Ol' Squit

Luck

As we head towards St Patrick's Day next week, there will be trinkets for sale in the card shops and someone, somewhere will mention Luck.
'Luck of the Irish', 'Lucky Shamrock', etc. Wear green and you'll be lucky. Well, I hope that some luck does come my way this week, as I've just had a bit of bad luck. Somehow I've lost the equivalent of almost 250 pounds and I have no idea how it happened. This was a tight month anyway, because, as luck would have it, while Greece riots and suffers pay cuts the Euro is falling against the dollar and my dirhams are worth more. I am lucky to be able to earn enough money here to have one of the main expat accessories - an offshore bank account. Given the favourable exchange rate, I had decided to send a substantial chunk of this month's salary into the retirement fund and had loosely planned how much money I could live on until the next pay day. It was exactly the amount that has disappeared. Fortunately, I'm lucky enough to earn enough money to have the required status to have a credit card. I won't go hungry because I can buy my groceries on credit. I may not be able to afford to have a massage next week, but in the big scheme of things I'll live perfectly well without such frippery.

This morning I am lucky to live in a compound with a gym and a swimming pool. I had porridge for breakfast to stoke me up for 20 minutes cardio exercise on the treadmill. Feeling proud of myself for exercising, I cooled down with a relaxing swim. After showering and a biscuit to keep me going until I'd bought something for lunch, I popped into my Honda CRV (which I feel very lucky to have) and headed the half mile to the nearby Lulu supermarket. I found a parking space. I looked up from searching for my shopping list to see a lone Pakistani labourer sitting on the ground in the shade, with his back against an abandoned concrete building in the waste ground ahead of me. He was perfectly still with his head down. It struck me that his behaviour was unusual. Contrary to the BNP's ethos that Pakistani migrant workers are lazy good-for-nothings, it's very unusual here to see the labourers sitting in such a vulnerable and defeated manner. It's typical to see groups of men squatting by the roadside in Sanaiya (the industrial area which is just behind my house) waiting hopefully for some work for the day. They seem to have a cheerful camaraderie, looking out for each other and bearing their hardships together. This man was alone and he looked - well, lost. Gathering my list and handbag, I turned my back on the man and went into the supermarket. I bought fruit, vegetables, fish, bread, etc. I am lucky that I can buy whatever I want. I wheeled the trolley full of groceries out to the CRV and saw that the man was still sitting against the wall, but this time his head was up. I didn't know what to make of him, but it occurred to me that he may not have eaten today because he hasn't found any work. I had a bag of tangerines from Pakistan. As I loaded the car with carrier bags, I wondered what to do. If I gave him some fruit, would he be offended? Would he consider my gift to be patronising. Would he think me brazen to be offering fruit to a strange man? Would he feel embarrassed? I decided to risk his wrath, took out one of the tangerines and realised I could avoid problems with close physical contact by throwing the fruit to him. I headed towards the driving seat and called to him. He looked at me. I held up the orange fruit and he nodded imperceptibly. I lobbed the tangerine to him, forgetting that I now have biceps after attending several body pump classes last year. I overthrew and he didn't catch the fruit. It landed in the dirt and I cried out in apology. He didn't mind. He picked up the fruit, nodded to me with a smile, and started to peel it immediately. As I reversed out I wished that I had given him the whole bag of tangerines and more besides. I don't know his story, but I hope very much that he gets more luck in the coming week.

Windy City

I shouldn't be at home writing this. I'm supposed to be sketching in a peaceful, palm fringed wadi in nearby Oman (yes, I know that sounds Edwardian). Instead, I am throwing together a long overdue blog on a sandy computer, listening to the howling wind outside. Al Ain has been buffetted by winds since Thursday. Inevitably, like rainy days in England, the worst weather seems to fall on weekends. Over the last two days the wind has accelerated to what must be gale force 8 by now. It certainly looks like it in my small back garden where the unidentified small tree and fan-shaped palm are thrashing about in a very alarming way. My precious petunias, which have been assaulted for two days and nights, are still hanging on to their blooms, but look as though they're losing the fight. Somehow I completely lost a fragile basil seedling yesterday morning. I watered it at 8 am and by 9 am it had disappeared. I know the screaming sound is caused by the gap in my patio door, which is currently letting in a fine drizzle of sand and dust which will settle on every surface in the house, but the sound is evocative of Heathcliff and strangely exhausting. We just had 2 seconds of calm and quiet, but the screaming starts up again, tenuous at first and then louder and, just when you think it can't get worse, increasing in intensity until it seems the thrashing branches will uproot the trees. It's not a day for being outside sketching. It's not a day to be outside. My car is covered in sand. The cats are fractious because they're confined indoors. Cat the Younger popped outside for all of, what, 3 seconds, and thought better of the idea. Watching the road at the back from my bedroom window, I saw three Indian men struggling through the wind and sand blasting them from behind. They were on their way to the nearby Lulu supermarket, dressed in crisp, clean white shirts, black trousers and ties with the compulsory accessory of handkerchiefs clamped to their faces to prevent clogged noses, mouths and eyes. Life goes on. My laundry is hanging to dry in the living room, adding humidity to the already hot temperature, because the wind is not refreshing and cool - it is hot and dusty. Still, could be worse. I could be 10 miles out of the city in the middle of the desert covered in sand. Or having to walk to work.

My Hurt Month

Does anyone remember biorhythms? I think it was an '80s thing. I can remember an ex boss explaining the process to me. She had a handy calculator so that she was forewarned when she was likely to burst into tears because she was emotional critical.

