Feeling flabby in Abu Dhabi

The GIRL had her third birthday on Friday, and her favourite presents seem to be the toy dishwasher and the toy medical kit she acquired. In between loads of teeny-weeny cups and plates going through the dish-washer, we were subjected to injections, stethoscope investigations and spoonfuls of invisible - but always nice-tasting - medicine.

After a brunch involving balloons, fudge brownies and a nasal rendition of Happy Birthday Dear GIRL by a chorus of South East Asian waiting staff at Planet Hollywood, we rolled home, and before long I had to depart for Abu Dhabi. The GIRL wasn't very happy, but I assured her my return would be swift. I had to go and see a man about an oryx, or something, and that involved an overnight stay in the UAE's capital city. So after a kiss and cuddle and another listen to my heart, I set off along Sheik Zayed road, past Jebel Ali, and out into the desert.

It isn't long before I am almost completely alone on the highway to Abu Dhabi. The motorway looks new, with pristine white stripes and dark, even tarmac. The infinite lines of metal crash barriers separate the road from the desert, which is bleak and flat here. There isn't much to look at, apart from the odd power line and scaffold-supported hoarding heralding some up-coming mega-development to swallow up the empty sand. Now and then, a lonely-looking man in traditional Pakistani dress appears by the road, watching the traffic zip by.

Then the desert changes, and more vegetation springs up on each side of the motorway, and a line of trees takes up residence along the central reservation. A few settlements begin to emerge, and it soon becomes apparent that you are in a different Emirate. The road signs change slightly, and the service stations become the blue and white liveried Adnoc station, each with a mosque in the vicinity. One large, yellow road sign raises a chuckle, imploring the driver to BEWARE OF ROAD SURPRISES. I wonder what kind of surprises they mean; giant birthday cakes in the fast lane? Or perhaps Orang-utans on Harley Davidsons.

Soon enough, Abu Dhabi was upon me, with the airport whizzing by on the left. I kept right as much as I dared, based on the little map I had bought at a book shop earlier. I only went slightly wrong, approaching the main part of the city on the wrong road, but parallel to the one I wanted to be on, so it was just a question of cutting across to the road I needed. Abu Dhabi has a nice easy grid system of numbered roads with odd numbers running one way and even numbers the other, so there was never much danger of getting too lost.

My inadvertant diversion was a blessing in disguise, because I managed to get a good view of the incredibly massive, and I mean ginormous, Zayed Grand Mosque which is under construction, and almost complete. It has more shiny white domes than a convention for the follically challenged, and four huge minarets that reach skywards like giant, ornate pencils. I've since heard that it has been under construction for years now, and has been beset with problems galore.

The diversion was, as I said, a problem of miniscule proportions, and I found my destination. The words "hotel apartments" tend to fill me with dread these days, after my experience with the hotel apartments I was subjected to on my arrival in Dubai last August, but I was in for a pleasant surprise. The hotel apartment I was given for the night was a newly-refurbished and very pleasant flat, with separate kitchen, bedroom and lounge, and even two - count them - two toilets. The kitchen was the most impressive part, with a proper cooker, a fridge freezer, a microwave, a kettle and full sets of crockery, cutlery and pots and pans. Call me easily pleased, but I was impressed.

That night, I was entertained by a chap who works for the company I had come to meet in the morning, and we partook in a perfectly adequate Mexican meal and a few tonsil-loosening beverages. After the meal, we went to a bar called Hemingway's at the Hilton hotel. It had three distinct zone within it, including a deserted night club and a lively, smoky jazz bar, which is where we ended up, watching the obviously talented musicians strutting their stuff on a stage the size of an A4 envelope. My company for the evening told me that they used to have a grand piano on said stage, which meant the rest of the band had to huddle together in one corner. I hope they got on well.

After the jazz, which really ain't my bag, since I don't wear polo-neck sweaters and say "Nice" all the time, I was conveyed back to my hotel apartment, taking in the sights of Abu Dhabi Corniche as we went, passing the Emirates Palace and various other landmarks on the way. There aren't as many huge skyscrapers as in Dubai, with no building over 40 storeys by my estimation. It seems this will change, as seems to be the pattern round these parts. The amount of high buildings is obviously a good barometer of a nation's and city's status.

By daylight, AD appears to be a much greener and tranquil place than Dubai, and yet seems livelier and more developed than Doha. I also noticed that the air is much clearer, which is nice when you are used to the ubiquitous dust of Dubai, from the construction sites that take up a pretty large slice of the land, and if there isn't a construction site, there is invariably a sandy wasteland waiting to be developed. AD has some construction, of course, but you get the sense that the place is far more established, with more grass and trees - almost approaching Al Ain levels in some areas. Of course, if you lived here, got a bit bored with the place, and had the urge to subject yourself to the in-your-face glitz and craziness of Dubai, you know it's only an hour and a bit to drive there. I don't see why you would want to do it that much, as there seems to be plenty there. It maybe doesn't attract the same headlines and events that Dubai does, but on the other hand, AD has just won the rights to host the 2009 Formula One Grand Prix, so there must be something going for the place.

