Ol' Squit

Moira's Care Package

Technology is wonderful and I wouldn't be nearly as contented here without email to keep in touch with friends in GB and the use of Skype to make my weekly telephone call to mum. I think I've said before that my mum may have been the first pensioner in her village to go 'online' and use Skype. However, it does mean that I don't get very much 'proper' mail. The stuff that comes in an envelope or is wrapped up and can be held in the hands and savoured. That simple envelope with the Royal Mail stamps brings with it a much more important message - someone remembered me and cared enough to go to the trouble of finding a Post Office in Norfolk (no mean feat), then queue for the best part of an hour in order to spend an extraordinary amount of money to post a few bits of paper to me. Most days I check my pigeon hole at work, where all my post is delivered, to check if there is something nice awaiting me. As for most people, it's usually a bill or a bank statement. When I do find something there, my first reaction is to smile with delight and pick up the envelope or package reverently. Then I don't open it. Sometimes for days. It's like Christmas, you see. I want to keep that moment of having received something from home in the post for as long as possible. So that is why I've only just opened an envelope sent by my dear friend Moira, which I received a week ago. I have a letter somewhere, sent by Patsy last June, which I still haven't opened. That's mainly because it fell victim to the Great Move to Ol' Squit Towers. It's here somewhere, like most of my Important Things, but I can't quite put my hand on it. Small wonder that Patsy was miffed with me when we finally met up in the summer.

Thank you for being my friends Moira and Patsy.

So what was in Moira's care package? Well, it wasn't Red Cross chocolate or a packet of fags. For the princely sum of 1.56, she sent me 4 newspaper clippings and a copy of Green View. She'd been out delivering them door to door and happened to have a spare copy to send over here. Now I'm up to date with the news about the Green Party in Norwich and I'm as pleased as an eco-warrior who has found a family of healthy whales living in pristine waters near a wind farm. Young Adrian Ramsay is now Deputy Leader of the Green Party. Obama as President and Ramsay as the next MP for Norwich South. Truly the dawning of a new age of enlightenment. I must make sure that City Hall has my proxy voting authorisation. I know that I sent 2 forms to them organising my voting before I left England last year, but apparently they haven't got any record of it.

She also included an article about Morocco as she witnessed my angst last March when trying to make the decision of whether or not to invest in a small room just outside Tangier. As it happened, I took the plunge and I'm still crossing everything hoping that I haven't done something daft at such a dreadful time in the world' financial history. Another clipping is about Mad Men, the US TV series set in the 1960s. It's cringe-making TV for women and I loved the few episodes that I saw earlier this year when I still had a satellite. It's an excellent production and a much-needed reminder of how far the Western world has gone in the treatment of women. There is no doubt that the world has benefited from equal treatment of the genders, especially when you look at the mess in countries where women are still oppressed. It's a series that I really must get on DVD so that I can properly enjoy every award-winning moment. Another article was about fair play in cricket (not quite sure why you sent that Moira, but it's as close to baseball as you can get in GB and it's all very English so a nice reminder of home). Lastly an article about the ridiculous behaviour of Ross and Brand. What a sordid, sad story that was. I knew about it because of the invaluable BBC News ticker tape that runs on my computer at work. I had been chewing over a blog to write about the incident. It was going to be called Over paid, Over confident and Over on Radio 2. Don't you have that feeling that the whole debacle had been waiting to happen for quite some time now? When JR was paid that ridiculous salary to work for the BBC, which has to scrimp and save in every other area, I knew there would be tears before bed-time. I really like Jonathan Ross, but he was getting up himself in recent years. Having broken the F-word taboo in a chat show; the first few times he said it rather like a naughty boy in front of his aunty (after all the BEEB is called aunty) and it wasn't really offensive. It took me until I was in my mid 40s to say the word out loud. Unfortunately nowadays I say it all too often. And like me, Mr Ross became over-confident and used it more and more. The chat show became more about him than his guests. As for Russell Brand - the human pipe cleaner with a frayed end and a dirty mouth. I am totally bewildered by his popularity and never understood why he was considered suitable to host a show on Radio 2 in the first place. Radio 2 used to be a fabulous radio station, but first they lost Johnnie Walker and replaced him with the revolting Chris Evans and then Russell Brand took over Saturday afternoons. Isn't it enough that we have that overgrown schoolboy Chris Moyles on Radio 1, who's only talent appears to be mocking anyone and everyone in a very unfunny bullying rant; a trend that now passes for humour on the BBC it seems. Maybe it's something to do with the fact that these days it's being run by 25 year olds. They may be cheap but they don't represent the majority of the population. The last bastion of middle-age and 'proper' values is, of course, Radio 4. I was listening to the Radio 4 news online the other weekend and the newscaster made me smile. He clearly relished being able to report that 'Brand has resigned' and 'Ross has been suspended without pay'; each name spat out disdainfully. Every hour that he reported that item of news, you could tell he was smirking right up to his armpits.

While on the subject of care packages, I must just thank Fenella Up The Road who sent me a small package of free DVDs, which I devoured gratefully. My favourite was The Madness of King George: what an excellent film. What? What?

A global sigh of relief

I think I shall always remember exactly where I was at the time I found out that the American voters had done the right thing and that Barack Obama had won the election. I was sitting in the Nada Salon, just before 9 am, awaiting Geeta who had been highly recommended as a good cutter of hair. It was my first visit so I was a little nervous. I sat opposite the main door and when a lady walked in wearing a sari, I thought it was Geeta. She smiled and shook her head as she told me her name was Ruby. She strode across the reception area with her right hand outstretched saying "Congratulations!". She thought I was American. I told her my real origins but said that it didn't matter where we come from, we are all to be congratulated on this long-needed change of regime in the US. Hopefully this shameful era of buffoonery, cunning, greed, corruption and aggression is at an end. As Jean Luc Picard might say, "Make it so!".

I've missed all the TV analysis of the election results and the speeches of winners and losers. No TV channels and I spent Wednesday away from a computer, enjoying an extra day off for working a couple of Saturdays last year by shopping and watching "Angus, Thongs and Perfect Snogging" in the cinema. I did spend Wednesday evening with an American, which seemed fitting, although I had wondered if he might give me a 'raincheck' (such a quaint expression) in order to celebrate the election result with his compariots. Not a bit. I sent him a text to enquire and received the response "You, me 7 pm". If you're wondering, we're just friends and he lives 3 doors down from Ol' Squit Towers.

Yesterday's 'Sunday' papers were full of the election and as I read it occurred to me that the whole world expects this man to perform several miracles. I wonder how he must feel to know that - and he clearly does. He seems to have the personality and intelligence for the job. Then I tried to think of a known super-hero type person that would fit his situation. Someone who comes in to the rescue and makes everything all right. Superman. No, too overblown. James Bond who takes on evil and corruption to save the world. Nope, too egotistical, although Obama does look suave in a suit. Someone who has the ability to negotiate and to consider; a moral hero patiently and persistently fighting injustice against the odds because it is the right thing to do. Atticus Finch from To Kill a Mocking Bird. He would be better. Then I realised that all of the people I had thought of were white. Here we have the first black US president, and I cannot think of a black super-hero, real or fictional. That's not because there aren't any, but just that they haven't penetrated my body of knowledge. Of course, there is Martin Luther King, but I think of him more as an orator than a mover and shaker, probably mistakenly. Anyway, I did some research on the 'pooter and I've come up with some suggestions. There's Virgil Tibbs from In the Heat of the Night; in a way a reverse story of To Kill a Mocking Bird. Then I used Google to find a black super hero. I came up with two, although there is a long list of names, most of which I don't know. These two took my fancy. The first is Muhammed X, a sort of ally of Superman who's main power seemed to be something to do with fiddling with gravity. That might be useful for Obama, but I think he needs more.

Muhammed X - alters gravity

How about Shango, a fictional deity from DC Comics? This character repaired the Golden Chain linking Ife, the land of the gods, with Earth. We do seem to be in a desolate spot at the moment, so maybe this sort of background could be useful in our new President. I like the notion of reparation.