I can't remember the theory, but I do remember that we all go through a physical critical period every now and then when you are more likely to have accidents, fall over, etc. So, it appears that February is definitely physcial critical for me. Two weeks ago, admittedly after a late night venturing into Dubai to practice singing for Verdi's Requiem (as you do), I was struggling with a recalcitrant window because it was windy outside and dust was flying into my bedroom. I've been meaning to clean that window for some time - it's a sliding variety and dust gets trapped in the grooves and makes it stick. So, because of my procrastination, the bloomin' thing got stuck. I kept heaving at it and finally it slid shut, but I didn't get my right hand out of the way in time. I did a lot of hopping around once I managed to free the hand. The ring finger of my right hand bore the brunt of the damage and it's still quite sore and swollen, although no longer a liverish purple colour. I brandished the purple finger at a British friend, looking for sympathy, and she immediately told me to 'get some witch hazel on that'. Just like my mum would have done. Except there isn't any witch hazel to be found in Al Ain. Must put a bottle on my list of stuff to bring back from England. No arnica either.

Last week I was still struggling with the poorly finger and, misguidedly, tried to cut a slice of bread. I'm not good at slicing bread at the best of times, and this time I managed to slice into the first finger of my left hand. It hurt and bled quite a bit. I think it was in the same place where there is old scar tissue left over from when a doctor hacked out the abscess caused by the kitten in Muscat (go back a few blogs for that one). I managed to get through the week with two damaged hands, but it wasn't easy.

This week I was determined not to do anything to my body. I really hoped to have an accident free week. In my defence, I was practically unconscious when I did something a little weird. I was asleep, must have woken up a little to turn in bed and, for some peculiar reason, slid my open eye across my pillow. I remember thinking 'that wasn't a good idea and it hurts a bit' and fell asleep again. I woke up feeling fine and couldn't remember the eye incident until I was applying eyeshadow and realised my right eye was bloodshot and watery. On closer inspection, I noticed a lump next to the iris. As usual in these situations, I panicked and imagined the worst. Without further ado, I drove to Al Ain Hospital's A&E department where they had been so efficient with the cat bite last year. I felt very sorry for myself and was worried that every minute of delay would result in blindness. I couldn't find a parking space and had to walk a fair bit before walking into A&E with some relief. There were two swarthy security men there and that was it. No reassuring people wearing white overalls with stethoscopes looped around their necks. The two men looked at me suspiciously. When I managed to make them understand what I wanted I was directed with pointing to somewhere else in the hospital. They'd moved A&E without telling me! The security man pointed vaguely so that I had no idea where I was supposed to go and I was a little upset at the lack of signage and support when I had a bad eye! Eventually I found the new A&E and had the usual wait at the counter to give my insurance card and go through the registration. This always takes a while because the person taking details will always be talking to anyone else who arrives at the counter. I bit back saying 'can't you just finish with me first?' as it won't help. Then I had to see the nurse who took my blood pressure and temperature. After a surprisingly short wait, I saw a doctor. My blood pressure was way up so she thought I was hypertensive and that was the cause of the bulge in the eye. Normally I have low blood pressure, so it just goes to show how being terrified of losing your sight can make your blood pressure go up! I don't think she knew what was wrong, but her nurse threw some dye into my eye and apparently there isn't a scratch so I've been prescribed an antibiotic cream and told it should clear up in a few days. While I was waiting I noticed (with my good eye) the following signs:

Registration

Triage

Fast Treacle

I asked the doctor about the Fast Treacle - she laughed. It was supposed to Fast Track, but translators often make hilarious errors. Next week, when I've damaged another part of my body, I plan to make full use of Fast Treacle.

Finally, I went to my favourite pharmacy to fill my prescription and buy some eye wash. We've had really high winds recently, which causes huge amounts of dust, sand and goodness knows what to be flung in all directions. I'm wondering if part of my eye problem might be sand related. Reading the ingredients of Optrex, I note that it's mainly witch hazel. So, next time I bruise something I'll treat it with Optrex! Let's all cross fingers (those that aren't cut or bruised) that I have an accident free week next week.

Short and Tweet

Very odd. I wrote a blog on this theme this morning and I know that it was posted, but somehow it disappeared while I was out shopping. Perhaps the nice people at the Evening News didn't like it, although I wouldn't say it was any worse than usual. So, I'll try again to see if this one stays online.

Ol'Squit is now available in handy handbag size courtesy of Twitter. Yes, my acceptance of new ways to waste time via cyberspace knows no bounds. I am Tweeting as OlSquit, so there shouldn't be any confusion if you fancy a quick look. I experimented with Twitter last year with some of my students. I'm not sure what we accomplished, but it was good practice for the students to write in English. As with anything linked to the internet, there seems to be a problem with people keen to thrust images of semi-naked bodies at you, whether you want it or not. I had to be very vigilant to check anyone new following us, just in case, since nakedness is definitely haram in this part of the world and if any of the students had been upset by such images I could have been on the next plane to Norwich.

I'm going to confess that my addiction to the wonderful Shah Rukh Khan is the reason for me to sign up as OlSquit. I read in a newspaper that he had an official Twitter site as iamsrk, although it could well be a lunatic pretending to be him. Hope not, 'cos it's nice to read that he loves us all and that he's excited about his new film, etc. In the end, that seems to be the main purpose of Twitter - to follow your favourite movie stars and other celebs. I checked out who SRK was following and from his list added juniorbachchan (Abishek, son of Amitabh). Then, somehow, I also found Steven Fry's Twitter site as I collected together various Norfolk themed Twitter sites including one from the Evening News.

Reading SRK's Tweets this morning, I discovered that he's been interviewed on the Jonathan Ross Show. I won't be able to watch as the BBC has blocked TV programmes online to overseas IP addresses, so I'll have to find someone to record this momentous occasion. Til we Tweet again . . .