So, dawn broke, and I slept off the previous night's alcohol. I had made the mistake of leaving my car in an unsheltered spot overnight, without the sun shades in the front window, and by the time I finished my late-morning meeting and got in it to go home, it was past noon, and the temperature inside could easily have baked a few scones. The steering wheel was white hot, so I had to treat it like a hot potato as I navigated my way back out of AD, at least until the AC had cooled the car down. I stopped for a hot dog for dinner, then continued back towards Dubai, sticking the mp3 player on shuffle and listening to a few good driving tunes as the greenery of AD disappeared into the haze behind me.

You know you're in Dubai when you start seeing the cranes. There are new buildings springing up at least 20 kilometres before the Ibn Battuta mall. The metro line extends right into Jebel Ali, much further than I realised, with the thick, evenly-spaced columns sprouting up all along the side of SZR up to the Trade Centre roundabout, before veering left towards Burjuman and Bur Dubai. Some have nothing on top, just a section of bare reinforcing steel, others have concrete plinths sat atop them which will support the u-shaped pre-cast sections of the track bed, and quite a few already have the track bed extending between them. This track bed increases in length every day. They are going at some pace, and they have to, because the metro is supposed to be working in 2 year's time. There weren't even any columns when I arrived 10 months ago, so I mean it when I say they are cracking on with it.

A curious thing I've noticed about the metro is the way the raised track is designed. It doesn't go along at one level as you would expect, but rather resembles some kind of drawn-out rollercoaster ride with rises and dips taking the track over and under the many bridges and fly-overs at the junctions of SZR. I'm not an Engineer, but this seems a bit strange to me. I thought trains didn't like slopes. It will certainly be interesting to see what a train going along at 100kph will look like as it rises and falls on this track. I hope they will provide sick bags.

And then, another weekend has ended, and that means work. Sunday was the day from Hell, or at least Hull, which isn't far off. I had been trying to meet several deadlines at the end of last week, and with three major ones on my shoulders jockeying for position, I had to try and manage my time in an effective manner. I sometimes struggle to do this, especially with the impossible demands that Middle Eastern companies seem to have, and managed to meet the sum total of none of my major deadlines. I was too phased and dazed to work the weekend, and I had prior commitments anyway, so the mess I had to clear up on Sunday was not good. I had snotty e-mails from clients and lectures from Managers and phone calls from crazed Engineers, all telling me I was crap and making me feel crapper. By the end of the day, I had put out most of the fires that had sprung up, but it was bloody hard work. What I need now is a long holiday - two weeks of doing nothing. I'm scheduled to go back to the UK for 2 weeks mid-July, and I can't wait.

The Heat Is On

Summer is well and truly on its way, and the opportunity to partake in outdoor pursuits is diminishing. It is still possible to sit outside in the shade at lunchtime or go for a walk on an evening, but it invariably results in sweat pooling in unheard of bodily regions. Not really pleasant.

But there we go. Summer is the Winter of the Gulf, when the weather forces long spells inside. Everything is the wrong way round. We wear as little as is decently possible, and drink the coldest drinks available, but then for a break from the cruel, indefatigable heat, we can go to Ski Dubai and scrape our hands on the sled runs. I still have the scar from New Year's Eve.

So I've been back in Dubai for over a week now, and have just about recovered my sanity after my incarceration in the 26-floor prison they call the Movenpick Towers hotel in Doha. No more buffets for breakfast, lunch and dinner (or dinner and tea, depending on your class). No more cloying attention from grinning hotel workers who pretend to worship the ground you walk on, but secretly harbour murderous feelings to the pampered, corpulent westerners who just want to be left alone. Instead, I actually have to make my own breakfast and load the dishwasher and wipe my own bum. It's taken some getting used to, but I think I'll be OK.

The best bit of my first week back was the peace and quiet at work. The BOSS was on holiday, and the client decided he had badgered me enough during my last week in Doha, so I was able to work at a leisurely pace and get on top of my work for once, instead of vice versa. Lunch hours were taken without worry, even though most of the conversation was about how bad our company was and who was going to leave next. The rest of the time I spent pondering my future, whether that is here in the Middle East, or elsewhere. Even though it was relatively quiet, the week still went quickly.

On Thursday afternoon I was invited to go for a drink by a chap who I chat to on an internet messageboard for expatriates. I have met him before through a mutual friend, so I went along to Aprés at the Mall of the Emirates to meet him and another messageboard contributor who had been giving me some stick for my musical tastes. We had a few relaxed drinks (raspberry mojitos - very, very nice) and talked about the crazy world of Dubai and the crazier world of virtual Dubai, and before I knew it, 2 hours had disappeared, and it was time for everyone to go. It had been a nice way to round off the week, and I wouldn't mind making it a regular fixture.

As it is, I had to disappoint another friend by going to Aprés. When I got his text message, I was already on my way there. He knows who he is. He probably thinks I'm trying to avoid him at the moment with everything that has happened recently, and I will admit that I have needed some time to reflect on certain new information that has come to light, but I'm not ignoring him. There will be a time and a place, I'm sure. I hope he understands.

