Going FREE!

I have finally got round to updating the book version of this blog, "One Year In Wonderland". It has been thoroughly overhauled, with some professional editing and a new cover, and includes a new chapter detailing an unexpected and unwelcome return to Dubai.


To mark the release of the new version, I have signed it up to the KDP Select program, making it exclusive to Amazon in e-book format, and allowing me to run a FREE promotion for five days. The free period starts on Monday 7th August.

One Year In Wonderland: Updated and Extended

The book...

Has now sold over 500 copies and is going well.

I am continuing to put the word out and am now working at finishing another book. This one will be about football (or soccer, depending on your location).

If anyone fancies putting another review up, I'd be delighted...as long as it's a good review, of course!

Review

OYIW has been reviewed by the lovely Grace, who runs the very interesting and popular blog "Sandier Pastures".

Sincere thanks to Grace!

One Year In Wonderland: 2nd Edition

Now on sale, with lots of improvements and a few additions.

The Book...

It's now published, after a fashion. Thanks to the power of web-based self-publishing I have now been able to put the book in the public domain, as long as you have a Kindle or other compatible e-reader (you can get Kindle apps for smartphones and computers, so you don't need an actual Kindle). I hope I've priced it reasonably!

Here is the amazon link for it:

One Year In Wonderland: A True Tale of Expat Life in Dubai

Book him, Danno

Well, I've finally got round to doing what I've bean threatening to do since I left Dubai, i.e. write a book about my time there. I have basically adapted and expanded this blog.

Now comes the hard part: trying to get it published!

I've been to collage...

Thought I'd share this. It is a few of my favourite snaps from my time there, put into a collage with Picasa, which I discovered the other day. (click on it to see the full thing)

For my latest trip...

http://behindthegreendoors.blogspot.com/

Oh crikey!

I wrote a letter to The Independent about the Dubai Credit Crisis in which I referred to this blog and it bloody well got published! Lookee here.

Oh bugger.

This article in the Times makes interesting and sad reading. Dubai is in trouble, and the rest of the world are suffering from the fallout.

I've just been reading back on my entry of 1st July 2007 and, without wanting to sound smug about it, can only think: "Surely someone must have seen this coming".

The fury never dims

And here's why:

http://fatandfurious.blogspot.com/

I don't make any excuses for it, it's just a place to vent and whinge.

I'm back

But not in Dubai.

See here for details:

http://daddydoesdoha.blogspot.com/

And now for something completely different.

A blog about my new location.

Read it and weep.

http://sofarinsofia.blogspot.com/

They're Gone!

Ten months after they arrived, they left. And I feel sorry for myself. More sorry than usual.

It finally happened, and now the whole thing feels like a strange dream. My darling wife and children got on the plane to Manchester last night after a horrendous check-in queue and an over-weight luggage trauma. I was able to stay with them through the check-in, and it's just as well. I had to take 6 kilos of stuff back home with me. I said goodbye to them just before passport control, and the little girl started crying as I bent down to kiss her on the head. So we all had a go in the end. The boy had had a cry during our last ever meal as a family in Dubai; the wife had blubbed a couple of nights ago; and I was set off by a song on the radio on the way to the airport. Even the boy's teacher had a cry on his last day at school.

It's not like anyone's died or anything, and this separation is only for a couple of weeks, but it's like I said before - goodbyes are painful. It seems to get harder every time. I think what has made it even worse this time is coming back to the half-empty villa, with little reminders sinking their teeth into me as I look round; a bag of toy bricks here; small, empty beds there. I laid awake for a long time last night, feeling like I was i strange bed in a strange house. The lack of a night light shining through the gap in the door from the passage made me feel on edge. Coming back from work today was hard as well. I drove up to the villa, parked the car and opened the door. Instead of children running to hug me, I was greeted by utter silence. The lack of a TV to just turn on and fill the void doesn't help either.

Luckily, I don't have to stay here long. I've been given a house to look after for someone who is away. They have a telly at least, and there are no memories there.

I don't know why I feel so utterly saddened about it. I think I'm sad because I feel like I've failed. We decided that we can't stay here as a family and make any money, which is primarily why we came, but I can't help thinking that we should have tried a bit longer. The family enjoyed it here, for all its faults. My wonderful son had a fantastic year at his school, winning an Achievement Award and scoring really well in his SATs. I worry that he won't get the same standard of education back in the UK.

But then I remember when I suggested (almost half-jokingly) the return to the UK. My wife and my son were so excited at the idea. I know where their hearts lie. I just hope this taste of another life has given them the appetite for further adventures in the future - maybe when things are a bit more settled and secure. Maybe when I get on top of my health problems. Maybe when hell freezes over, eh? Always the optimist.

Like I say, it's been an experience for us all. And life is about experiences. Or is it about vainly trying to delay the inevitable? Or is it about experiencing as much as you can before the inevitable?