Taboos

A few weeks ago I had a rare opportunity to sit in the college staff room to eat lunch and read a newspaper. The newspaper was Khaleej Times, one of the three English language newspapers here. On the front page was a story about the increasing rate of crimes committed by women, meaning expatriate women in particular. Which brings me to my first point about cultural taboos that I observe because they differ from my own cultural norms. The women must be expatriate because Emirati women are purer than the driven snow and would not commit crimes. I dismissed the article as being another attempt to keep females in their place, which is firmly at home and under the thumb of any passing male. I flipped through the inside of the paper while chewing on my rye bread sandwich. I stopped at page 7 to read a report about a child rape and murder. As I read I felt sick. During Eid Al Adha, last November, a religious festival and a time for celebration and gifts, an Emirati male went to the local mosque in the late morning, I presume to pray for the second time that day. He had been drinking alcohol. When he got to the mosque he found 3 Pakistani children waiting to ask for Eid gifts. Presumably they were smiling and hopeful, and felt secure of success as they were standing by a mosque waiting for the devout Muslim men to come by to pray. Except that a four year old boy was taken into the bathroom of the mosque, a place where the faithful are supposed to purify themselves before entering the mosque, in order to be raped. The boy struggled, so the Emirati man put his hand over the child's mouth while he continued to defile this poor innocent. The boy must have been terrified and continued to struggle, so the Emirati man banged the boy's head on the tiled floor several times. When he had done with the boy he stood up and realised the child was dead. He walked away. Once the initial shock of this foul story had faded, I questioned the priorities of the newspaper and, perhaps, the UAE culture. In Britain, such a report would have been on the front pages of newspapers. It would have been a major story on all radio and TV news programmes. The nation would have been appalled, quite rightly. Why was this story on page 7 of the UAE newspaper, while an unsubstantial general story about females committing crime was on the front page?

A couple of weeks ago there was a rumour that this man would get away with the murder. There had been reports about the court case in which the accused, known as RR, stated that he was under the influence of alcohol and that the boy had enticed him to have sex. It was depressing and I questioned my future here. Did I really want to live and work with a society which condoned such excuses for evil behaviour? Well, there is finally some good news, if good is the right word. Today's Gulf News reports that RR has received the death sentence for his crime. The report included comments from Dr Mohammad Murad, Director of the Decisions Support Centre at Dubai Police, who has finally lifted the lid to reveal that child abuse in this country is much higher than reported. Last year 22 cases of child abuse were reported in Dubai. Apparently there were many more cases, but 'in a society of taboos' these cases are not reported. These taboos make life very complicated for individuals. Firstly, there is the Muslim religion which permeates all of life here. Every day I am affected by the religious rules - I must dress modestly, my students must cover their hair, kissing is edited out of TV programmes and films, alcohol is not allowed to be consumed in public, the call to prayer can be heard five times. Then there is the 'saving face' culture which predominates throughout the Asian population. So bad things are covered up. To me, because of my cultural norms and the way that I was brought up in good old, sensible, no nonsense, 'let's have none o'that squit' Norfolk, what this boils down to is lying and hypocrisy. Let's review what this man did which goes against the social norms of the Islamic culture. He was drinking alcohol. He raped a male child - sex outside of marriage is forbidden. There are some poor female maids who, having been caught having a shag with someone, are then sentenced to stoning and deportation. I stipulate male child because the Islamic culture isn't so bothered about the child part. There was another story recently that there is a plan to make marrying nine year old girls illegal in Saudi Arabia. Homosexuality isn't allowed, I think. He raped a boy in a bathroom of a mosque, a place where Muslims wash themselves before praying. Finally, there is the sin of murder.

Dr Murad calls for families to report sexual abuse in the home. He says that if families don't face up to the problems, there will be more incidents of this kind because abuse leads to more abuse. We all know that sexual abuse occurs across the world. This is not a UAE problem, but one that has to be faced in every country. However, there will have to be a social change here in order for the problem to be dealt with long term. Sometimes I detect a 'holier than thou' attitude from the Muslims in my community (which I've also experienced from Christians in England). Often we expats moan about the fact that Emiratis are arrogant because of their wealth from oil. There is a belief that Emiratis flout the laws - both civil and religious. I'm not normally comfortable with the idea of a death sentence, but in this case I feel this is justice. Maybe it will give us all pause to examine our behaviour and our own taboos. In the meantime, my heart goes out to the family of that poor child.

A world without Mafi

This is a blog that I had hoped not to write for a long time. Mafi the Cat was euthanised last Tuesday. You'll know of Mafi as 'Cat the Elder' because, ludicrously, I wanted to protect her identity. Well, mine as well I guess. Not too many cats in Norfolk named Mafi, I'll bet. Mafi came into my life in early October 1999 when I had been in Al Ain for about 6 weeks. It's a complicated story, so I won't bore you with the reasons for her arriving at my flat. I don't know how old she was, but she was certainly mature, with a history of rough-housing on the streets of Al Ain. As with all street girls, she was pregnant. She was also a non-descript tabby with one of the meanest expressions I've encountered in a feline. The deal was that she would stay with me until she'd given birth. She would then be spayed and returned to the street where she'd been picked up while her kittens would be found homes. Obviously it didn't happen that way. I called her Mafi because I was determined that this arrangement would be temporary. I had only recently had to have a cat euthanised in England, just before I left to come to the UAE and I did not want the extra complications of taking on cats while living abroad. Hah! Mafi was the closest I could get to an Arabic word for 'nothing'. She was a non cat. One of the first expressions I'd learned in my short time in Al Ain was 'mafi mishkila' which means 'no problem'. So, that was her name and it suited her. However, Mafi did not like being returned to the street and when she was brought back to me in desperation, after she had beaten up several cats in someone's house, she looked completely at home as soon as she walked out of the carrier. She still treated me with suspicion and contempt, but she had decided that my flat was her home and she'd put up with me.