And then, the weekend. I had been looking forward to Friday, because there was a Star Wars marathon, showing all 6 films in sequence, on one of the movie channels. So we went shopping early on Friday to get it out of the way, and rushed back to the villa to get the TV on. I would have missed about 10 minutes of the start of Episode 1, but I could live with that. Episode 1 is the weak link, as I'm sure most people know. I didn't reckon for the weak link in my expectations. It turns out that I don't have the movie channel in question in my package. I just naturally thought we would have it, but after several flicks through all 247 channels of utter pap, the movie channel in question was not to be found. I was gutted. I rang the TV provider and asked if they could turn it on, and was told that I could, as long as I filled in 13 different forms, took them in person to 13 different offices, then travelled by foot to Al Ain to milk a goat called Colin, and finally getting the channel activated in 45 working days. Forget it. The Farce is strong in this one.

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 week is a long time...

in politics. And while the time flies by here, so much can happen from day to day and week to week.

Last week, I was buzzing. I was on a real high, heading back to work after a week's break with a pay rise under my belt and the praise of my clients and the BOSS ringing loudly in my ears. I was enjoying my job for the first time in years and the future was brighter than the desert sun.

Soon enough, things turned sour. Things had been going too well. One little stupid thing (I won't bore you with the detail) that had been missed between me and a chap who works in our office in Doha (who was on holiday the same week as me) gave some people the excuse to knock me off my pedestal with a nonchalant swipe and then jump up and down like a gleefully peeved elephant on the broken pieces on the floor. Like they say: one day you're the pigeon, the next day you're the statue covered in cack.

So work got a bit uncomfortable for a few days towards the end of last week. I took the opportunity to go for a drink with a mate and drowned my sorrows in various curious places around Dubai.

Which brings me nicely on to the next subject for today's incoherent rant. We went to a bar called Scarlett's at the Emirates Towers. It's a pleasant enough joint as joints go. We met some of my mate's friends, and one of them was an Emirati, who wore a natty black dish-dash. He sat with us sipping Bacardi breezers quite happily. It happens. Muslims aren't meant to drink alcohol. They do. I'm not meant to think about sex all day. I do. Shit, as everyone knows, happens.

But anyway, we were there integrating and getting along famously until a man approached our table. He was dressed like all these hospitality industry managers are, with a cheap navy suit and greased-back hair, exuding self-importance and bristling with truculence. Or something. He talked to our local friend in Arabic for a moment, then disappeared from the scene, back to pushing his pens and worthing his jobs. Our friend smiled knowingly and told us that he had been asked to leave the bar at 10pm. I was quite astonished. Here he was, in his own country, and he was being asked to leave an establishment because of who he was and what he was wearing.

Immediately I imagined the uproar if such a thing was to happen in the UK. The right-wing tabloids would have a meadow, pasture and field day. But it didn't bother our Arab friend. He just shrugged it off, finished his drink and left.

So Thursday I was a little jaded, but not really too hung over. The weekend couldn't have come quick enough. The BOSS still had time to shout at me a bit before letting me go on Thursday night, and I managed to get lost going to a meeting in Deira that afternoon. I finally got to my meeting 50 minutes late, after another session of steering-wheel head-butting and angry assertions to the empty car about how much I hated this place. To be fair, at least 10 of those minutes were wasted trying to get a lift in the most stupid lift lobby known to man. Instead of buttons to choose the floor in each lift, I had to press a number on a console in the middle of the lift lobby. It then told me which lift to use, but I waited a long, long time for my lift to arrive, while other lifts came and went from the ground floor. I only wanted to get the first floor.

Thursday night was relaxing. The WIFE went out with some friends and left me alone to watch a DVD or two. I only ended up watching one (Casino Royale - very good) before getting tired and going to bed.

So at the weekend we ended up going to the newest shopping mall in town - Festival City. I think Vegetable City sounds better, personally. It's shaped like a cucumber, which is nice. Half the shops aren't open yet, you can't walk along the much-vaunted canal yet, and to be frank, the standard of finish in the open sections is shockingly bad. They didn't even bother to clean the veneered wood panelling properly. It should be nice when it's finished. Which goes for the whole of Dubai, if we're honest.

Money, money, money

FINALLY. I got my car loan. I've been trying for about a month to get one, and yesterday the money was credited to my account. Now I can get the two cars I need. The relief! Nearly as good as coming out of Atrail Fibrillation. I have made myself ill over it all - and in hindsight I shouldn't have, but when you come up against the incompetence, intransigence and sheer bloody-minded beauracracy that I've encountered over the last month, I defy anyone to remain calm. Today, as something of a celebration, we went for brunch at Mina A'Salam, a hotel at the Madinat Jumeirah. It has had a lot of good write-ups, and it was fantastic, and I'm still stuffed 5 hours after eating. The kids were well catered for as well, and even though it was quite pricey, the free-flowing booze and really high-quality food made it all worthwhile. The ambience there is really special, and the Madinat is probably one of my favourite places in Dubai. I can't wait to take some of our guests there when they come to visit. My doctors probably won't be happy that I've had a few glasses of wine, but I've not had any for at least 3 weeks, and probably won't have any more for a good while now. A little of what you fancy, and all that.