Shango the Thunderer, based on legends from Africa and the Caribbean

There we have it. Barack Obama needs the wisdom and patient negotiating skills of Atticus Finch and Virgil Tibbs. He needs the inspiration and oratorial skills of Martin Luther King. He needs the toughness of James Bond and Muhammed X. Finally, and perhaps most importantly considering the damage that has been done in the last 8 years, he needs the engineering skills of Geordi La Forge (Star Trek: Next Generation) and Shango, the god of Lightning and Thunder. The world isn't asking much, now is it?

Silver sandals and sandstorms

Unlike Dubai and Abu Dhabi, Al Ain has a small Western expat community and we don't have very many social events on the annual calendar. Most of the events that we have are held at one of the three large, established hotels. The other weekend was special for an 'event' on Friday and Saturday. On the Friday night I had bought a ticket for the Hash Harriers Annual Desert Dinner. I had thought about joining this running club when I arrived last year. I thought it would be an opportunity to meet new people and get some exercise at the same time. However, I was put off by the rituals at the end of the run (or walk as in my case). There are songs that everyone has to sing, an initiation ceremony for new people, such as myself, and various penalties that everyone has to do for some reason made up by the bloke in charge. The initiation ceremony and the penalties all involve holding a glass on your head while everyone sings something and then clapping and whooping while you drink the glass in one. I wasn't keen on this, given my decision not to drink and drive in order to avoid my mum having to start a campaign to get me out of Al Ain prison. A friend here had it right when she summed up the Harriers. "It's a bunch of alcoholics running around getting lost." Anyway, I decided that the Desert Dinner would be an opportunity to put on my black dress and me good pearls. Not to mention the silver sandals. I bought these gorgeous jobs here in Al Ain back in in 2002. They have small kitten heels and a large rhinestone decoration. They're Italian and sophisticated, they were bought in a sale and I hardly ever get the chance to wear them. Two friends and I spent the afternoon getting ready at the one of the local beauty saloons (that's what they're called here) to have manicures, pedicures and hair washed and dried. Polished and fluffed, dressed to the nines with lashings of mascara, we arrived later than planned in the gloom of the old golf course. Not to worry as most people were mingling and drinking prior to dinner being served. I picked my way across sand to reach the tables laden with crisp white cloths and gleaming cutlery. An army of waiters and chefs awaited our every whim. What they thought of it all I'd loved to know. Dinner was wonderful. A four course affair with a medley of different salmons to begin, followed by a Vichysoisse soup miraculously brought to our tables still hot. The main course was the best duck that I have ever tasted. Then a wonderful chocolate pudding, with liquid gooey chocolate at its heart. All this followed by coffee and chocolates. As I ate and drank, the desert wind riffled my straightened and lacquered hair and cooled my brow. Above us was a full moon adding that extra sparkle. Alas, the dancing wasn't up to much. I love to dance, preferably in a dark corner next to a speaker. Carpets had been laid on the sand for dancing, but unfortunately the DJ's idea of suitable dance music included the Red Hot Chili Peppers and other similar good music, but not much to dance to; well not in civilised company. My chauffeuse elected to leave at 1 am. As she turned at the traffic lights into my compound we noticed clouds of dust and sand blowing across the car. After she'd dropped me off I walked around the compound enjoying the wind and the pleasant temperatures. All 3 cats joined me on this nocturnal stroll in the moonlight. It was a magical evening.

The next morning the sandstorm had abated, but everything was covered in a thick layer of dusty sand. Mohti, my new car cleaner, was diligently washing off the dust and told me that he'd been busy around the compound clearing up. I had big plans for Saturday. It was the long awaited opening of the new Lulu Hypermarket, just down the road from Ol Squit Towers. See, we don't get out much in Al Ain and the opening of a new supermarket is a big deal. I was so excited that I arrived an hour early. When I returned, the place was pandemonium with the normally awful driving and parking taking on new levels of inconsideration and stupidity. I parked about 3 miles away and walked to the store. It's lovely to see a supermarket operating on its first day. The staff haven't suffered bad treatment from their managers or the customers, so they're still fairly cheerful and willing. Their uniforms are new and they still enjoy wearing them. There was a high level of management, with 2 managers for every aisle and I was pleased to see them encouraging and praising their staff. They told me they'd been up most of the night getting the finishing touches done. There was a TV camera and a bit of a hubbub at some point, but I've no idea who they were. Apparently the Emirati owner of the Lulu operation and the Indian senior managers. Most of the staff come from India, but unusually the majority of them don't speak English very well if at all, which makes it difficult to get answers to questions like "where are the lightbulbs?" and "don't you have any avocados?". It's a nice store, with wide aisles and a good range of goods, although not the cats' favourite food. They stock Ecover products, which actually made my eyes moisten for some ridiculous reason, probably something to do with familiarity and missing home. Mind you, at about 3 quid for a bottle of toilet cleaner, I may have to let the UAE environment continue to deteriorate at an alarming rate. I did find something that will make a huge difference to my life. It's called a 'Mubhkhara', which I'd never heard of before. It's an in-car incense burner. You plug it into the cigarette lighter and burn incense, or bukhour, on the small cup. How have we all lived without one of these? This one is earmarked as a Christmas present, but perhaps it might be a nice gift for friends back in Norfolk. Orders on a postcard please. Now, I just have to clean off all the sand on my silver sandals and put them away for another year.

It's autumn and spring is in the air

It's finally cooling down. My Vista weather gadget shows that today we have a balmy 33C, while in Norwich you have a brrrrh 4C. So only 29 degrees difference there then. The equivalent of a "Wot a Scorcher!" type day in England, accompanied by people in suits with their feet in fountains and eggs being fried on pavements. What this means in Al Ain is the start of spring. It isn't technically as we're on the same side of the equator as Norwich, but just a tad closer which is why it's so bloody hot here from April to now. So summer is more like winter in England, but here it is heat rather than cold which stops vegetation growing and people stay indoors huddled to air conditioning and store their underwear in the fridge.

We're blessed at the college with a permanent team of green overalled gardeners who work hard to give us beautiful surroundings. This week they've been weeding and preparing the ground and this morning I noticed several patches where tiny petunias have been planted ready for the winter. I don't know where they come from, but the gardening team have sourced wonderful petunias with a glorious scent. They look quite old-fashioned in pale pinks, purples and white. Nothing like the hybrid versions we see in the UK now, which seem to be all colour and no perfume. Nasty.

The newly-planted petunias weren't my first sign of spring this morning. I was distracted from getting into the car to go to work by a pair of mynah birds who were making unusual calls to each other. "Ah!" I thought. The sound of canoodling. We don't have starlings here, but lots of mynah birds who are like Gangsta starlings; all of the cheek and noise with much more attitude. These two were whispering sweet nothings using rasping noises, followed by a whistle and then a bit of a croak. Next I noticed two white-cheeked bulbuls sitting side by side in my palm tree. As I watched, one leaned to the other and gently pecked her/him on the cheek. While my love life is as stagnant as the stinkiest, muddiest, most slime infested pond in Costessey pits, the birds are feeling frisky and know that this is the time to start making babies.

Now that I have a garden, my weekend plans include a trip to the Municipality nursery on Saturday to purchase a rose bush and to hunt for those lovely, sweet smelling petunias. The roses will remind me of home and brisk walks in the cold, clear air of Norfolk.

Racing pigeons have the answer to education

Well, to be accurate it's the trainers of racing pigeons. I have the BBC news ticker tape running on my computer screen at work. It keeps me in touch with home. One of the topics that I've requested is Education, being in the business and all. So at this moment I have a headline scrolling by which says 'Teenagers' learning 'dumbed down''. Now isn't that what I've been banging on about for the last couple of years? When did some bright spark bring that situation to national prominence? I can't remember whether it was the Conservative government or this lot, because sadly it's hard to tell the difference, who brought in the appalling policy of league tables for schools and colleges. Ever since then, most teachers have been pressured to teach to the exams. That's what happens when you take away funding from what is considered to be poorly performing educational establishments. Aaaargh. Sometimes I feel like my head will explode with rage and frustration.