Our first year together was difficult to say the least. In the first few weeks I often questioned, out loud, why I was keeping her in cat food. She never slept while I was walking around in the flat. Never. She seemed to sleep grudgingly during the night and presumably during the long hours while I was at work during the day. If I came within six feet of her she would growl and spit. When I came near to her with a bowl of food I would be rewarded with a scratch, if I was lucky. I once yelled at her and shut the door of the kitchen. That's the first time that I discovered Mafi could understand me. Yeah, I know, you've got raised eyebrows and an incredulous expression on your face. I can name at least 3 occasions when that cat has clearly understood what I have said because her behaviour changed immediately. I have also heard her, in my head, tell me what she thinks about a situation. If I'd opened my mind more, I'm sure we would have had a regular dialogue. Choti Billi and Cat the Younger do not have that ability. Just Maff. So, I'll miss her dreadfully. She has been my companion, in all senses, for a pretty rocky 10 years. Over two years she learned to trust me to the extent that she would let me pat her head and she would sleep on my bed, once I'd turned out the light. The first time I felt her body cuddled against mine during a cold February night, I felt highly privileged. I did not expect this gradual thaw to ever extend to sitting on my lap. But I was wrong. In the cold and damp winter months in Norwich, Mafi used to jump on to my lap every evening as I reclined to watch TV.

Mafi was extraordinary in many ways in herself. She was also a very well-travelled cat. She was sent to England to endure 6 months quarantine just outside Mildenhall in 2002. She was utterly miserable, but recovered when she was released and came to live with me in Costessey. She adapted to English weather with the help of central heating and blankets. For a short while I had use of a caravan on the Norfolk coast and both cats would come with me. Mafi and I had started walking the territory after we'd been together about a year. I think that feral cats like the idea of walking around where they live to check what's going on and what dangers to prepare for. She has walked with me in Al Ain, Costessey, Trimingham, Waxham and finally Norwich. Oh, also Hardwick where she stayed for a week or so while I moved house. She used to walk down to Moira's with me and Cat the Younger when I popped round for a glass of vino and a chat. Forget butter on the paws; my mum has always said that my cats are happy wherever they are so long as I'm there too. That's a deep relationship. Just as well, because in spite of her giving me a strong message that she didn't want to leave our flat in Norwich, I decided my life would be much better if I returned to the UAE and the two cats had to come too. In my heart I knew that Mafi would not make the return journey to England and I did think about leaving her with Ariadne in Hardwick. Then Ariadne, unaccountably, decided to share her life with two ferrets and I couldn't imagine living without Mafi, so she had to come with me. She had to endure the difficulties of living in Cell Block H for the first year. She was chased up a high wall by dogs, attacked by a ferocious tom cat and used to escape the pigeon-shitty outside area by jumping a ten foot wall on a daily basis. Mafi always had a mind of her own. She was wise and dignified. She was a tough survivor. When she walked with me she had this 'don't mess with me' trot. Think Spike the dog in the Tom and Jerry cartoons. Yet her method of surviving was to avoid trouble wherever possible.

Recently Mafi's sight declined. I took her to a vet and after tests it was revealed that she had very high blood pressure and kidney problems. That wouldn't be too much of a problem if Mafi would take medicine. We had become very affectionate friends, but as soon as I took her to a vet, Mafi would revert to her feral roots and become totally unmanageable. Very distressing for Maff, me and the vet. The lovely Alan from Eaton Vets used to refer to my two cats as 'the wildies' during the long and expensive process of micro-chipping them prior to coming back to Al Ain in 2007. It was lucky that for 10 years Mafi was never sick or injured, so we didn't have to deal with the problem of giving her drugs. Now it was a problem, a mishkila. Mafi might sit on my lap on a cold evening, she might sit beside me on the sofa every night here in Al Ain (this cat really loved me and showed it), but there was NO way she would let me hold her mouth open long enough to get her to swallow a pill. It was an awful decision to make, but in the end it seemed the only possible way to help her was to end her life. She would hate not being able to see. She hated car journeys to the vet. I'm going to put off the next chore of having to send in the form to the pets passport authority to declare that she is an ex cat. She's still very alive in my mind.

Happy Blue Moon Year

You knew it was a blue moon on New Year's Eve didn't you? I wouldn't have known if I wasn't for the fact that I was searching for night sky constellations in the Middle East. Didn't find what I was looking for, of course, but did find a Young Astronomers' website from the UK which was very user friendly and included the information that it was a blue moon. So how about that? In case either of you don't know what that means, it's when there's a second full moon in the same month. I hope it means that 2010 is going to be a better year than 2009. I can't explain why 2009 wasn't nice, but if I had to describe the year, the words prickly, underhanded, disappointing, sad, numb, intense and frustrating would be used. The Pollyanna within me cannot understand this gloominess about 2009. I've had two fabulous trips to places I've long wanted to visit. Plus trips to the UK and Sri Lanka. I've just changed my car and have remote locking. I'm living in a nice home. I have a good job. I'm healthy (if you don't count menopausal symptoms and the stomach bacteria that floored me in September). I've got good friends and my mum loves me (we won't talk about the rest of the family after Christmas Day). Why was I so pleased to see the back of 2009? Don't know. Maybe when I find myself I'll know.

In the meantime, I celebrated the New Year by joining friends on a camping trip somewhere in the rocky wilds of Oman just past Buraimi. I haven't camped since my return to Al Ain in 2007 and it was good to be out there, at one with nature, enjoying a gibbous moon (with a weird kink in it), fresh air and interesting company. I brought my standard chocolate cake (from a cake mix), while the rest of the party brought mulled wine, a fabulous potato salad, gorgeous lamb chops and spicy sausages for the BBQ. A fire was lit and we ate and drank with much pleasure. Earlier, we had put up the tents and mine was the subject of some derision. It was left behind by one of my house-sitters. It was small. When I eased my way in through the entrance, my feet touched one end and my head the other. It was a cold night, the ground was hard and my left leg kept cramping up. Finally I unclenched my eyes and realised that there was light and immediately left the condensation ridden misery of the tent to enjoy the pre-dawn and find somewhere very private for a toilet stop. The spicy sausages had been playing havoc with my stomach (still tender perhaps) all night and had I been near a proper bathroom I might have spent some time in there. As it was, I tried to think of something else and the leg cramps certainly took my mind off the wrenching of my gut.

I managed to take some nice photos, which I might share with you once I've figured out my password on my Facebook page. Just give me a day or two. Other than that, not much to see apart from a couple of ravens and what I think was a lesser grey shrike, but as I was bleary-eyed and cold I can't be sure. Good way to start the New Year though. The Christmas Recreational Vehicle handled the terrain beautifully and practically drove itself. Just as well perhaps.