Dubai has been an eye-opener. It wasn't what I expected at all. I never expected the wafer-thin facade to slip away so quickly, as I realised that behind the malls and hotels and beaches, there really isn't much here. The shallowness of the place and the people, especially the Western expats, has really surprised me. I never expected to get so infuriated and frustrated at the bare-faced hubris of the driving, the completely shameless incompetence of the customer "service" provision or the obstinate incongruity and ignorance of the general public. I never expected four to five months of intense heat and humidity that bears down on you with the density of treacle, rendering even breathing a labour-intensive task. I never expected to see fleets of white buses that they wouldn't transport animals in ferrying Asian men from their frightful labour camps to building sites and back. I never expected the colonial-style pecking order to be so utterly enshrined in the way of life. I never expected my feelings to be so mixed, because on the flip-side, there is a lifestyle of luxury and privilege available. If you have the right money and the right background.

A good friend asked me a question before I moved here, and now I can see where he's coming from. He asked. "Who are they building it all for? Who is going to live there?" From a small desert settlement, this metropolis has materialised like a mirage from the barren sands of the Arabian desert. In thirty years, less time than I have been alive, this city has flourished in the most inhospitable of places, and it has only just started. The scale of the construction taking place or proposed to take place is truly staggering. The infrastructure is being added or altered as an after-thought. I don't understand how it can be sustainable. The power and water requirements for what is already here are staggering; the UAE being the one of if not the biggest consumers of resources per capita in the world. It just doesn't ring true. The powers-that-be have amazing visions of vast cities full of vibrant culture and a lifestyle to aspire to, but as I've heard said: In dreams begin responsibilities. I hope it doesn't all fall down round their ears, but I just sense that the place doesn't have enough backbone, enough foundation. It is all built on sand, after all.

I'm leaving Dubai shortly, and this blog has been a place for me to vent my feelings and record my life here. It was all my own opinions from my own perspective. I hope it has informed and entertained those of you who have stumbled across it. I might start a new one when I get to my new location. Who knows?

Bye for now.

Fun and games in the sand pit.

Yes, I'm still here. I've had a bizarre couple of weeks, and am just itching to get back to the UK for a good break from this place. I had a little visit there the other weekend, to attend to some personal business (which I can't talk about yet), and also took the chance to visit my parents and brother in the North. This involved leaving Dubai on Thursday night, landing in London on Friday morning, attending to my business, taking the train to York, landing at about 4pm, wishing I had brought a jacket (it was wet and very cold), going for dinner with the family, going to sleep for a long time, waking up, having a full English breakfast, going for lunch in a nice café, then catching the train back to London, and catching the plane back to the sand pit, managing to catch less than an hour of shut-eye on the cramped, noisy Emirates flight that took off 90 minutes late.

This would have been bad enough, but as it was, my journey was not finished. I collected my suitcase, then checked in for the flight to Doha, for a working-week-long visit. Oh joy. I managed to get through Sunday on adrenaline alone, and after nodding off at my desk a few times, decided to go to the hotel (a flea-pit called the Regency) and sleep. I slept like a baby, but without the crying and soiling. At least I think so.

The week went OK, and quite quickly, but by the end of it, my tiredness levels weren't much improved and I felt that I was on the verge of my first proper AF attack since last November. It doesn't help that I have put most of the weight that I lost back on, or that I have been drinking and eating far too much for my own good. The old food tube and stomach have been complaining for a while, and greet most types of alcoholic intake with sharp, painful protest. Do I listen? What do you think.

So there I am, Wednesday night, finding myself lying on my bed watching a classic '80s film called Ferris Bueller's Day Orf (the upper class version). The mini-bar sits there taunting me with its chocolate and Tuc biscuits and fizzy drinks. Having eaten a very presentable curry at one of the places in Doha I actually like (a restaurant near the Tennis stadium), I should have been sated. But no, I had to have the Toblerone. And lo and behold, as Ferris' day came to an end, my food tube lurched and my heart did a little flip, and I was in AF. For fuck's sake. Not here! Not now! I was annoyed and scared. I didn't know where I could go or who I could call, so decided to try and sleep it off. It has worked before. I really did not want to go to hospital, especially as I was booked on the 3pm flight back to Dubai the next day.

It didn't work, so I rang the Dubai office and they told me I would have to pay for treatment myself and claim it back. Fair enough. I then rang my colleagues in Doha and arranged for a lift to the hospital. It was more of a clinic, actually, and the chap taking me there had enormous trouble finding it. Good job I wasn't actually dying. After an hour of sitting and sighing in the waiting area, I finally saw the doctor and he immediately told me to go to another, proper hospital. I was taken in an ambulance, which was good fun. They had the full blues and twos thing going on, and the journey was quite quick. The Landcruiser drivers must have been feeling generous.