Anyway, the bank episode is in the past now. Let's move on. Another week has zipped by in the blink of an eye. We are busy again, and it shows. The morale in the office is dipping badly again, so much so that the newest of the staff have noticed it. It doesn't help that the BOSS has been on the rampage this week. Before Christmas he delivered a fatwa on people not wearing ties, and this week he has been cracking down on early lunch leavers and anyone with the notion of having a life outside of work. A couple of his comments this week have left me bamboozled. He suggested (half-jokingly, I think) that my family were dispensable when there were important clients to be placated, and then when someone had to cancel some leave, he said he didn't have ANY sympathy, because holidays were more of a privelege than a right, especially as he has worked years with only 2 days of leave.

That's all fair and well, but for some of us, work is a means to an end. I work to live, not vice-versa. I will give my all and put my best in at the office, and have no qualms about doing a bit of work outside my allloted hours and travelling to places like Doha for a few days, but when the implication is that work comes first, second and third, with family life a poor fourth, I start to get worried. There are people in this world who like to come to work at 7am and leave at 8pm, and they make it out to be some kind of macho honour thing, but to me that's bullshit. You can only be effective for so long during a day, and 9 hours is about right. I will take a lunch break, and I will leave work at 6pm, unless there is a really urgent job that NEEDS to be done. If we feel obliged to stay long hours or are made to feel guilty for not doing so, I honestly think it makes for bad morale. But there we are, and there we go. It pays the bills, and the work is quite interesting. I've learned loads since I came here, and the CV will not suffer with the scale and type of project I'm working on now.

One thing I've started to notice at work and in general is the behaviour of some people here, in particular Western Expats. I've noticed the way some of these people talk to and behave towards people of other nationalities here, especially South-Asians or Eastern-Asians. So not to beat about the Dubya, they treat them like dirt. They shout at and berate them for the slightest lapse in standards of service, they show no gratitude or even basic manners towards them, and seem to think they are perfectly entitled to lord it over these people. They wouldn't get away with it at home, because they'd get told where to go forth and procreate, I have not a shred of doubt. The thing is, it's a double-edged sword, because the people on the receiving end just take it, say, "Yes, sir/madam," in their whiny American accent and scurry away sheepishly when they've been reprimanded by another highly-strung, self-important expat. Some of them look petrified when you talk to them, and then they look genuinely astonished when you say Please and Thank You to them, before breaking into a broad smile.

I often wonder how much these people resent us moneyed westerners, especially when we act like complete and utter twats towards them. I want to be there when one of them finally cracks, and tells some jumped-up, betroot-faced, flip-flop-wearing fool that they added their own special ingredient to their drink. I just hope it isn't me. Yes, I have witnessed poor service in the past here (the bank!), and yes, I've admitted that I get annoyed and wound up, but when I talk to people I'm doing business with I always try to remain calm and composed and respectful without raising my voice. I usually rant and rave about it to myself afterwards, because rude, arrogant behaviour and trying to humiliate some poor sod when it's probably not even his fault just breeds resentment and contempt and is unlikely to achieve any improvement in service.

It seems to be a pattern here. People change when they come here, and do stuff they wouldn't dream of doing back home. Of course, it's a different country, and a different lifestyle, and as the old saying goes - When in Rome - but people here don't do what Romans do, they act like frigging Cybermen. On acid. I've witnessed expats who don't secure their young children in car seats before driving on the third deadliest roads in the world. I've seen people who seem to think it's perfectly fine to drink drive on a regular basis, and when I say drink - I mean drink. This is despite the fact that the punishments here are more severe than back home. It's as if coming to this place makes them take leave of their senses. Is the almost-permanent sunshine melting their brain cells? Hard to say, really, but as with most things, it's probably a combination of things. As long as they can get away with it, they'll do it. And no amount of tutting and writing letters to 7 Days will change that.

But the funniest thing about it all is when I hear some expat say to me that they came here to get away from all the immigrants who don't respect the British Way Of Life, and the so-called PC brigade pandering to their every whim. So they came to a county which is 80% immigrant and bends over backwards to accomodate Westerners and their love of excess. On the other hand, they can come here and lord it over the non-white immigrants who don't earn as much money, because it makes them feel big and clever. I'd really love to see them talk to an Emirati like that.

And still - I'm happier than I've been for a long, long time. Life here is pretty good in the main. Nothing will ever be perfect, but you have to make the best of it, and I think that's what we are doing. I've spent too much time in my life sweating the small stuff.

It's the most wonderful time...

of the day.

Three hours left in this quiet, windowless office. The urge to stuff my face with chocolate is pretty strong. Who works on Boxing day? What a load of old bollocks. It's a real come-down after I almost - ALMOST - enjoyed yesterday.

Actually, it was good. We had a nice time. The kids loved their presents and were full of joy and brightness and all the other things that have been slowly sucked from my soul over the years. Christmas lunch was really quite enjoyable. The venue (Courtyard Marriott at Green Community) was pleasantly decorated and they looked after us terrifically. Our waiter - an Indonesian man named Yoyo (I kid you not) - was genuinely pleasant and attentive to our every need.

We were first in, arriving just before 12pm, so had the whole buffet area to ourselves for a bit, until people started filtering in. By 1.30pm the place was full and buzzing with cheerful conversation. We feasted on smoked salmon, turkey, roast ham and Christmas pudding, and it was all really tasty. The only thing missing was stuffing and brussel sprouts.