Christmas Recreational Vehicle

I've just changed my car. Just after I arrived here in August 2007, I was offered the opportunity to buy a 10 year old Daewoo Leganza for a very cheap price. I snapped up the bargain, as I had known all 3 women who had owned the car before. Not often you can say that, although fairly common here in Expat Land. The Daewoo looked pretty good for its age, unlike its owner, and has served me well, particularly when I found a magician of a mechanic, John, to replace the charlatan mechanic, Ibrahim, who's army of sub-contractors were exhausted and confounded by an irritating oil leak which reduced Ibrahim to advise me that I should buy a Toyota. John fixed the oil leak problem, but not the sun visor which stubbornly refused to stay in the up position which may account for the crick in my neck as I was forced to peer under the visor while driving. Well, no more of that! I am now the very proud owner of a Honda CRV. As I bought the little beauty in December, the CRV part stands for Christmas Recreational Vehicle. The deal had a number of hiccups along the way, the worst of which was having to drive through very heavy rain through roads which were more like canals because of the flooding, not once but TWICE in the same morning. I returned from each journey with a clenched jaw and white knuckles. All the aggravation has been worth it as I now own a car (yes, I know technically it's a hated 4WD, but I do feel justified in owning one here as I am in the middle of the desert, and besides which it's only a little 4WD, hardly fits the category really) with cruise control, remote locking (I have long aspired to that feature), arm rests, two cupholders and a foldaway picnic table. The previous owners were very careful people who even took the trouble to have an expensive repair done to the car before selling it to me. That is particuarly exceptional in these parts and, I daresay, anywhere in the world. It's a dream to drive with fabulous visibility. I may even take it out to a camping venue on New Year's Day, although I'm worried about it getting muddy/a puncture/dirty.

The Christmas RV has been the best bit of news for the last couple of weeks. I'm afraid that work is no longer a pleasure. I reluctantly agreed to take overtime (money as well as a desire to help were my motives) and it has proved overwhelming for a variety of reasons. Sadly, for all the hard work that I have done, my students have reacted to my exhaustion fuelled impatience by complaining about me, which is the worst thing that can happen to any teacher who cares about the job. That's my problem; I care too much and I've been pushing like a maniac. I can only hope that one day some of them will understand what they have achieved. In the meantime, I'm seriously re-evaluating my future as a teacher in any country. From childhood I've wanted to work in a library and I think the time is coming to look into a career change. I also have to try to work out the priorities of the college management here, as I'm now confused. Originally it was 'we must challenge the students' but as there's no support for the fallout of challenging people to step out of their comfort zone, I'm now under the impression that the priority is to be 'jolly nice' to all the students all the time, no matter what. That has a familiar ring, as it's the same priority at Norwich City College and possibly other British educational institutions. Ah well, I had two good years. The other positive part of my job is that I can say no to overtime next semester, which is not the case in Norwich where the high workload would have been part of my contract with no overtime payment and no relief.

We had Christmas Day as a holiday this year, because Friday is the holy day in the UAE. I was invited to join a large party of people at the house of the 'hosts with the mosts' and it was a very nice evening thank you very much. But tinged with regret, so I couldn't say I had a really good time. Christmas is always the time that I feel homesick and miss Norfolk, family and friends - and just being 'normal'. I envy you your snow, as you might envy me the lovely sunshiney day that we had in Al Ain. I was already feeling a little sad and self-pitying before the worst blow came. My mum and dad talked to me early in the day using Skype. We then set a time to talk again later in the day, when I would still be at home and my sister and her family should have arrived for Christmas lunch. My poor mum called as arranged, but unfortunately none of my sister's family wanted to say even a quick hello or Merry Christmas. My mum told me 'they're sitting at the table waiting to eat lunch'. Ho hum, and bah humbug to you too. Well, at least it was a good reminder of what a family Christmas is really like.

And finally, I can't end a Christmas blog without a bit of political comment. Bethlehem (Oh little town of Bethlehem, how riven we see thee lie, above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the Israeli missiles fly) in 2009 is much the same as it was 2009ish years ago. It is still a town troubled by occupation of another country. Nowadays, near the Church of the Nativity, there is a concrete wall with watchtowers built by the Israelis, decorated by vivid graffiti by Palestinians depicting their desire for a blue skies freedom. Does anyone else appreciate the irony and disgrace of such a wall built to keep a whole population under control in 2009?

Send gopher wood

Heavy rain falling. Stop. Drains clogged by last week's sandstorm. Stop. Roads are flooded with a foot of water. Stop. Roundabouts look like lily ponds. Stop. Quite pretty if I didn't have to drive round them. Stop. Maniac drivers think it's fun to drive fast to create a water fountain. Stop. Help! Stop. Send gopher wood fast. Stop. Rain might not stop. Stop. Ark needed urgently. Stop.

PS Whaddyamean, you've got your own problems? Over here I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas, but not it's not likely. Stop.

Heads in the sand

I'm back from my 7 day trip to Jordan and Syria. It was marvellous to visit so many historical sites, including some that I grew up with in my Sunday school and RE lessons. I spent a wonderful day relaxing by the Dead Sea, which was not at all as I'd imagined it would be. Much nicer, although I did have trouble managing the buoyancy problem. I have been on the road to Damascus and my first evening there would have been magical, if it hadn't been for a couple of members of the group who allowed their personal issues to dominate our tour of the museum and the ancient souq. As we were walking down the Via Recta (I'll have to look that up, but I'm sure that's what Fadi said), historical route of Paul after his epiphany, one of our group snapped "I'm desperate for the toilet and we're getting a Sunday school lesson". Hmm, of course that's what I paid so much money to hear. I'm starting to think that my next trip should be solo.