So, to the point of this blog. I have the answer. Rather, a lady from 'oop North' has the answer. She's a racing pigeon trainer who was interviewed on Radio 4 last Saturday. Her philosophy on training her pigeons to be successful was simple. To paraphrase: most trainers take their pigeons a few miles away from home and then let them go. I don't know how they persuade them to return to the coop, but that's another story, although my imagination is playing havoc. This lady said "What's the point of taking them 5 miles from home each time? They just get used to the same route. I like to challenge them, so I take them further out and to different places". Now that's the philosophy for education I'd like to see for our young people, as well as for racing pigeons. What a difference it could make for their confidence, their learning, their behaviour and for the nation's future. Give them a challenge, give them the freedom to fail and learn from their mistakes. Now, weer's me flat cap and whippet?

A Tail of Two Eids

It was the best of times. It was the most frustrating of times. It was a painful time. It was a relaxing time. Three nights in Oman. Unexpectedly, three nights in Oman with a cat incident thrown in. An animal friend is a friend no matter where she places her moisturiser.

The journey began last Tuesday when Betty from New Zealand, a new recruit to the UAE, and I set off on our first road trip together (hopefully there may be more) across the border to Oman. Betty had recently acquired an aubergine coloured Ford Focus and was keen to give the vehicle a good ride. I was happy to have someone drive me for a change and to have the opportunity to show off some of my favourite spots in Oman. My last trip there had been in 2002. We left Ol Squit Towers at 9 am in the morning with the plan to arrive in Sohar about lunch time. The journey time from Al Ain to Sohar, on the northern coast of Oman, is about 3 hours, but we had two border controls to get through. I'd received a text from my bank giving me Eid Muburak greetings. Eid Al Fitr is a celebration of the end of Ramadan and normally we have two days off. This time, unaccountably, we had been given the whole week off, although with the doom-laden news that we would have to make up lost working days by working on Saturdays at some time in the future. The announcement of Eid was good news as it meant that we could eat and drink in public during daylight hours without fear of reprisal. We could relax! We headed out towards the inland UAE border at Wadi Jizzi. Things had changed a lot during the last 6 years and the border had moved and become a little more sophisticated. By sophisticated, I mean that it had gone from a couple of windows in a hut where we flashed our passports, had them stamped, and then continued our journey, to several buildings, two sets of barriers and windows, a door with the sign 'Departure Lounge' over it (for some reason it made me laugh) and a lot of hanging around wondering what to do next. That's when we got there, because there were no signs for the border control and we had to guess that the collection of buildings and barriers was the right place to go. After parting with Dh25 to leave the country, filling in a form, having said form stamped by another person and then presenting form to a window we were off. One of the Emirati officials wished us a good journey and reminded us that in Oman it was still Ramadan. Don't ask me why because as far as I know both countries share the same moon, but that's how it was. As soon as we crossed into Oman we would not be able to eat and drink in public during daylight hours. Our Eid lasted until about 10.30 am. The Omani border post is about 15 km further. Again there had been big changes from my last visit. In my absence the Omanis had erected an enormous building with a dome shaped glass roof. The place was crowded because of the many holiday-makers choosing to travel to Oman. It was chaotic and again there was a lack of signs. I stood in one queue while Betty checked that we had the right insurance. The man behind me started to chat about whether he was in the right queue and enqiring about my travel plans. I'm going to confess that he was gorgeous. Originally from Kerala in India, he was a mechanical engineer living in Abu Dhabi. He was on his way to Salalah via Muscat, which was quite a trip. Strangely, he seemed to like talking to me. Betty noticed too and told me off for not giving him my telephone number. I've watched enough Bollywood movies to know that that isn't the way to get your man. Oh no. Fresh from watching Swades (Our Country) starring the fabulous SRK, I can tell you that the way to get your Indian man is to play very hard to get and, even better, be downright rude. I wasn't rude, in fact I was my most charming self and too shy to do anything as forward as giving my telephone number. I don't even know his name. A missed opportunity, but it did give me a nice warm feeling for the drive to Sohar.

We stopped for lunch at the Sohar Beach Hotel which has recently been refurbished and is a veritable paradise with palm trees and access to the beach. Sohar is famous for being the likely port from which Sinbad sailed. Not much has happened there since then. We continue the journey to Muscat. Unfortunately we saw the immediate aftermath of three serious accidents in that short journey. Very sobering. Muscat is a lovely capital city. It has been carefully managed so that there are very few high rise buildings. The city sprawls between mountains and slopes gently to a gorgeous beach which is open to everyone. The corniche has been preserved with the dodgy looking cheap hotels still holding court with the best views in the city. The Sultan of Oman has his private cruise ship and more modest dhow moored in the natural harbour. The Mutrah souq, thousands of years old, still trades to travellers and still charges too much if you don't haggle. Although the capital, the traffic isn't too heavy and drivers don't speed like dervishes as they do in Dubai. Oman is generally a more relaxing and natural country. This is largely due to the Sultan's strategy of prioritising education to encourage Omanis to work. The country does not have much oil and has not spoiled its population with handouts from oil revenue. All the Gulf countries have policies of reducing the need for expatriate workers by fnding jobs for their indiginous population. Omanisation has been much more successful as Omani people can be found doing menial and servile jobs, such as taxi driving and hotel reception duties. There is little evidence of the preciousness and arrogance of some of the Emirati population.

We had two nights booked in Muscat. We could practice our 'Eid Mubarak' on the first morning since it was Eid again. Thank goodness. We planned to do a bit of walking in the city so it would be a blessing to be able to drink water freely. As it turned out, in spite of the water it was just too hot to walk. Betty came up with a good idea. 'Let's go to the Intercontinental Hotel and have a beer.' So we flagged down a taxi and that's what we did. Apparently it was the first time the British-style pub at the hotel had been opened since the start of Ramadan and the place was full of thirsty expats. As we stood at the bar debating what to order, a blond adonis sitting beside us introduced himself. He was British and called Sebastian. Of course. He'd been living in Muscat with his family for four years. After a chat about property development in Dubai and the coastline from Sohar to Muscat (the next big thing apparently, for anyone in the world with any money left), Betty and I left Sebastian to his first pint for 4 weeks.