Outside, the sun shone in a warm blue sky. We could see a swimming pool out of the window and there were people sat out there drinking. Some even went for swim. It was somewhat strange to be sat eating Christmas dinner, pulling crackers and wearing silly paper hats in such a place.

By 3pm, we couldn't force any more food or drink down our gullet, and I was feeling merry enough, so we paid our bill and headed home, weaving through massive queues of lorries and trucks on the Emirates Road. It's almost like just another day here.

We spent the evening playing games and ate a small, late tea of a few sandwiches. Phone calls to relatives and friends were made, and that was the point when me and the WIFE realised what we were missing. We chatted via video-link to my parents on MSN Messenger, as they prepared to eat dinner at my uncle and aunt's house in Scotland. We spoke by phone to the WIFE's parents, and there was obvious emotion in the voices coming down the phone lines. These are the times you that miss your family.

So, this morning, I had to get up for work again, and face the commute through the blowing sand. It seems a bit pointless, as a lot of people are away, and it is soooooo quiet, and the locals are gearing up for the next Eid, which happens at the end of the week. We should get a couple of days off round New Year at least.

But there you go. Christmas is done and dusted for another 12 months. I wonder where we will be next year.

'Tis the season to be jolly...

Falalalalalala and so on.

A little song for you:

Dashing through the sand,
In a blacked-out four-by-four,
O'er the dunes we go,
Honking all the way,

Horns and flashing lights,
If you get in my way,
Oh what fun it is to drive at high speed here tonight...

Oh, Jingle Bells, Dubai Smells,
Sharjah's even worse,
If you're lucky your landlord,
might leave dosh in your purse,

OH! Jinle Bells, Dry oil wells,
At least we've got the malls,
Spend and buy on credit
Till they have you by the balls.

I imagine someone will find reason to be terribly offended by that. Sorry if that's the case, I just made it up in 5 minutes.

Well, what a frankly stupendous and baffling couple of days we've had. It all started on Monday morning when I woke up in AF at 5.30am. I told the WIFE and she sighed and said, "Oh God, not again..." or something along those lines. The good thing is, it went back to NSR within 3 hours, after I went back to sleep for a bit. I thought I should see the doctor, so went along to the hospital and he told me that it was probably a mixture of stress (traffic! money! banks! work! visas!) and over-doing the exercise. Well I had given it LARGE at the gym the night before and was shattered. I think that I have been doing too much too soon, so I think I might rein it in a bit.

Anyway, the doc advised me to take the rest of the day off, even though I felt that I should really go to work because work would be getting a bit peeved with all this time off. But I went home in the end and rested up. I had a bout of dodgy old belly that afternoon as well. Dunno if it was IBS or some bug, but it disappeared by the evening.

The evening...oh yeah. We ended up seeing doctors again, but this time it was the GIRL who was the patient. Somehow she managed to wedge her finger into a kitchen cupboard door hinge and got it stuck. The WIFE pulled it free and it was cut badly. There was a lot of blood, and it didn't look like a band-aid would do any good, so we clamped some kitchen towels over her finger and rushed her to the clinic round the corner at Springs Village, where they stitched her up. They needed 4 people to hold her down while an impatient doctor put the stitches in. Telling a 2-year-old to stay still when you're doing that is pretty much a waste of effort. The WIFE was in the room with her, and I waited outside with the BOY, listening to nearly 45 minutes of shreiking and wailing coming from the room. The poor WIFE didn't have that luxury and had to endure her daughter begging her to get them to stop. Both of us would have taken her place if we could.

About half-way through the poor little thing's ordeal, I decided to take the boy and go to the ATM out in the entrance area, across from the Choithrams shop. I needed to get that shreiking out of my head, if only for a moment. So, I walked out and was hit by a completely surreal moment. In the opposite entrance lobby near the shop, there was a Grotto of sorts, consisting of random, scary-looking models of animals wearing winter clothes, and a scruffy Santa sitting there looking bored beyond tears. There weren't many kids around, and no-one going to talk to Santa, and the sound that reached my ears told me why.

Coming full-blast from a portable stereo was a Christmas song, but it wasn't any Christmas song, it was Kevin Bloody Wilson singing "Ho Ho, Fucking Ho, What a Crock of Shit" in his inimitable style. The Santa and his elves stood around completely oblivious to the filth spewing out and echoing around the lobby as people ushered their young children past whilst blocking their ears. After stifling a belly-laugh and remembering I had the BOY with me, I cleared my throat and asked Santa if he knew what the song was about. He didn't, but then other people started complaining as well and they eventually changed the music. Absolutely bizarre! You could not make it up.

Then last night we had our office Christmas Party at a hotel restaurant. It was seafood buffet night, so the turkey and brussel sprouts were nowhere to be seen. The wine and beer flowed, the cliques formed onto their own tables, mainly along nationalistic lines followed by seniority. I somehow managed to position myself on the Big Cheese table with a few members of the upper echelons of our company, and even had a brief chat with the MD about my work (good), my health (bad) and my future (who knows?). When he asked me to give critical feedback I did slip a mention about the administration problems in there, but I kept it reasonably polite and not too strong. He listened and made his own points, but before long the conversation moved onto penis-size and the next thing we knew there was a drinking game going on called The Boat Race, which is basically a line of people downing pints in sequence, and the first line to finish all theirs wins.