One of the hallmarks of this trip was the breaking news about the financial problems of Dubai. Each time we switched on CNN or BBC World (much better coverage of business news) we'd get a little more information about the lack of information coming from Dubai and the UAE central bank in response to the financial meltdown of Dubai World and Nakheel. It certainly stopped us feeling homesick. I can't say that any of us were surprised. Nor were we surprised to hear the business pundits discussing the lack of transparency from the financial institutions in Dubai and the UAE. Good lord - this is a country where saving face and hiding the truth is second nature. I'm not being critical here - it's just a fact of life in the Emirates. Personally, I'm glad that Dubai World has had its comeuppance. I remember hearing a sheikh speaking on behalf of Dubai World in an interview on Radio 4. His arrogance was breathtaking as he proclaimed that he and his company would not be dictated to by any country's government and that they would do exactly as they pleased, whenever they pleased and wherever they pleased. Hah!

So, after all the fuss and excitement caused by the huge debt incurred by two of the biggest companies in the Emirates, which they can no longer pay back to the agreed deadline, what's on Emirates News tonight? Sheikh Mohammed blah blah Maktoum, Ruler of Dubai, has taken comfort in his favourite occupation - horse racing. The leading item on the news tonight was his inspection of a new race course, costing about GBP11/2 million, home of the next Dubai World Cup. Glad to see the Big Guy has got his priorities sorted out. Maybe British news should follow suit - stop spending days and days on the same gloomy items and give us more positive stuff. Pretend everything is fine and maybe, in a Pollyannish sort of way, the problems will all dissolve. Ah, now there's an epiphany.

The gift of a day

After the relentlessness of a busy workload, I've just enjoyed a surprise day off. It's Eid Al Adha tomorrow and we have all of next week off too. The week off was something that we had all counted on. In fact, three other people and myself gambled that we would have next week off by booking a trip to Jordan and Syria before the exact number of days' holiday was confirmed. Sometimes we get as little as a couple of days' notice. Fortunately, the evening before I had to pay for the trip, someone told me that an email had been sent from above and we were definitely having next week off. And also today. A gift. A whole day without having to do anything much (except meet a couple of people to organise cat feeding). Yesterday I kept forgetting that I didn't have to be in work today. Last night I thought I should get the ironing done before the trip. Then I remembered - I could do it today. What a lovely feeling, not to have to rush around to get all my personal stuff done because I have to be at work by 7.15 am the next day. What a luxury to lie in bed without having to think about getting up to go shopping. It's been blissful and relaxing, and I've fitted in most of the packing. Plenty of warm clothes as temperatures in Jordan and Syria are about 15 C during the day, dropping to 3 C at night. Here in Al Ain, we're at the stage of pleasant days of 25 C and about 19 C at night, so it will seem a bit colder up north (so to speak). I have packed all my long-sleeved tops and long trousers. I am not making the mistake that I made when I travelled to Australia in the summer, which was actually their winter, and I had to borrow a jacket and wash out the only pair of long trousers that I'd thought to pack. Hope you're keeping up with the seasons.

I'll be glad to get away tomorrow. There's a plaintive bleating from behind the high walls surrounding the big house on the corner. My heart lurches to hear the sound, because I know that on Friday the goat or sheep will have its throat cut and all its blood will be allowed to drain from its body as part of the helal preparation for meat. The animal will be cooked for the Eid Al Adha feast and its ritual slaughter is an important part of this religious holiday. In my ignorance I want to protect the creature from such a fate because I don't know if its death will be long and lingering or mercifully quick and without too much suffering. In the end, whatever way it dies, perhaps it's no different to all the turkeys which are currently hidden from view while they fatten up ready for the oven and Christmas dinner. Although the symbolic killing of the goat seems barbaric to me, perhaps it's more honest and meaningful to know that a live animal was involved, rather pick up a lump of pre-packed meat from the supermarket with no thought that it was once alive, walking around and capable of feeling. As I get older and have worked so much with distressed animals, if it was my choice I'd keep the goat in a nice field of healthy grass and eat baked beans for whatever religious holiday is being celebrated. May peace be with its soul and Eid Mubarak.

Relentless patterns

I haven't got time to write this but I'm going crazy. The all too familiar feeling of being totally overwhelmed has returned to my working life, after 2 years' absence. It's Thursday afternoon and everyone keeps asking if I'm going to have a nice weekend. No, I'm bloody not. I've got a pile of marking (so big I don't know where to start), I'm supposed to be meeting friends for lunch, I need to go shopping and I have to go to an Executive meeting of Animal Friends. I'd like to give my apologies for the Animal Friends meeting so that I can tackle the mountain of marking, but as I was the idiot who called it in the first place, I don't think that's a good idea. Aaaaargh! Could someone PLEASE come over here and give me a shoulder massage? My neck and shoulders are practically locked because I'm spending hours on the computer trying to work out what an Excel PivotTable is and why my students should bother to learn it, since they struggle with just typing a heading and a few numbers.

That's the pattern to which I'm referring in this blog's title. After 25 years of teaching I finally recognise the symptoms of when I'm going overboard and my students start to hate me. This is why I've stopped struggling with Excel for 10 minutes to write this, because I think it will help me stop the pattern. This is how it works. I'm out of my depth, but have to teach something anyway (that's pretty typical for most teachers). I spend hours and hours learning how to do something (which is one of the reasons I like teaching in the first place) so that I can then communicate the skill, function, knowledge or whatever in an appropriate way for the students. Sometimes, like now, I work much, much harder than the students. Right now I'm exhausted. Last night I was so glad to get to bed, but then I couldn't sleep because I was thinking of all the stuff that I had to do. So, because I'm working harder than the students I walk into class with an attitude, which they pick up. I don't know I'm doing it, but I must be. They then become argumentative and so we have a big wall between us. I have to learn to chill. I have to relax and stop worrying that we're not doing everything on the syllabus down to the last semi-colon. This is particularly important for the next two weeks because they plan to ask the students to evaluate me. I was aware that things would take a dowhill turn two weeks ago. It was a blissful week. Students seemed happy in my class and they visibly enjoyed the tasks that they were doing. They were pleased to see me walk in. As soon as I realised that we'd reached this happy stage, I knew it would all go wrong. It always does. So, if the students had evaluated me two weeks ago, I would have got a higher rating that I will in the next two weeks, which is really annoying. It's that stage in the semester too - the students have suddenly realised that we're almost at the end and that there's no time left to catch up. All their teachers are piling on the pressure at the same time.