That night we walked to a nearby restaurant so that Betty could enjoy her first proper sheesha pipe (hubbly bubbly or hookah). She chose strawberry tobacco and sat beside me puffing and gurgling. We were sitting at a table outside in a plaza near a cinema. The whole area is a magnet for young people and, as it was Eid, the place was full of people and there was a constant traffic jam passing slowly beside the restaurant. It was a great spot for people watching. We were just thinking of leaving when the cat incident happened. I had felt something brush into my chair earlier in the evening, but hadn't seen anything. It happend again, followed by 2 small boys shouting excitedly. I looked around to see the back of a small cat disappearing round the corner. I stood up to follow and check what was happening. My worst fears were realised. The boys were throwing water at the poor creature, who was desperate to get away. It was hiding behind a black plastic table cloth. The two boys were joined by a toddler and several bits of wood. Not sticks but 2 x 2 plywood. I tried to reason with them. They spoke good English, but they didn't want to try to understand that the cat would be frightened and in pain. In desperation I did something stupid. It looked like a small kitten, so I tried to pick it up. It turned out that it must have been at least 4 months old because it had big teeth. It was so frightened that it bit me. Left index finger, first joint. It must have been badly under-nourished because it wasn't very big. Anyway, to my shame I dropped the cat and it scurried into a small round drain. I returned to Betty to show her my wound. I knew this was bad news as I've been bitten by a cat before. Last time it was my own cat in Norwich. We were at the vet and my cat was in a lot of pain. The vet didn't handle the situation well and I tried to save my cat from falling to the floor. He bit me and by the end of the day my hand had swollen with infection. I had to go to my GP who gave me a shot of antibiotics immediately and then gave me a prescription for a heavy dose of oral antibiotics. Cat bites can be dangerous. This time the cat was feral and sick. I was away from home, it was the Eid holiday and it was 10.30 pm. I had one of those antibacterial handwash things, so I immediately used that and we walked back to the hotel so that I could wash my hands and think about what to do next. We asked for the nearest pharmacy and were told that it was 'far away'. Betty gave me an antiseptic wipe and a plaster and I used them to dress the puncture wound. It had bled a lot so I hoped that any bacteria would have been washed out. Not so I'm afraid. The next day the finger was red and swollen. We found a 24 hour pharmacy which was precisely 5 minutes drive from where the bite had occurred. If only we had known. Fortunately Betty had already texted her sister, a pharmacist in New Zealand, who had told us what antibiotic we needed and the dosage. We managed to talk the pharmacist in Oman to sell us Augmentin over the counter and then left to continue our journey to Nizwa. I tried to be brave. I kept my finger elevated because the pressure from the swelling wasn't so bad then. There was talk of rabies. On my return to Al Ain I walked over to the nearby hospital. It was packed with post-Eid sick and injured, so I was advised to return early the next morning. I was back at 7.30 am (so much for a much needed sleep in) but it was still packed. I waited in the Female Waiting Room along with several Emirati ladies wearing black abayahs (long dress) and sheilahs (headscarf). Most of the ladies were also veiled in case an Emirati man should see them. Most of them had henna on their feet; an Eid tradition. Eventually I saw a doctor who told me that if it was him he'd get an anti-rabies shot. However, they weren't available at that hospital and I needed to go elsewhere. I ummed and aahed while doing a food shop. I wasn't sure that I could cope with another few hours of chaotic waiting in another hospital. The Middle East is very good at chaotic waiting. I didn't feel rabid. My last image of the little cat, etched on my memory forever, was of this huddled, shivering, sick and frightened creature sitting in a puddle of water. It didn't seem to be afraid of water and there was no sign of frothing at the mouth. In the end the sensible side of me decided to follow up. I spoke to a very good doctor at the accident department at Al Ain Hospital. He talked to an expert who said that I needn't worry about rabies (but I am a bit). The doctor looked at my red and swollen finger and told me that if there was no change tomorrow, I should return for an IV antibiotic. I left thinking that I wouldn't need to be doing that. Then I made the mistake of checking out cat bites on the internet. There was a discussion forum of semi-hysterial Americans describing their experiences of cat bites which changed their lives. Apparently I was typical of a cat bite victim. Female and middle-aged. The location of the bite was typical too. Everyone had received IV antibiotics and some of them warned about the danger of infection setting into the bone. Oooh er.

There was no change the next day. I went to work and kept looking at my finger and in the end left early for the accident department. It was a different doctor this time and he seemed to think that I needn't do more than take the Augmentin that I'd already got. I told him that I wouldn't have come back if I hadn't been told to do so by the doctor. In the end he relented and told me to go to the Female Observation room where he'd give me a shot. Next thing I know, I'm lying on a bed while a nurse gives me not one, but two IV treatments. The doctor had obtained advice and must have been told to throw everything he could at the finger. After the IV treatments, he personally led me to another room where he gave me a local anaesthetic before wielding a scalpel at my poor finger. He told me that I had an abscess and that it needed to be lanced otherwise the antibiotic would not be able to penetrate the infection. Blood was gushing everywhere while a nurse was swabbing the wound with iodine. I was happy though. It felt right. The nurse then topped off the finger with an enormous bandage and I left, wondering how I was going to do the washing up. I had to make a follow-up appointment for the orthopaedic clinic in case of infection in the bone. According to the internet, rabies has an incubation period of 30-60 days. I may be rabid by Christmas. I just wish that I had managed to do something more constructive to help that poor little cat in Muscat.

Day off

Wake up at usual time of 6.30 am. Remember I don't have to go to work today and smile. It's the first day of an unexpected week's holiday for Eid al Fitr. Reluctantly get up as cats don't know that I have the day off and expect to be fed and let out. Make a cup of instant coffee to take back to bed. Read in bed. Luxury. Currently reading Ghostwritten and find the stories within stories compulsive. Eyes close without telling me and I doze. Forget coffee. Wake up and remember coffee. Drink lukewarm coffee. Read a few more pages. Get up, although I'd like to spend the day in bed. I've promised Libby that we'll go to Abu Dhabi for the day. Pick up Libby who has a cool bag of eatables for the journey, which we will have to nibble out of the public eye as it is still Ramadan. Need petrol. Petrol station is blocked by an assortment of tank-like 4wd vehicles and Toyota pick-up trucks. Only 2 men on duty to pump petrol and they're doing their best. Finally escape and on the Abu Dhabi road. Worry about newly repaired engine all the way. Traffic is busier than expected and every now and then the car rocks as some lunatic shoots past us at 200 kph. Libby tucks into her snacks and hands me half a biscuit just as we hit roadworks and other drivers can see into the car. Worry about being arrested for eating in public. Cross the Maqta Bridge in to the city and then turn right on the Eastern Ring Road. Libby has requested that we go to the Iranian Souq in Port Zayed. I've been there once before, 9 years ago, and have a vague idea of the route. Traffic is terrible. Slow-moving and lots of lane jumping. Big lorries block the signs. I'm worried about the car and missing our turning. Worried about hitting another car or a pedestrian. Ask Libby to read the map I'd brought along. After five minutes of turning the map round and exclaiming "Ah!" and then, "Right." she finally locates the road we're travelling on and the place that we're aiming for. She asks me to turn left at the next lights, which are looming and I have to cross 4 lanes of busy traffic. "That's not going to happen," I screech, notching up more worry points. We both breathe a sigh of relief as we realise that all lanes are going to turn left. Still pretty frightening. My head is soaked. Dratted menopause. I thought I'd escaped the hot flushes, but apparently not. The air conditioning in the car can barely cope as it is, although the temperature is slightly cooler at 39 C. Sweat drips on to my glasses and down the back of my neck. Libby directs me to a roundabout covered with tall structures with bulbous heads. We turn left and I look around for parking. Decide to jump straight into a shadeless space opposite a stall of pots, which we discover is all that exists of the Iranian souq these days. I'm desperate to find a toilet although given the problem of drinking water in public, I'd prefer to keep all my liquids for the time being. Libby scoots off in the direction of a plant stall. I follow disconsolately. I'm hot and sweaty. There's no point in buying the rose bush and frangipangi that I've planned to add to my new garden. We have the rest of the day with the car being parked in various hot places. Not fair to the plants. Then I saw a cobalt blue plastic watering can, complete with hard to find rose. After a spot of lacklustre bargaining, it's mine for Dh20. The Pakistani couple who sold me the watering can look me up and down and probably say something insulting in Urdu. I love the colour of the watering can which reminds me of Moroccan gardens. We stroll back to the pottery stall. I come across a pottery pig with chipped brown paint. "Look! A pig" I point out to Libby. She doesn't seem that impressed, which surprises me. We're in a Muslim country for heaven's sake. Pigs don't usually feature. Haram. This particular pig is actually very nice. Not a caricature and not too cute. He looks smiley and benevolent, lying down with his head tipped up. More of a piglet than a pig. I have to have him, although I'd just spent most of the journey explaining to Libby that I don't want any frippery and I have to save money. I track down Ahmed, the Iranian stall-holder. He finishes a transaction with an Emirati couple who are sitting in their car. He turns to me with a huge smile. His face is covered in sweat and I already feel he is a kindred spirit. I ask him the price of the pig. Dh10 he says. I walk away and put it down. It's about 1.50 pounds. I'm hesitating. Libby encourages me to buy it. Should I haggle? It's only Dh10. I can't stop myself and stumble over my request for the 'best price'. Ahmed's smile fades a little and in a resigned voice he says "Madam, you tell me. What you want to pay?" I don't know what to say so he saves me by saying "Dh5". This goes against all the rules of bargaining, but heck. I'm delighted and he doesn't seem too upset. Libby questions him about all the empty stalls. It's nothing like I remembered on my last visit. He tells Libby that the Iranian souq will be in full swing in 10 days. In the car heading towards the Hilton Hotel she tells me that she was told that last time. We decide to go to the Hilton for the toilet and a cup of coffee. However, by the time we get there it's 1 pm and we decide to have lunch. The restaurants in the shopping mall will not be open during daylight hours. The hotel's restaurant is upstairs and obscured by tapestry curtains to avoid upsetting any passing Muslims. We walk through as though entering a speakeasy. A lunch buffet is in full swing. We tuck into sandwiches and a litre of water. It's expensive but it's our only option if we want to eat in any degree of comfort. We drive on to Marina Mall and the first stop is the dreaded Carrefour as Libby wants to launch into laptop ownership. The choice is made quickly, but she has to wait to have software loaded. After a bit of a wait we head towards Ikea, although by now my head is drenched with sweat again and my mouth is dry. I go to the toilet to sneak a drink of water. Libby was handing me cough sweets in Carrefour which I refused theatrically. She didn't get the hint until after she'd popped a sweet into her mouth. We looked around expecting to be challenged by security. Nothing happened. Ikea is closed. I'm relieved. We go back to the car and drive on to Spinney's. We don't have this particular supermarket in Al Ain. It's expensive and stocks Waitrose brand products and pork. I buy Ardennes pate and a packet of ham and cheese crisps, just in case I have company. The queue for the checkout is long and by the door. My head is drenched again and I dab ineffectually at my forehead with a soaked tissue. We drive off to our last stop in the capital. The British Veterinary Clinic where I need to buy dental cat food and a kitten collar for Louise who has just adopted a stray kitten. I'm also trying to set up an account for Animal Friends, so that we can get a discount when buying things for the stray animals. They overcharged me last April and I'm hoping they'll open an account for Animal Friends and give us the credit for the overcharge. We are on the road to Al Ain by 5.30 pm. Iftar is due at 6.15 pm so this can be a hairy time on the road as people who have been fasting all day drive even faster and crazier than usual to get home for food and drink. The sun is setting in my rearview mirror and I notice there isn't a car in sight on the road. "Quick, hand me the water bottle" I demand. I drink water and Libby crams food in her mouth. We both giggle, goodness knows why. After sunset I no longer feel the need to eat and drink, even though it's perfectly fine to do so. We arrive home safe and sound. I crown the day by watching Ghandi, which I bought at a bargain price in Carrefour, and drinking white wine. I christen the pottery pig Ahmed and place him on the window ledge where I can see him when I'm in the garden. Nice day. Four more days off still to come.