From there, it rapidly went downhill. One or two of the staff were starting to get extremely drunk, and one or two were looking to stir up fights. Apart from a few drunken threats and raised voices, nothing really nasty happened, and everyone dispersed into the night, catching taxis home or on to other venues. For some reason, I managed to get press-ganged into moving on to a night-club. I'm too easily-led for my own good. I wasn't drinking any more (I'd drunk enough, despite telling myself I should only have 2 glasses of wine) but it was getting late, and I should have called it a night there and then. But no, I ended up in a club called Rattlesnake.

Rattlesnake sounds dodgy, and it is. Entering the place was like walking into a Zombie movie. All the faces were ghostly blue-white with dark, sunken eyes in the UV lighting, and as we walked to the bar, desperate hands clawed and pawed at our arms. Instead of "Brains! Brains!", there was the call of "Luvyoolongtime. Fiedorra" or something equally spooky. Thankfully, I saw sense, and extracted myself after one drink, breaking free from the moaning, meowling masses, climbing into a taxi and speeding home to my waiting bed.

Work today has been an ordeal. Not really hungover, but really, really tired. Early night for me tonight.

The sands of time...

slither grain by grain, inexorably towards an unknown future. With every second that passes, another life is made, another life ends. Somewhere around this rock floating in infinite, inky darkness, someone falls in love. Somewhere in Dubai, my puny skills are no match for the DARK SIDE OF THE FORCE.

Random picture.















Er...

Ahem. Sorry about that. Where were we? Well, I'm still waiting for the visa. I found out today that I haven't got HIV. Which is nice. Now I only worry about black holes and comets. I never worry about curries, unless they're really hot.

But work has been interesting. I've been working like a dawg. In an office at a computer, which isn't really what dogs do, to be honest, but I don't care. And yet, my company, who shall remain nameless, still haven't paid me for the month of November. They keep putting me off and saying the equivalent of "the cheque's in the post". I also found out I have to fork out a load of money to sponsor my family. Which isn't nice, especially with Christmas just round the corner, approaching it like a white Land Cruiser with the obligatory blacked-out windows on the SZR, lights flashing manically. So I'm slightly peeved, if truth be told. The administration in my company is somewhat erratic. I don't understand why we can't be paid by automatic electronic transfer on a set date every month instead of relying on the vagaries of senior management's movements in order to get the requisite 2 signatures on every pigging cheque.

The atmosphere has gone downhill of late. We've all been told that we MUST wear ties at all times. Mine gets wet in the shower, but it doesn't wash... (groan) Everyone's up to their eyeballs and panicking and snappy and grumpy and when a few of us sit together for lunch, we invariably moan about work, particularly the management and the administration. They haven't even announced a Christmas Party. Maybe it's been cancelled this year. Maybe I'll turn into Tiny Tim. The sad thing is, a happy ship is a productive ship. An unhappy ship loses its deck-swabbers and its cabin boys like that (clicks fingers). I've lost count of the number of times people have said that they're going to quit. It's not as if there's a shortage of work round here.

Anyway......

I'd better be careful. The ears have walls and the eyes have hills, etc. At least I ain't writing this at work.

Waiver: The opinions stated in this blog are a load of old bollox. Names have been changed (and not even mentioned) to protect the guilty. The writer is a highly-strung muppet with a penchant for self-pity and self-righteous bluster. Please send cash now.

So, I'm still doing the gym thing. I'm going every night of the week, and the WIFE and the BOY are not really happy, because it means I don't get home till after 8.30 or 9.00pm. The thing is, the hotel where the gym is located is just of the SZR, which means it is best to go straight there from work, rather than going home first then driving back the wrong way (with all the traffic heading back to Deira/Sharjah, etc.) because even at 8 or 9pm, the traffic is still a complete bleeding nightmare. I have tried it once or twice, and a 15-minute journey can take up to an hour going that way. I've decided that when my free membership is finished, I'll join the gym here in Springs. Then I can come home, see the kiddies and then go to the gym to get all sweaty.

I had a good session tonight, as it happens. I wasn't keen on going all afternoon, especially after walking around the Cityscape Exhibition at lunchtime (it was HUGE, and some of the buildings and developments looked amazing and staggering - they had an 8-foot high model of the buidling that is meant to emerge from the Big Hole in the Ground), but in the end, after getting annoyed at work, I decided to have a quick blast. The quick blast ended up as a long work-out, with cross-training (yeah, I was cross) and lots of upper-body resistance work. I feel somewhat puny struggling with really light weights, but I'm getting better and stronger and my stamina is increasing. My waistline is shrinking rapidly, but I seem to have stopped losing weight at the fast rate I was before. I suppose that's a good thing, because if it's too fast, it's unsustainable, and as everyone likes to say - muscle weighs more than fat, and I'm definitely putting muscle on with the exercise. I am sort over wavering at about 8 or 9 kg less than I was when I started, which is pretty good going for just over one month.

Crikey, it was a month ago that I went into hospital with my last AF episode! It's flown by, and with the new drugs and eating regime and the exercise I am feeling so much better, and my heart flutters (which used to be frequent) have quietened right down. Long may it continue. My goal is to be drug free, healthy and my ideal weight in a year's time. Oh, and rich and famous would be nice, too.