Meanwhile, I had to move my desk last week. At the start of the semester, I had moved to a secluded window seat, sharing the room with quiet people. It was a lovely working environment, although I did get lonely. Now, I'm in a room where everyone has that TGIT feeling, there's chatting and all kinds of noise and I CAN'T THINK. Doesn't anyone realise how difficult it is to get your head around PivotTables when you know there's a pile of marking waiting and people are talking about dogs, children, students etc. There's no peace and I'm getting grumpier and my shoulders are locked just below my ears.

Right, have to run, as I'm sure you understand, before I Pivot right out of my head.

Man City v UAE

As I write this, the second half of the match between Manchester City and the UAE national football team is about to start. Fortunately I remembered to turn to the Abu Dhabi sports channel just in time for the half-time analysis by UAE's version of the nice Gary Lineker, the dangerously delectable Alan Hanson (who I think looks his best in a black shirt), and the other one. Abu Dhabi's football trio consisted of three Emirati men, dressed in traditional garb of white dishdasha (the long robe) plus the white cloth on the head (I've forgotten the name) chattering away meaningfully in Arabic. Actually I got as much from their analysis as I would have done from Gary Lineker and co. Obviously, as a person blessed with Fallopian tubes, I haven't got a clue about football. But I know what I like! At one point they appeared to be using a very good computer imaging thing to explain the offside rule - alas, I'm still none the wiser as it was all in Arabic. One thing intrigued me about the 3 Emirati half time experts. One of them had a nasty looking bruise on his cheek (could have been a birthmark) and a couple of days' stubble, so he looked like a typical English fan who'd spent the night before the game drinking and brawling. Surely not?

The first half highlights showed the Man City goalkeeper being bombarbed by the UAE forwards. Not sure if it was the same manouvre each time, but it looked pretty impressive. I think, but don't quote me, that the UAE is one goal up at half time. Hard to tell as my Arabic is limited to hello, how are you, and a few other bits and pieces, and I certainly can't read the Arabic script, so I'm not sure what it said on the TV screen. Ooops, UAE just had to face a penalty, but no goal for MCFC alas.

There's yer problem. Man City is now owned by the UAE. In fact, it was difficult to work out who was who, as the Man City team are wearing a black strip with Etihad Airways emblazoned across their chests. That's the airline set up by the Abu Dhabi government in 2005. Can you imagine the pre-match pep talk? "Right guys, you've just spent a week at the Emirates Palace Hotel where you've been lavished with every luxury imaginable. I know you feel grateful so I'm sure that you'll remember that the team you're about to play is the National team of the people who pay your wages. No dilemma there eh? Just bloody make sure that you look good on the pitch, but don't score a bloody goal!" Well, so far the strategy is working. I'll get back to the game and let you know if the strategy went wrong.

Blondes

I've just had my hair died a sort of reddy purple. Or possibly a purbley red. The hair has had mixed reviews. I have to admit that I wasn't totally delighted when I first saw the new hair colour. I was reminded of Richard, my fabulous Norwich hairdresser from the Green Room. Many years ago he told me that I couldn't have dark brown hair anymore. I was too old and my skin colour had changed (couldn't see it myself) and that I needed the tabby cat colour of medium brown with copper and gold highlights that his colourists had just given me. I wanted to cry. It was the day that my divorce was final and I looked in the mirror at this stranger and wanted to wail out loud. I wanted to cry 'Give me my hair back!, followed swiftly by 'Give me my marriage but make my husband really good and not a lying, self-centred parasite'. No point in wailing either of those complaints, so I tucked all the bad feelings deep inside with the rest of the negativity that has been stored internally for a long time.

Back to my new hair colour. I hadn't noticed myself, but apparently I've become a sort of coppery light haired person. Possibly faintly ginger, according to the couple who sold me a Wii last June and when I was searching for the hair colour for my Mini Me (or whatever it's called), steered me away from the dark hair that I would have chosen and persuaded me to go for the gingery brown. For years and years my hair was a deep, dark brown. Sometimes, with the right cut and shampoo, my hair was a cloud of dark hair. The X used to tell me it was almost black. I can't come to terms with a hair colour which looks like a tabby cat. Which is why I decided to go mad and have the reddy purple. It's called Medium Mahogany Chestnut on the packet. It's turned out to be a fairly vibrant reddy purple. Like glowing, man. The trouble is that all my colours are now suited to the tabby cat look. I might not have got used to the colour, but I appear to have adjusted sub-consciously and instinctively. I had the new colour done at the weekend, and when I returned to work I'd fogotten about the dramatic change. I had reactions from staff which would have been an interesting study into how people deal with honesty. Some people just ignored the colour, preferring to pretend nothing was amiss. Betty, one of my best friends here, took one look and told me I needed to change it (she's from New Zealand where they don't mince words). Another friend told me that I needed a whole new wardrobe. My boss told me that I needed to apply much more make-up since my hair was now such a dramatic colour and my face, as usual, was completely washed out. Two students, who didn't know me, took one look as they passed and laughed. My own students have mixed views. They always notice appearance. They feel that it's quite acceptable to make judgements and make incisive comments, with no intention of hurting anyone (well, I don't think so anyway). So, about half the students think the new colour is great - one class had a 4 minute riot when I walked into the room. The rest of the students agree with Kasim, the stationery man who loves cats, who told me that I looked better as a blonde. But I'm not a blonde. I don't want to be blonde (well, I don't now, although I didn't appreciate my lovely dark hair when I was a teenager and wished I could be blonde then). I want to be dark-haired and mysterious. It must be so much easier if you're blonde to start with. I've just been watching the US TV drama series Damages which I don't understand at all. Ms Close looks wonderful and she's ten years older than me. Great haircut and still blonde. Because she started off as a blonde. Who invented the cosmic rule that brunettes have to suffer so much with their hair colour as they get older? Who was it? Well, I'm sticking with the purpley red, trying to find time to add a ton of make-up before I have to leave for work at 7 am while at the same time look for the remnants of a suitable wardrobe for a darker shade of purple. Any colour experts out there who can help me? Oh, how I wish I'd been born blonde. Perhaps I should follow the advice of the X who told me to have a bleached crew cut when I got older.