Silver clouds and grey linings

A bit of a mixed bag this time, as it's been a couple of weeks since I last wrote. I'm concentrating on the 'how lucky am I' angle, but can't help noticing those annoying little things that crop up.

The first silver cloud is that I have a car (no not literally a Silver Cloud, but a silvery Daewoo Leganza). The grey lining is that it broke down last week. This car is pretty old and has been leaking various fluids ever since I first sat behind the steering wheel. After a bit of consultation with some friends, I decided to ditch Ibrahim, the mechanic that I inherited who's main attribute is that he comes to your house to pick up the car. I decided I needed a bit more than that to look after my ailing engine. Now I have John, who is very serious but I'm told will do a good job of actually fixing the car. I spent Dh1300 (approx 215 quid - I haven't got a pound sign on this keyboard) at the start of the month so that he could fix my engine which was posing as an oil fountain. I drove it happily for a week. Then one day I came back from some shopping and noticed a lot of water under the car. "Hmmm" I thought and wondered if the water had been there when I parked or my radiator had just emptied for some bizarre reason. I drove off and as the temperature guage was normal I assumed everything was fine. I did mean to check the water level that night, but after a glass of wine my good intentions disappeared. I meant to check the water level before I set off for work the next morning, but I'd started the engine and was reversing out when I remembered. I shrugged my shoulders and decided to check before I left work in the afternoon. Oh, the perils of procrastination. That afternoon I offered someone a lift and, as you do, I got into the car chatting away and completely forgot to check the water. As we were driving along, I realised that the temperature guage was climbing above the half way mark. My heart was in my mouth, but I carried on chatting to my companion and pretended that all was well. I was almost home when the last traffic light went against me. The car stalled and wouldn't start. "I'm afraid we've broken down." I announced, dramatically, to my passenger. It took a moment for her to work out what was happening as it was the first time I'd mentioned there was a problem. Fortunately, living in Al Ain, a lot of people driving by knew me. In fact, most people at work the next day asked me what my problem had been. Sometimes the goldfish bowl of our small expat Western community can be suffocating, but sometimes it means there's help at hand. This time it was my neighbour who stopped behind me and leapt out to look under the bonnet. Turned out to be a cracked hose and I had lost all the water in the engine. We filled up the water reservoir, which is apparently the wrong thing to do when the engine is so hot, but still the water was leaking out. In the end I paid 2 Pakistani labourers, who had probably been fasting all day, to push my car the 100 yards to a layby close to the compound where I live. John came to tow it away and I had no car for three days. It's back with me now after another Dh1100 has been spent mending a gasket between the head and a block, whatever that is. Ibrahim's last words of advice about curing my car problems was to sell it and buy a Toyota. Yeees, well that's all very well. In the meantime, he had told me not to drive it very far and not to drive fast. Now my superhero John assures me that I can drive as far as I like, but I have to admit to being a little nervous.

The last silver cloud for today is that the sun shines most days. It's interesting to read the weather forecast and the way someone tries to vary what is really the same thing. Hot and sunny. Sunny and hot. High temperatures and sunny. That sort of thing. We've had a couple of short rain showers, but the water soon dries up. The grey lining is that it's too hot for the time of year. Perhaps all the problems with hurricanes in the Atlantic have caused a bottle neck and our hot weather is trapped in the area. As |I write this, I've had to wipe my face of streaming perspiration at least twice. That's with both air conditioners running in my living room. Vista (the all knowing and all powerful Microsoft operating system that I have on my lovely Toshiba Satellite) tells me that it's 43C right now. That's ridiculous for mid September. The forecast for tomorrow night's temperature is 25C - thank heavens because it's been 30C most nights. In fact, it will probably feel cold, but at least it will be a relief. I'm tired of sweating.

The silver cloud is that I'm not living in a hurricane zone. I can't think of any grey linings. However, we are apparently in a hot spot for earthquakes and there was a tremor last week following the earthquake in Iran. I didn't notice as we were in the middle of yoga at the time and I was probably grunting too much. Not a pleasant way to end this, but it'll have to do. Namaste.

Bollywood passion

Once again I am without TV. For the moment, I've decided this is a good thing. I need more time to find myself and, frankly, it isn't going to happen if I switch on the TV each night and watch Rachel Ray and Dr Phil. However, sometimes it is nice just to sit and watch something. Fortunately I have amassed quite a collection of DVDs. I am addicted to those free ones that are given away in newspapers. This caused quite a commotion during my summer break in Norfolk. My brother started me off by bringing a copy of the Daily Mail, complete with Part 1 of the fabulous BBC TV series of Pride and Prejudice. However, Part 1 does not include That Scene. The one when Colin Firth strides out of the lake. You know. I still remember exactly where I was the night of That Scene. Ooooh, I've gorn all faint Mr Bennett. Where was I? Oh yes, the problem of getting Part 2. The management of the Mail Group are no fools, since they were giving away Part 2 with the Mail on Sunday, but with one small catch. It could be obtained from W H Smith, Tesco or you'd have to buy the whole lot for a small sum. Small sum or not, I don't call that a free DVD, so that option was out. Somehow, I managed to acquire Part 2. Later I just had to have Parts 1 and 2 of Bleak House. As I was staying in Sheringham, which is mercifully a Tesco-free zone, I was banjaxed. I had to swallow my pride and admit my fetish to Moira, who happens to live within spitting distance of a Tesco Express. She was less than impressed at having to buy a Mail in public, but, true friend that she is, she did the evil deed. So I now have Bleak House, plus Far from the Madding Crowd. I would have liked Wives and Daughters but it just got too complicated.