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.

Three months down...

How many to go? Dunno. Who knows what's round the next corner.

So, I've been here three months tomorrow. It's gone so quickly, but it feels like longer, if you know what I mean. So much has happened since I accepted the job whilst on holiday in Pembrokeshire back in July. That seems so distant now, in both miles and minutes. One minute I was enjoying the sunshine in Wales, the next I was enjoying the sunshine of the Arabian Gulf.

And it could have been so different. During that week I went for an interview for a job in Afghanistan, and it was pretty much there for the taking. The clincher was the offer of free body armour. It clinched the decision to go to Dubai instead of a war zone.

So, now we're here, almost settled in, the weather is cooling all the time making it a pleasure rather than a chore to take a walk outside. Eating out can be done on terraces and balconies now. We went for a bite at the Jumeirah Beach Hotel the other night, sitting outside on the wooden decking amongst the light-decorated palm trees and granite water features, the towering form of the Burj Al Arab lurking just behind the trees, changing the colour of its lighting every so often from purple to blue to yellow to white. Shame the veal roast was a bit on the bland side...

I ask myself: Does that sum it up? Is this place a triumph of style over substance? Do the glittering hotels and sparkling malls hide the reality? Is this city on the sand built on strong foundations, or are the movers and sheik-ers setting themselves up for a seriously big fall? Doubts crowd the mind, like over-concerned, fussy waiters who want to know if everything is alright with the meal. Does anyone ever say, "no"? I don't.

I watched a short documentary by a local director the other day, linked on another UAE blog (Secret Dubai Diary - I would recommend it), called Do Buy. It's available on You Tube, and shows the sides of Dubai that you don't see reported in the glossy brochures or even in the papers that much. It's an eye opener for anyone in any doubt.

It didn't take long for me to realise what was going on here. You can't help but notice the constant stream of wheezing white buses full of blue-overalled, sullen-faced subcon men being shipped from their labour camps to the many construction projects sprouting from the sand, where they invariable work 12-hour days, 6 days a week. You can't help but notice the small armies of other blue-overalled men that beaver away watering the grass or trimming the palm trees that have been planted along the roads. Most of all, you can't help but notice that you don't see any of them in the shopping malls. The vast majority of the people in malls are Emiratis, Western expats, and professional family men from the subcontinent, who dress like Western expats. You don't see the labourers in there, or in the hotels, and these are the men who built them.

Being of a liberal, left-wing bias (I know, the shame), it is sometimes a strange feeling to live in a place that has been described by Jim Davidson as, "a right-winger's paradise," and he doesn't mean that David Beckham likes the place. For once, the man is right. If you're rich here, or a Westerner at least, you will love it, because you can live an opulent lifestyle under constantly blue skies. What does that make me? A champagne friggin' socialist, no doubt. I prefer red wine anyway.

And still, and still... what can you do? I DO like it here, well most of it. I came here by choice. My eyes were wide open. I knew this place was an obscenely corpulent (and growing) capitalist's wet dream. Of course, I didn't know everything about it, and I still don't. I didn't know about the prostitution that is rife and completely brazen in areas of Bur Dubai. This came as something of a shock. I didn't know (despite the warnings) that driving here is akin to playing Russian roulette with an AK-47, with aggressive and dangerous driving that regularly takes the breath away, and daily encounters with the aftermath of another crash. Now I know that I will probably buy a gas-guzzling 4x4 or other large vehicle for the family. I just think they'll be safer in that than in a small family saloon. Am I wrong to want to protect my family?

Yes, my own hypocrisy does trouble me on occassion - well quite often. I like the lifestyle. I like the sunshine. I like the mostly tax-free living. I understand that I'm a lucky sod for having what I have, even if I whine on and on about my health. I realise that I'm extremely fortunate to have been born where and when I was, with the best chance to live a more-than-comfortable life. When I'm dodging speeding Prados and Landcruisers with permanently-flashing headlights and blacked-out windows on Sheik Zayed Road, I often see these buses full of the blue overall brigade. I see them staring impassively at the unreal world outside, staring at us Western expats and our clothes and our cars. I wonder what they are thinking. Are they envious? Are they angry at being seduced by a dream but buying a nightmare? I'm sure they wouldn't want my pity. I'm just glad that I'm on this side of the window.

Tomorrow I fly to Doha for another look at the Big Hole in the Ground. I'm staying till Wednesday at least, so might not post on here for a while.

Ciao for now.

Never again...

We always say it, but we always end up going back to booze, like we go back to the slightly mad lover who gives us great sex but then beats us up with a large frozen sausage....

I went out with some chaps from work last night, to a very nice bar called Scarlett's, situated in the promenade at the bottom of the Emirates Towers.



(There wasn't actually any fog when I went, but I like the pic)

(And it was dark)

So....I arrived quite early (the WIFE wanted to get home and get the SPROGS to bed) and stood at the bar for about half an hour, drinking a leisurely pint of Guinness and eating the nasty cheesy nuts provided for me by the bar staff. I watched people come and go. People watching can be quite interesting in Dubai - you see people of every nationality, dressed in so many different ways, speaking many different languages. And of course, you imagine what they do and what they are like. Anyone earing a sharp suit and flashing around their blackberry is immediately labelled a complete fucking poser, any group of giggling females are probably trolley dolleys, and any single bloke is a desperate loner. Oh, yeah...I arrived alone, didn't I?