So the usual routine started, and they jabbed me with canulars and stuck ECG leads all over me. The first nurse was impatiently brusque and quite rough with me. It was a government hospital, and was very busy, especially in the emergency room. Various men in various states were wheeled in looking forlorn or moaning and crying from their injuries. A few women in full viels came in as well, and probably looked forlorn as well, if their faces had been visible. Even when in pain and suffering, these women have to maintain their modesty to the outside world.

Eventually I was admitted to the coronary care unit, and placed in a room with 3 other men. No private rooms in this place. One was Phillipino, one was Indian and the other was Arab. The Arab was surrounded by visitors almost constantly, the Phillipino spent all his time on his mobile phone, and the Indian seemed to have a compulsive disorder that involved ringing the speaking clock on a hands-free phone. He even did this in the middle of the night when he wasn't snoring loudly and explosively. This was interspersed with the Arab shouting for Allah or arguing with nurses carrying needles. When I did manage to sleep, the nurses woke me up to stick more needles in me, either to draw blood or inject drugs. Unfortunately they have to do this on a regular basis to check for heart enzymes or something.

I was fully expecting to be zapped with the defibrillator again, like I was in November. I was hoping they would just get on with it, but they persevered with the IV drugs route and, by Jove, it worked. At about 4pm on the same day I was admitted, my heart sneakily reverted to Normal Sinus Rhythm. I called the male nurse to tell him, and he doubted it, but I reminded him that I was an expert, having had the condition for 7 years. I knew when I was in AF, and I knew when it was in NSR. So he did another ECG and confirmed it. Super.

I thought I might get home that day, but the doctors insisted that I wait to see the consultant the following morning. I thought it over and decided that it would probably be the best course of action. I had a flight and all the attendant rushing about and walking round airports ahead of me, so the rest would do me good, I thought. I didn't reckon with the noise in the room.

I shouldn't forget to mention the Doha Mr. Fixit. He came to see me at the hospital and made sure I had everything I needed. He brought me biscuits and phone batteries and was generally a really good help, especially in the absence of a family to visit me. After the consultant had seen me and discharged me on Friday morning, he picked me up and conveyed me to the airport to catch the 1pm flight back to Doha. His weekend attire was a complete change from his working week clothing, with him wearing a brilliant white dish-dash and skull-cap. I didn't recognise him at first when he entered the ward. For his help and care - well beyond the call of duty - I am eternally grateful.

So on to the plane I got, and the pilot told us it was going to be bumpy. It wasn't at all, until we were on final approach to Dubai, and then it was just a bit turbulent with a strong cross-wind giving our pilots a good work-out. I think these pilots mess with our emotions. When they say conditions are good, it is invariably a bumpy ride.

And now, I'm waiting for the nebulous future to form. I need a holiday. I need to give my body a break from the heat and the poor nutrition. I've decided to stop drinking alcohol full-stop, which can only be a good thing, even if I get funny looks at social gatherings. I need to get back on track and back into the right frame of mind to sort my health problems out. I am sick of being sick, as I mentioned before, but I need to sort out a few other issues first - like my future. All I know is that it lies somewhere other than Dubai.

The Weird and the Wonderful

Enough about me. For now. I'll be back to wallowing in narcissistic nonsense at a later date, but today, I'm going to post a few pictures of the weird and wonderful things I've seen in my time in the Middle East, mostly captured on my mobile phone's camera.

So, without further ado. let's start.

This first one was spotted in the More Café, which does great food, but this picture features an interesting item in the first menu choice. These would usually be found after standing with your back to a roaring log fire.


The next was taken a few months ago at the multi-storey car park near my office. The country was gripped by football fever as the UAE national team stormed to the final of the Gulf Cup (they eventually won). Nothing was safe from the colours of the national flag, and nothing was sacred, as expensive cars were spray-painted, or covered almost completely with stickers, like this one. I suppose it beats getting drunk and throwing plastic chairs.


At around the time of St. Valentine's Day, I came across this drink being marketed in a hypermarket. It is not subtle in the slightest, and you are left in no doubt as to what the intended effects are.


And talking of subtlety, this medication is for one of those embarrassing little conditions that people don't like to talk about. Can you guess what it is? Yes, that's right: Passing large red jewels. Quite painful, I imagine.


Of course, this clumsy literalistic approach can be quite endearing in its own way. Then they go and mangle the language as follows:


As I may have previously alluded to, the roads in this little corner of the world can be quite interesting, and sometimes throw up those Road Surprises that the signs on the way to Abu Dhabi warn us about. This marvellous example of a Routemaster was spotted on its way towards Garhoud Bridge. It was a surreal, jarring moment.

This was nearly as strange as the sight of a man - yes a MAN - riding this motorcycle around Doha. Not only is the colour of the bike a bit of a strange choice (for a MAN), but his attire leaves something to be desired as well.