I also have a growing collection of Bollywood movies. I used to laugh at them. Do you remember the Hindi movies that were screened in the small hours on British TV, usually Channel 4? The ones with the girls in colourful saris singing in very high pitched voices while prancing around a tree with a man making meaningful eye movements to each other. Then I spent a year watching TV with a free satellite, offering mostly Arab channels and CNN. For entertainment I would watch MTV which was screened from India. After a month, I found myself tapping my feet to the various song and dance numbers from the hit Bollywood movies. Then I became seriously hooked and started to note down the film titles of the dance numbers that I really liked. I began my collection with Dil Se. This happens to star King Khan, although at the time I had no idea he was such an important actor in Bollywood. I just knew that I liked him and his funny little mannerisms. Then, on return to England, I borrowed Dev Das from the Blockbusters World collection. I wish I'd bought a copy now. Another great movie with some fantastic dance numbers. Yet again, the lead actor was Shah Rukh Khan, or SRK as officianodos say. Apparently he has been recognised and praised by none other than Richard Gere, during his unfortunate trip to India. SRK describes himself as "short, dark haired and not very good looking". I love his modesty and I think he's wonderful. Particularly without a shirt on and when he's being projected to about 6 foot high on a wall in a friend's living room. Luckily I've managed to find 2 other ladies who are also secret Bollywood movie watchers and who like SRK. Do you want to know how bad it is for me these days? When I got back here just over 2 weeks ago I found two new Bollywood DVDs that I had bought just before I left and then completely forgotten about. One is called Kabhi Alvida Naa Kehna (Never Say Goodbye). It stars SRK plus veteran Indian actor Amitabh Bachchan and his son Abhishek. I watched the movie, all 190 minutes, over 2 days the weekend before last. Then my fellow Bollywood enthusiasts suggested getting together last weekend, so I took along Kabhi etc. I watched it all over again. And was spellbound. This movie is set in New York and is extremely good. Well, it has to be to keep three woman enthralled for over 3 hours! We're meeting again this coming Friday night. Apparently Melanie has a blockbuster which just has to be shown on her projector. In the meantime I've been reading a copy of Asian Woman, given free on the airline when I came back. There are several pictures of SRK with his lovely smile. He's married, but that's to be expected. However, I am very upset to discover that the May edition of Asian Woman had a free poster of SRK and I missed out. Ah well. For the time being, here's a picture of Bollywood's answer to Tom Cruise, except that he's better looking, a good actor and, from what I've read, has a very nice personality. Enjoy.

Shah Rukh Khan - King of Bollywood

Fasting and feasting

It's Ramadan again. This holy Islamic period began yesterday and will last for 4 weeks. During that time, muslims should not eat, drink, smoke, chew anything, etc during daylight hours. As this is a muslim country, we work shorter hours to accommodate the fact that people are fasting. This means that I should be working no more than 6 hours per day, but so far I've found it hard to adjust. Having said that, I didn't get to work until 8.15 am this morning (considered late in this part of the world) and left at 3.15 pm, so not too bad. Even though most of the staff are not muslim, we are not allowed to eat and drink in any area except the staff lounge, which has paper across the window in the door. We are not allowed to eat or drink in public either, so all the cafes and restaurants will be closed during daylight hours. Last year I made the mistake of asking to taste a sample of cheese in the dreaded Carrefour supermarket during Ramadan. Denied that opportunity, I remonstrated with the poor shop assistant, until her look pleading look helped me to remember that it was illegal to do so and she was trying to save me from myself. I heard that an American was arrested just outside Carrefour for eating in public. But it might have been just one of those stories.

I find it strange that muslims spend so much time shopping for food during Ramadan. I made the mistake of going to Carrefour on Saturday. Libby and I went early, but nonetheless there were HUGE queues at the checkout. Everyone was stocking up for Ramadan. Eh? I experienced personal racism at the checkout. The young lady, who had clearly scored high marks in the dreaded Carrefour customer service course, dressed in an abaya and sheilah (black gown and headscarf), chatted happily in Arabic with the many Emirati women who were ahead of me. She even helped them to pack their goods. When it came to my turn, she had disappeared for what seemed an eternity since I had already waited 20 minutes just to get to my turn. Then she proceeded to hurl my shopping at me for packing. I couldn't believe it at first. The result was that one bottle of toilet cleaner started to leak over everything. She was oblivious to my hard stares and continued to throw my stuff at me with gay abandon. No help with packing, so I did my own as slowly as possible while continuing to give the Worst Checkout Girl in the World a very hard stare, occasionally dropping my eyes meaningfully to the blue sticky liquid which was spreading over the metal counter and over my goods. Naturally, had I been in Tescos or Sainsburys at home I would have made a small complaint and the issue would have been dealt with immediately. Here in Al Ain, I couldn't even begin to face the argument and misunderstandings because of language and cultural differences, so I just accepted a leaky bottle of toilet cleaner and the fact that some of my goods would need to be washed when I arrived home. There was the usual long delay when I produced my credit card; this time because she had run out of till roll. The manager, working on the till beside her, had to get involved when she refused to give me a receipt after I had asked her to fish out the rejected receipt, covered in pink stripes, from the wastebasket. While I had his attention, I mentioned the fact that she had been throwing my stuff around. "Yes," he agreed, "I saw her." So why didn't he say something? Sheesh!

So, the upside of Ramadan is that I managed to be home by 3.30 pm, just as a thunderstorm began some minor growling and we had a little bit of very welcome rain. I had planned to go for a swim at the Hilton, but the rainshower delayed me. My car has been in repair for the last 2 days and the new mechanic, who tells me that now I can drive as far as I like, had thoughtfully washed the car as well as carrying out major work to stop my engine behaving like an oil fountain. After the rain my car was filthy again. There's so much dust and pollution in the air that on the rare occasions that it does rain, our cars are covered in brown, dusty splash marks. Around 4 pm I threw on my elastane corset, commonly referred to as a swimsuit, and managed to do 20 laps in a deserted pool. Feeling energised and happy, I took out the bucket and sponge to give the car a good clean, mainly because I couldn't see through the dust riven windscreen. Before starting to clean, I had taken out some leftovers ready to zap in the microwave when I'd finished. This consisted of some dubious looking cold cooked cauliflower, which had gone a sort of dust brown on top, and some equally miserable looking leftover Risotto Pronto or whatever it is. Still, it was food of some kind and I was hungry, Ramadan or not. I set to work, feeling pretty proud of my industry. Just as I was rinsing the cars, the cats and myself, a 4x4 drew up beside me and there was a very welcome sight. It was Khek, who cooks fabulous Thai food and, better still, delivers! I had ordered some food for today and Thursday, but as I hadn't heard from her I assumed she wasn't going to come. What a welcome surprise. So, as it wasn't quite sunset, I opened the plastic containers of oven-baked chicken patties and beansprouts with tofu and mushroom in the gathering darkness of my kitchen, lit a scented nightlight and opened a nice bottle of Chardonnay Semillon to have a 'proper' solo dinner while listening to Best of Classics FM. Fabulous. There's no doubt, when you know you're not supposed to eat, you just want to eat more and more. Nowt as queer as . . .

On the back of the huge slice of flaming melon

Yes, I thought that would make you look. Here's your starter for 10 (I'm already missing University Challenge and I've been back only a week). Which 20th century artist produced an illustrated poem with this blog's title? Come on, come on! No conferring over there. Look, I've already given you a ruddy great clue in the ridiculous question. Time's up. Yeees, it was Pablo Picasso. I went to a very good exhibition of his work at the Emirates Palace Hotel (think massive, think opulence, think . . . how many people could have been fed on the money squandered on this fantastic hotel) in Abu Dhabi yesterday. I know it's shameful, but I have to admit to an awful lot of pleasure when driving up to the hotel through the impressive grounds and waterfalls, having been greeted at the gate by a liveried and extremely polite security man. Then we park for free in the underground car park, take the lift up to the grand doors of the main entrance, which are opened by more liveried staff to welcome us into luxury. And I am allowed in. I always expect them to look me up and down, as would happen in a posh London hotel, and, after severe questioning, show me the exit. Instead, we have smiles and greetings, as though I looked as though I was born to this kind of lifestyle. Then, having been there a few times now, I saunter casually past the well appointed reception area, through the massive circular area with the ornate ceiling and on into the cafe and the exhibition. The cafe isn't cheap, but they have posh chairs, teapots that don't leak and chocolate cake with shavings of real gold. Strangely, the gold doesn't play hell with my fillings.