Then my boss turned up, and said Hello to me and the guy stood right behind me, who happened to be from my company, but site-based. He had actually been there when I arrived, and we had stood there at the bar in complete ignorance and silence for 30 minutes. There's some kind of quantum mechanical phenomenon that could describe this situation. Or maybe there isn't.

Anyway, they all started piling in, the boss had his credit card prised from his cold, dead hands, and the tab was up and running. Guinness followed Guinness. I started to lose count. I got talking to the other new guys who have been joining the company in their droves recently. I felt like an old hand with over 2 months under my belt when I talked to the chap who arrived last week. "Oh, yeah," I said, "Dubai this, Doha that...price of formwork - terrible inflation...bibble....really dodgy bars in Bur Dubai....bobble...have you been to Ski Dubai? Yadda yadda..."

After pint 4 or 5 I had an orange juice to pace myself and to prevent what could turn into a next-day Atrial Fibrilation episode if I wasn't careful. The quizzical looks came my way, along with the comical and the condescending. Can't handle your drink, eh? So the next OJ had some vodka in it. Call me an easily-lead weak-minded fool. Obi-Wan would have a field day with me. These aren't the Quantities you're looking for....

Then I had 2 Coronas, not coronarys, and a few snacks ordered in a moment of the munchies. Then I was too drunk and too tired to carry on, but sober enough to know that I should make my way home. So I said my goodbyes, shook everyone's hand, and got a taxi home.

This morning was bad. Two important meetings. Lots of concentration required. The traffic lights failed at the Trade Centre roundabout just as I was approaching them on the way to meeting number one. The client Project Manager went a bit beserk over some of my figures at meeting number two. It was a looooooong old day. So now I'm off to bed.

G'night all.

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!

Huuuu liyuvs inner plaice liyuk thus???

We do! Yep, that's our "Villa", in the Springs area of Emirates Hills, Dubai. At last I've got the hang of posting pictures. I managed to re-size it with some fancy software that I have on my new laptop because the original was taking up the whole bloody page! Now I'll be posting loads of photos.

There was even worse fog this morning. More people with hazards, and police everywhere for a bloody change, but they weren't doing anything worthwhile, all they were doing was directing (blocking) traffic on the roundabout near Springs where the Emirates Road meets Al Khail Road. Cray-zay!

Work was good again today. More meetings about massive amounts of monet and some really good heated discussions, which are always fun to watch. The weirdest bit about today was arriving at the meeting to hear a few of the local guys discussing the events of 5 years ago to the day (9/11). There were some bizarre and interesting theories being bandied about, and quite extreme differences of opinion on who or what was responsible and who or what was controlling those planes. It reminded me of when I worked in Northern Ireland and was in a meeting where they started blaming various paramilitary groups for this and that. Like today, I decided to keep quiet and listen with interest.

But, talking of work and (gulp) flying, I'm off to Doha on Wednesday. Should be interesting to see another bit of the Middle East, and possibly somewhere a bit more "real" than Dubai.

They're Here!

Not the Magic Camels of Nad Al Sheba, or the Mystical Maniacs of Sheik Zayed Road - no, my family! Woo-hoo.

I tell you what, though, what a bloody going on getting them in the country. It took almost 2 hours for them to get from the plane to meeting me. Sheesh. And with the phones not working, we were unable to communicate, so I must have turned about 4 different colours while I was stood waiting for them.

Anyway, they're here now, and it's like a whole other chapter of our lives has begun. The chapter involving my time alone in this crazy city is over, and now the chapter with my family begins. I hope that they like it. They seem to be getting into it. The BOY is taking to his new school like a duck to hoi sin sauce. The GIRL couldn't care as long as she gets her dose of mind-numbing kids TV and regular food. The WIFE is just bamboozled, trying to learn how to drive on the wrong side of the car and the wrong side of the bloody road, surrounded by fecking eejits.

And then work kicks off big style. It would do, this week, wouldn't it? I've kind of been sitting on the sidelines up until now, like a spectator watching a really fast and scary ride at the fairground, such as the waltzer. Now I've suddenly been pushed onto the ride and getting spun round as fast as possible by the biggest, hairiest, tattoo-adorned gypsy you've ever seen. Wa-hey! This is fun! You see, the jobs over here are just immense. All these piddly little buildings back in the UK I used to work on are just small fry, like the kiddies rollercoaster shaped like some Caterpillar with a drugs habit. This work is like the Oblivion and the Nemesis at Alton Towersrolled into one, followed by a kick in the bollocks by Roy Keane for good measure. You stop to look at the figures on the page, and realise that you're shuffling around 100s of millions of pounds. Best not to think too much about it, really.

So, onwards and upwards. I just hope to the heavens above that my health holds out here. My heart arrhythmia has had a couple of moments so far, but I think I know how to control it. The downside is, I can't drink too much. The upside is, it will save me money. But then again, maybe it won't. I'll just eat more. Friday brunch tomorrow! Yippee!