but I still managed it.

I arrived in Doha at 7am, Qatar time. The passport control involved some brusque questioning about the nature of my visit and the payment of 55 Riyals by credit card. With time to kill, Costa bleeding packet was my only option, so I had another drink and sat there wondering what day it was and what my name was.

Eventually I got a taxi to the site office, which the taxi driver seemed unable to locate despite 20-foot-high hoardings bearing the name of the project being placed along the road we were driving along. On the way, I took in the delights of Doha, Qatar. It is much more Middle Eastern that Dubai (which isn't hard, frankly). There isn't anywhere near the amount of building work going on, even though they are busy preparing for the Asian Games which start in 2 months or so. There aren't half as many huge, over-designed buildings sprouting from every available scrap of land. There isn't as much neon. They still drive like maniacs, yes. There are lots more what you would call Arabic buildings there. They seem to be obsessed with a horned animal called an Oryx, and even have a cuddly animated version as a mascot for the games. The other local obsession seems to be pearls and oysters, with references galore in bar names, development titles and giant sculptures sitting in the middle of roundabouts. Oy, mate! Your Venus is missing!

And yet, and yet...the influence of Dubai is slowly coming to the fore. There are new building projects, including the one which I am involved in, and they are building a Pearl Island, rather than a Palm Island, just off the coast. It still has a lot of catching up to do, and I sincerely hope they reign this ambition in a bit, because if everywhere turns into Dubai, the whole Gulf region will turn into a giant Vegas wannabe. Who wants that?

Maybe some people do, actually, because the expat people I met there seemed to be somewhat bitter about the fact that they were in Doha rather than Dubai, which meant they had the choice of a handful of hotels and bars to frequent, and not much else. It was difficult not to feel smug about the fact that I was going back to Dubai. As it was, I ended up staying more time than I was meant to, because the meeting about the Big Hole in the Ground ended up spawning more meetings about the Big Hole in the Ground, and the client decided I was needed there the next day. Oh, joy. So they changed my flight and booked me into a well-known chain hotel.

I was given a lift to my hotel by the chain-smoking South African site QS, and then I had to spend an bizarre, exasperating 20 minutes in the hotel gift shop, buying a shirt and some socks and pants and the like. Another notable difference - there was airport style x-ray machinery and a metal detector to go through when I entered the hotel. Slightly disconcerting, to say the least. To me it said, "Western Hotels are potential targets". A bit like when I was in the USA and had to go through similar levels of security to enter a Social Security office.

So, a night was spent in this hotel, in the company of a few hardened expats, and we ate and drank heartily and talked about Big Holes in the Ground until my day caught up with me and I headed for my room, only for me to do what I always do in hotels and turn on the telly. I laid and watched The Fast Show on BBC Prime (a real gem of a channel for expats), then the first hour of the film Gladiator (which I've seen many times, but I still love it) on another channel, before my heavy eyes made it impossible to watch any more, and I gave in to my need for sleep.

Next day, after a leisurely breakfast and shower, I put on the ill-fitting clothes that I'd bought in the gift shop and jumped into another day of intrigue. Our meetings concluded quickly, and I was conveyed back to the airport where I watched the surprisingly busy Doha airport runway, where planes of all sizes took off and landed to and from various exotic locations, including Bahrain, Kuala Lumpur and Manchester. On boarding my plane I wondered why they were using an Airbus A340, which is a large plane for such a short flight, but it soon filled up, mainly with sub-continentals who seemed to have incredible trouble with taking the seat they were allocated. This, along with the late arrival of about another 50 people, meant we took off about 20 minutes late. Oh well.

I found myself glad to be back in Dubai. And despite the searching questions of the passport controller and the temporary loss of my car, I drove away feeling quite good about stuff. I even went back to the office for half an hour and caught up with the boss before he left for 2 weeks holiday in the UK. I'm worried about it all. I'm enjoying the job. I'd almost given up on QSing, but coming here has shown me that it can be (reasonably) exciting and dynamic, especially when you're dealing with jobs of this nature, and you get to jet round the region. I think I'm doing OK. The boss seems happy with me. Fingers crossed, or Insha'allah as they say here, it will continue!