The exhibition is free to enter as well, which is such a treat. I can't say that I'm a fan of Mr Picasso, as I'm more of a Van Gogh woman. As it turned out, that's OK because Picasso was something of the Robbie Williams of the 20th century art world. He liked to borrow ideas from everyone, including a self-portrait that could have been painted by Vincent, if he hadn't been dead by then. The exhibition showed Picasso's works throughout his life and I came to see that he really was very good. There was just one that I thought I could have painted myself, and probably done a better job. Otherwise, some of his more traditional 'classical' paintings were impressive and emotional. He also liked to throw together bits of garbage to make sculptures, such as a bull's head from the old handlebars and saddle of a bicycle. This kind of thing really inspires me, so I may have a go when the weather cools down. At the moment I am covered in sweat just walking from the front door of Ol Squit Towers to my ropey old car.

So, my two dear readers, I can fully recommend a trip to the exhibition, but you'd better hurry as it ends on 4 September. If you can't manage the journey in the coming week, try out this brilliant website: http://www.mrpicassohead.com. You have the chance to make up your own Picasso style picture and then email it to yourself and your friends. Your work of art will be added to the website's gallery. You may be inspired to write poetry in French, daub a few coloured shapes around the words and give it a fantastic title! Melon balls anyone?

Between homes

Just spent the morning collecting together the things I plan to pack and the things that I'm hoping to cram into my mum's loft for my next visit. I catch the bus to Norwich tomorrow ready for my last session with Richard of the Green Room. He is a brilliant cutter of hair and, having found no-one of his equal in Al Ain, have to say he's world class. Then it's last minute cups of tea with friends and I will stay overnight with Moira, who has very kindly offered to take me to the bus station for the journey to Heathrow on Thursday. The travel nerves have started already. I didn't sleep well last night and now that I've been through all my various credit cards, frequent flyer cards, tickets, passport, keys for Ol Squit Towers etc, I can't find my UAE driving licence. I shall be worrying all the way now, wondering whether or not I left it in my Al Ain handbag. I must remember to write notes to myself about important things like where I've left driving licences. It will be such nuisance to try to have it replaced, involving much form filling, arguments with officials and spending of dirhams.

It's been perfect weather for packing as there's been torrential rain and darkened skies. Even now there is still a rumbling growl of thunder. It's a great send off for me as it's likely to be the last glimpse of substantial rain that I shall have until my next visit in January. Friday morning I will wake to bright sunshine and temperatures of 45 C again. Unfortunately it will also mean a return to sleeping with the air conditioning running and no cooling breeze from the North Sea. I've thoroughly enjoyed Norfolk as a visitor. The good news is that I'm looking forward to returning to Al Ain, to finishing the unpacking at Ol Squit Towers and catching up with my cats. I'm also looking forward to returning to work - first time in a very long time.

Tea for Three

I forgot to send a card on Father's Day. My excuse was that I was in the middle of the Big Move to Ol' Squit Towers. I know my duty, so as soon as I landed in Sheringham, I promised my dad a nice lunch somewhere. Then I remembered reading about afternoon tea at Morston Hall. I have wonderful childhood memories of picking samphire at Morston, along with the rest of the family. We'd spend all day trudging through the mud collecting samphire and cockles, then return home tired and smudgy, ready to boil up the samphire several times in changes of water to remove the excess salt. Then each of us would be handed a plate full of the gorgeous green stuff which we would douse in malt vinegar and eat with gusto. You can't beat a nice bit of gusto.

We all know that in recent years samphire has become very posh and so has Morston with it's resident TV chef, Galton Blackiston. I'd never heard of Mr Blackiston until he appeared on that Great British Cook Out (or whatever) a couple of years ago. He did Norfolk proud, even if he didn't actually win anything. He looks anguished most of the time; I wonder if he has Eastern European roots somewhere and occasionally reverts back to writing heart-rending poetry while knocking back a bottle of vodka.

Back to the Father's Day treat. It was decided that afternoon tea at Morston Hall would be very nice indeed, so I popped in and booked and tried not to gulp when the very nice young waiter told me it would cost £15 per person. That's a lot of money for a smoked salmon sandwich, a scone and a cup of tea. Still, it is posh and Mr Blackiston is on the telly, so it has to be worth it.

Dad, mum and I turned up yesterday afternoon at 3.30 pm, our appointed time. It was a gorgeous afternoon. We strolled into the cool of the quarry tiled floor of the entrance lobby. No-one around. I peered into the dining room on the left. No-one. Finally I ambled into the reception area just after a couple who were trying to order lapsang sooshong (forgive the spelling). Curiously, Morston Hall doesn't have that particular type of tea. I say curious because it's posh. Eventually we were told to seat ourselves in the conservatory and, after a momentary wait to check it was OK, we then walked out into a really lovely garden and sat in the shade to enjoy our long-awaited comestibles. I'm a bit of a buff when it comes to afternoon tea. I've been to the Ritz, ai'll hev you know. I made the mistake of having a baguette for lunch that time, and found that getting through 15 quid's worth of tea, sandwiches, cake and scones extremely heavy going. I've also had a free afternoon tea at the Carlton Ritz in Dubai. That was probably the most memorable because I was able to choose the Kir Royale version. That's a cake-stand of dainty sandwiches and cakes, accompanied by a glass of champagne with a dash of Kir. Very nice. This time I had paced myself and had eaten nothing since mum's bacon and eggs for breakfast. By 3.30 pm my blood sugar was oozing out of my toes and I was pretty tetchy. Bring on the sandwiches. At last they arrived, with the silver pots of Earl Grey tea and hot water. Strangely, the handle of the teapot had a Moroccan protector on it. It's a piece of cloth sewn into the shape of a man wearing a fez and a djellaba. The teapot leaked and I was disappointed that they had used bags rather than loose tea. Very naughty. The tiny triangles of smoked salmon sandwiches were gorgeous. The bread was home-made - a thin rye bread containing apricots, sultanas and nuts. Delicious. As we devoured the sandwiches, I started worrying that there would be nothing to follow. I realise that Mr Blackiston is supposed to be good, but surely this wasn't afternoon tea. Another very nice young man arrived to warn us that more was to come. He brought along a plate of cakes and scones, along with a side dish containing butter, raspberry jam and clotted cream. We had a slice each of crumbly fruit cake which tasted like Christmas pudding. We each had a warm, fresh scone (fabulous). There was a miniature pavlova each and a pistachio and almond thing which was a bit dry and disappointing. I ate my scones with the clotted cream, which was very tasty and light. As we chewed and drank and smiled, a young lady wearing a white apron, presumably a sous chef, came out into the garden to gather fresh herbs. Very cheffy, I thought.

Was it worth the money? Yes, for the occasional treat and to hear my mum telling the neighbours about the experience. However, I do hope that they sort out the loose tea and fix the leaky teapot. In the meantime, I could try to recreate the scones with clotted cream. I became a little lightheaded with the sugar rush of all that cake and wondered if they grew their own clotted cream. I enquired about the source while I paid the bill. Turns out it's Rodda's clotted cream which you can buy in the Rainbow in Cromer. While I'm there I could pick up a jar of cockles and we could have those on toast. Very North Norfolk.

Naughtiness in Dubai

It seems the summer sex scandal this year is about the young lady who has been arrested in Dubai for hanky panky on a public beach. This story is interesting from a couple of angles. One is the way that the British media has concentrated on the female involved while the young man has had little or no attention paid to him. There is almost a hint of a suggestion that he was an innocent party while writhing on a sunbed with a very naughty lady. Come on Britain, are we still judging women as tarts while men are admired for their sexual conquests?

Another slant on the story, particularly the 2 page feature in Saturday's Daily Mail, is that of decadent Brits who don't know how to behave in a foreign country. Give a Brit a lot of booze in a hot country and they run amok. There was a comparison with British yobbish behaviour in Spain in the seventies.