And talking of the gloriously OTT, those cars which the tree-huggers love to demonise (Hummers) are big enough as it is, but then in Dubai, you can never get too big.


From the sublimely ridiculous to the plain old ridiculous. I spotted this completely pointless object in Doha. I could understand such nonsense at a mid-90s U2 concert, but I was just left asking: WHY?


Finally, this one is from only yesterday. It's a simple one-word statement - often used by the British - to describe groups of people we don't particularly like. What we have against these freeze-dried curries is anyones guess.

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.

Home is where the heart sort of flutters and jumps about

Back in Dubai. Finally. Thank the maker.

My last day in Doha consisted of waiting around a lot and seeing the reality of how Qatar's curious and archaic administration systems work. My residence visa was stamped into my passport in the morning, but then there was the issue of gaining an exit permit, which invariably involves chasing the local sponsor (someone enigmatically named The DOCTOR) around town, trying to get him to sign a piece of paper giving you dispensation to leave the country. If you're lucky, you might catch him before he leaves town for the weekend, in between doing whatever it is he does, which is often in another country. What happens in the case of an emergency is something I daren't ponder upon for too long.

In between these events, I had to sort out the hotel bill, and the boss in Doha came along with me when I checked out and tried to settle said bill using his credit card. The bill, being for a stay of almost 4 weeks, was an impressive one. It was over 30,000 Riyals. My boss had a credit card with a huge limit - more than twice that amount, but on swiping, the dreaded instruction "REFER TO BANK" flashed up on the machine. So, the boss rang the bank, getting through to a human being quite quickly, for once. Then the fun started. Firstly, they told him his limit wasn't as much as he believed it to be (even though it was still enough), then they told him that the maximum single transaction was 10,000 Riyals, and any transactions over this amount had to be authorised following a request in writing. It was all for reasons of security, said the bank, even though they had verified the ID of the person trying to pay the bill.

The Doha boss was aghast. After an hour of phone calls to and from the bank's call centre, in addition to phone calls from the hotel manangement to the bank, the bank agreed to allow the transaction through if a faxed request was sent through. So the fax was sent. I had a feeling about what was going to happen next, and I was right. The bank were called again to confirm that the fax had been received, and the bank said that everyone had gone home for the day, and the transaction would have to wait until Sunday. Luckily, the hotel management were sympathetic and understanding, and allowed the boss and me to leave on this basis.

This whole episode really stretched the Doha boss. He is a laid back character usually, but I could see the anger building up inside him as the ordeal wore on. The final straw for him was getting another phone call from the bank as we headed back to the office, saying that he had given an incorrect credit card number. It turned out they had misread a hand writen digit. On hanging up, the boss shouted an obscenity, which took me by surprise.

So, I got back to the office, and the company Mr. Fixit took me straight back out, chasing the DOCTOR for his prized autograph. On the way, Mr. Fixit told me that it was a good job he had a close relationship with the DOCTOR's driver, or things would be much harder. I just shook my head.

With the signature secured, I thought I was on my way, and phoned the WIFE to tell her. She cheered loudly at the news, and Mr. Fixit heard the cheer, his face breaking into a broad grin. Then he told me we had to go and take the signed exit permit to the visa office near the airport to get it stamped and entered into the system. Oh, come on! What else was there to do to get out of this place? Luckily there was only a short queue, and the process was quick, and I made it to the airport in time for my flight home.

The pilot lied again. They always do. He said it was fine weather for the flight, but most of it was pretty bumpy, which was more annoying than terrifying. Finally, finally, FINALLY, the lights of Dubai appeared under us and we performed a sharp turn before landing nice and smoothly at DXB. We were kept on the plane for 15 minutes or so, but then I managed to breeze through immigration and out of the airport, and got home less than an hour after we landed.

The drive along SZR was strange. I was glad to see the familiar sights; the colourful Fairmont hotel, the tower of white pin-prick lights of the growing Burj Dubai, and the iconic form of the Burj Al Arab. This city is so much more vibrant than Doha. So much more alive. Oh, I know, I know. I've changed my mind AGAIN. What am I to do? I am confused. Some things about Dubai drive me mad, but having spent 4 long, lonely, boring weeks in Doha, and seeing the way the place works, I realise that I might have been hasty in dismissing the option of remaining here out of hand. The cost of living situation is still a major issue, of course, and the family will almost definitely have to go back (unless someone has a 3-bed villa for 90k going spare), but I could stay here and earn a good wage and at least not be so bored that I turn to eating and drinking excessively. And in terms of problems with moving, it would be the easiest option of all the ones I've considered.

And now the weekend is almost over again, and it's back to work in the Dubai office tomorrow to face whatever music might lie in wake for me. I don't know if it's going to be a Funeral March or a Victory Serenade. We shall see.

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.