Where was I?

I can't remember what I was nattering on about in my last posting - can't remember the title at all. Ah well, something to read a bit later. So, where was I? Good question. Pin back your eyelids and I'll bring you up to date with 6 weeks worth of trivia.

The reason why I haven't posted anything in the last few weeks is because I'm either knackered or doing something. Which is actually pretty good, if I could just get used to the idea I don't need to loll around watching TV all the time. The main reason for my constant knackered feeling is that I agreed (reluctantly) to take on 3 hours of overtime each week. It didn't seem so bad at first, and I did check that the two extra courses that I had taken on had textbooks to go with them. What I hadn't remembered from working at the salt mine commonly referred to as Norwich City College, is how the extra stress of too much work makes your brain go funny. Not nice funny, mark you. The feeling is more like my brain is being vibrated and squeezed by a malign force. It results in impatience, quick to anger and feeling generally hard done by and cross with Management. I haven't had that particular feeling since I was so upset with Management about my accommodation back in December 2007. So I should count my blessings perhaps. This time the stress was more pronounced than it should have been because the said textbooks were not ordered and did not arrive until 6 weeks into the course. It's the first time that these courses are being run in Al Ain and there are no resources available. So it's meant that I spend every waking moment not doing other teaching frantically dreaming up stuff for my students to do that meets the requirements of the syllabus and learning outcomes. Ordinarily I enjoy this kind of creativity - it's one of the great advantages of being a teacher. However, the prospect of 26 hard-to-please students to face 4 days each week adds extra pressure and it hasn't been such a pleasant experience.

It's still better than teaching in England and I do remind myself of that from time to time. Even being told that I have to move my workstation from my long-coveted window, which caused much gnashing of teeth and a few obscenities, cannot mire the positive experience of working here. I'm sure that there are many people out there who would remind me that I'm lucky to have a job at all, so stop moaning and get on with it. My sister has just been told that she will be made redundant at Christmas and my brother has been working a 4 day week. Even though I am far away from the gloom and doom, it's depressing to know that my family is now facing an uncertain future with all the worry that lack of job security will cause.

What else can I tell you? Well, I went off to Sri Lanka for a short break for Eid Al Fitr, in spite of having decided to spend the week at home. For some reason, Betty and I managed to get an upgrade to Business class without having to ask for it. As Betty hails from New Zealand, she has sufficient airmiles to be a Silver Emirates member, so she smuggled me into the First Class lounge at the new Terminal 3 in Dubai Airport, where we partook of free edibles and swanked around, as you do. In spite of taking vitamin C every day to ward off swine flu, I started to cough on the afternoon that we were due to leave. The coughing was dry and irritable and I used the lovely linen napkin provided by Emirates Airlines to cover my mouth so that I wouldn't be lynched by my fellow posh passengers. When we arrived at Colombo airport my heart sank - there were long lines of people drifting past temperature sensors as they made their way to officials wearing face masks who checked our health forms (I admitted to the cough but not to having had contact with my nieces when their dad had been diagnosed with H1N1). I tried to look as healthy as possible as I finally reached the man in the mask, who took my form, gave me a cursory look and waved me on. What a relief! As so often happens when I travel, our first stop was at a chemist shop so that I could load up with cough mixture and cough sweets. We were also upgraded to superior rooms at the Eden Spa and Resort in Sri Lanka, so we enjoyed a 4-poster bed each and a butler who brought us fresh fruit and canapes each evening for our short stay. I first visited Sri Lanka in December 2002, so it was interesting to drive along the coast road south from Colombo to see what changes had happened as a result of the tsunami in December 2004. It's probably daft, but it seemed to me that there was less beach than before. The waves seemed ominously close to the mainland. Otherwise, the island is recovering and there were no obvious signs of the carnage that had happened. They need tourists to boost the economy, so I think it was worth the trip even though we seemed to spend most of our time in a car making our way to or from the airport.

Finally, I have another feline guest in the cat room who keeps me busy. My guess is that he was about 6 weeks old when I picked him up from the person who had found him in a bird cage by the side of the road. I suppose the cage was better than just dumping him in the desert, which has happened before now. He was provided with food in the small seed trays attached to the cage. He had quite a menu to choose from - tuna, chicken, rice and watermelon. He had two nasty scabs, which have turned out to be ringworm. I now await the scaly patches on my own skin as this is one disease which is transferable. After a couple of days in my care, the poor little guy started having diahorrea. It became so bad that at one point he completely redecorated the room with a slimy brown theme. Yes, it's a lot of fun being a kitten foster mum. A fellow Animal Friends volunteer took him to an Abu Dhabi vet on Thursday and now I have three different kinds of medicine to give him each day. Not easy injecting various liquids into a wriggly kitten's mouth, let me tell you. For all his problems, he's been lovable and playful from the start. Such a wonderful character. I'm hoping that he will have a permanent home pretty soon. Now that he's feeling better he's lonely and bored in the guest room, where I make sure that he has no contact with my three cats. It's nice to have a kitten to play with - I decided to name him after a Japanese monster as he does that gorgeous kitten thing of standing on his hind legs with his front paws up in the air and wide apart ready to attack my hair. Both of us are mentally going "Grrrrroowwww" as he jumps on my head. However, as I couldn't find a decent monster name for him, I've decided on Neko, which is Japanese for cat. Suits him.