The real story, which was discussed in the Mail article, is the tension between the Dubai government's drive to encourage Westerners to play a much bigger role in the economic development of the Emirate. The development of the UAE in the last 30 years has been brought about because of a reliance on foreign labour. Up until 2002, foreigners could only have residency in the UAE if they were employed. Now residency can be granted when buying property. Unlike Abu Dhabi and the other Emirates, Dubai has been proactive in jumping on the property development bandwagon. As I have reported in earlier blogs, the city of Dubai has changed dramatically in the last five years as the infrastructure is developed at the same time as huge areas of villas and apartment blocks are built to sell. The city of Dubai has a reputation for being more liberal than other parts of the UAE. Something as simple as a lady wearing a strappy top - OK in Dubai, but frowned upon in most other parts of the Emirates, including Al Ain where I live. The rulers of Dubai see themselves as visionaries - movers and shakers who are dragging the rest of the country into the 21st century to maximise the potential of a global market place. Now there are voices of dissent from the Emirati people. They feel that they are losing their identity and their cultural heritage. Well, yes of course it's bound to happen if they choose to open their doors to foreigners in order to make money.

I don't approve of the behaviour of this man and woman. I wouldn't be happy if they were cavorting on a beach in Norfolk somewhere in my vicinity. However, if the government of Dubai allows hotels to offer 'drink as much as you can' brunches on a Friday, then it could be argued that expats are encouraged to behave in a decadent manner. Much has been made of the fact that Friday is a holy day in Islam, so their behaviour was insensitive in the extreme. Yes, but Friday is also the first day of the weekend in the Emirates and, for us Brits, it's traditional to let our hair down and relax. Dubai is rich with luxury hotels, shopping malls and nightclubs. I've always thought that it's a brilliant place for young Brits to go to work and enjoy life to the max. However, there are strings to this wonderful hedonistic life. While the UAE is one of the most liberal of the Gulf countries, it is still a muslim country. Emirati women are expected to cover up completely. My employer has given strict instructions about how I am to dress and behave. It's not difficult most of the time. One of the rules that I have found most difficult to accept is that of chasteness at all times. This means that people of the opposite sex should not touch in public. There are men somewhere in the Emirates who spend all day using a black marker pen to scribble out 'offensive' bare flesh on pictures of women in magazines. Kissing, even a chaste kiss in a costume drama, is edited out of films and TV programmes imported from the US and UK. Any parcels sent to me from abroad are opened routinely before I get them to check the contents for naughty things. I don't approve of that either, particularly when violence in films is applauded. There seems to be a lack of balance. However, it doesn't matter what I think because those are the rules of the country in which I have chosen to live and therefore I will comply. Besides which, as I'm over fifty, fat and, ye gods, have just discovered a whole set of lines that have appeared in the last 2 weeks, my chances of cavorting on a beach are nil.

Road Trip

I'm back in the land of yellow fields, canaries, sugar beet, sailing boats and dumplings. Except that there doesn't seem to be any of those things around. What I have noticed is an invasion of elephants. At first I thought there was just one, as I arrived by bus in Castle Meadow on my first day back. Hmm, wonder what that's all about I pondered, as I crossed the road while watching a lady pat the pachiderm affectionately on its colourful rump. I should have been paying attention, because a train came out of nowhere and almost ran me down. What's THAT all about, I muttered crossly, watching the open carriages filled with braying youths go off into the distance. I don't know. You leave the place for a few months and come back to a strange land. For instance, on my last trips abroad I came back to find the library was a pile of ash (with a pile of ash across the road that had once been the Assembly Rooms), the cattle market had become an underground shopping mall and Boulton and Paul had been replaced by Sodom and Gomorrah. Can't you lot just leave things alone?

I didn't have time to worry about any other surprises lurking, as my parents had been planning for me to drive them across country for a few days in Weymouth. They've had a trying year and my dad has just had a pacemaker fitted. Mum's fed up with dad, and dad has lost confidence because of his trying year. The night before our road trip, you could cut the air with a knife as they bickered over the packing. I thought I had the trip all sorted as I'd borrowed my brother's sat nav. Last time my dad tried to navigate us across England (avoiding all motorways) we had taken a few wrong turns so I was hoping for a trouble free journey. My brother gave me a cursory lesson on how to use the sat nav. All that we really achieved was that I chose the voice of C3Pio to give me directions. For those who don't remember the butler-type robot from Star Wars, he has a rather querulous, peevish little voice, but I liked the fact that he would say "You have reached your destination, master" if I ever made it there.

The morning of the trip dawned bright and sunny (I know, it was unusual). However, my dad's mood was more wintry. His derogatory comments about the number of bags I was trying to squeeze in the boot had me on the defensive immediately. Then we came to the Battle of the Navigation. I confidently licked the rubber thing to fix the sat nav to the windscreen. Dad had his map book on his lap and was tracing the route he had planned with his finger. Picture the scene: boot loaded, mum in the back with the sandwiches, dad and me in the front. Ten minutes passed by as the sat nav and me tried to plot the route that my dad wanted. My brother had shown me a screen on the sat nav which had the magic phrase 'avoiding motorways'. Could I find the blessed thing? Could I Huckerby. In the end, I found the nearest thing to where they planned to stop for lunch and off we went. The journey had a slow start as we got behind a Morrison's lorry doing 40 mph on the A148 to King's Lynn. Now that I'm over 50 and have two speeding fines, my youthful desire to drive everywhere at 90 mph has finally been quenched. Besides, I had an Oldie beside me fitted with a pacemaker. In spite of the sedate speed, all went well until Peterborough. At one roundabout I had 3 voices all telling me a different direction. Diplomatically I followed my dad's orders. This was a mistake as we headed north rather than west and resulted in half an hour of my mother saying that we should have taken the turning she'd suggested and that my dad didn't know what he was doing etc etc. C3Pio stayed out of it after his one little protest of "Oh dear. You'd better turn around". It was still trying to work out where the heck we were and, I believe, sulking quite a bit because we hadn't gone the way he'd suggested. Thus went the entire journey. Skirmishes were halted briefly for a picnic somewhere near Oundle, although there was still tension in the air as dad went off in one direction and mum and I in the other. C3Pio travelled with me for fear of thieves. Resuming the journey, I tried to keep everyone happy and as we came to junctions (and there are so many going across country) I would go the way the majority of the 3 wanted. At no time did all 3 of my guides agree.

Weymouth was lovely, but I developed awful back pains and my last 2 nights were disturbed by dreadful neck spasms. Do you think it could have been the tension?

We drove back to Norfolk on the wettest Wednesday of the summer. By this time I hated the sat nav and hated my dad even more. My lower back was in knots and my legs were also aching by this time. The right side of my head was locked in a vicious headache. I tried to plot the route on C3Pio, avoidng motorways. The fastest route would have taken just over 4 hours. In the end, trying to match my dad's requirements, the route was due to take over 5 hours. My heart sank. Once again, dad was sitting in the front passenger seat with his map book; this time looking even more purposeful (the trip had done him good). I gave up with the sat nav and conceded that dad could navigate, but with the condition that he gave me directions BEFORE we reached junctions, not at them. Course, he had to be clever and started giving me his vague directions about 10 miles before we reached them! The return route included a couple of favourite places for morning coffee and afternoon tea that he and mum had discovered on their many trips to Dorset in the past. So it was that we must have gone 15 miles off route to find this one Little Chef that they definitely knew was just past a petrol station in a place called Nodding Offbury. Well, they were right about the petrol station so I took the left turn just beyond and parked. It took all of us at least 5 minutes to realise that the familiar looking building in front of us was a Majestic Wine Warehouse and no longer a Little Chef. Dad kept peering around the back just in case there was a cafetiere of coffee and a toasted teacake lurking there. My mother was more philosophical. "I'm not surprised," she remarked, "it wasn't a very nice Little Chef." "So why did we have to come this way" I muttered through clenched teeth. The rest of the journey was fairly uneventful and C3Pio was allowed to come out of hiding after we'd had lunch at The Fox in Thrapston, when dad and had a half of bitter and was happy to sit in the back of the car for his afternoon nap. I was unusually thrilled as we passed the sign declaring we were in Nelson Country and we were home in time for tea. Anyone know of a good way to cure neck spasms?