Aoibhlinn Hester musings

My apologies for not having written in a while. I’m blaming Facebook, and now Twitter. Before these social media innovations, I had to send a mass email if I wanted to share a thought that had struck me. Now, all I do is think it, write it, and send it on its way down ye olde internet superhighway. Strangely, though, it’s not as fun as writing to you guys. So here I am again.

I have exchanged the futuristic skyline of downtown Dubai for the, ahem, bucolic surroundings of Bethnal Green Road, London. The story of how I got here is long and torturous and would bore you to bits. Long story short: I spend a lot of time commuting to Dubai, but am settled in East London; incongruous as this seems to most people.

Beffnal Green. It’s curious, the reactions elicited by these two words. My oldest (in age terms) friend spent years working as a bouncer in London’s least salubrious nightclubs. I phoned him to give him the good news that I had moved within phoning distance, and the exclaimed response was: “Wot the FACK are YEW doin in fackin’ Beffnal Green?”
In vain did I try to protest that actually, it’s vibrant and multicultural and is a symbol of the real Britain…
“Yeah, but wot the bleedin’ ’ell are YOU doin’ there?”
Sniffily, I responded that if I had figured out the mean streets of LA and the madness of Hong Kong, Singapore, Dubai and Sri Lanka, the esoteric rituals of Bethnal Green were unlikely to be impenetrable to me.
“Dahlin’, you’re FAR too fackin’ straight to live in the East End.”
So it appeared.

I learned this lesson the hard way when I walked into the local butcher’s shop.
”Hello” I said in a friendly tone. “I’d like two pieces of fillet steak please.”
The butcher actually put down his knives and stared at me as if I was some sort of alien. (And not one he liked the look of.)
“Eh, Errol,” he said, calling to his colleague at the back of the shop. “Says she wants some FILLIT STAYKE.”
Everyone in the shop turned and stared. Errol came out from the back of the shop, wiping his bloodied hands on his apron, to check out the troublemaker for himself. I started to feel a little intimidated.
“Don’t have much call for fillet steak around ’ere,” said Errol, looking at me as if I’d asked for Beluga caviar, and he was deeply offended at the request. (I swear, not one word of this is made up.)
“You ’eard the man,” said Butcher Number One. “Fillit Stayke, she wants.” He looked around at the other customers, who looked at me as if I’d just peed in their handbags (thanks for the image, Bill Bryson, couldn’t think of a better one). Then he got indignant.
“See, miss, if I stock fillet steak, you’re going to come in ’ere and have two pieces, and then I’m going to have to throw the rest of it out. You see? YOU SEE?”
Overwhelmed by visions of being whoever-took-over-from-the-Krays’ latest victim, I capitulated.
“Jesus, okay, sorry sir, I’ll have sirloin.”
Butcher Number One sighed the sigh of the righteous proved right.
“Awright. I’ll give yew two pieces of sirloin. ’Appy?”
“Delighted, Mister Sykes, sir.” (That last bit’s made up, but none of the rest.)

Jaysus, Eastenders are hard work. I won’t even go into the incident in the pie shop.
(“So, erm, what’s in the pies?” “Wotyewblaaaddythink? MmmmAAAYYYYTTTT!”)

I am learning, though. Still smarting from my meat-related incident, I took some dry cleaning to the local cleaners.
“Vat’ll be fifteen pounds, lav.”
“YEW WHOT?” I said, in a register only actually heard by canines. (On observation, I had figured out that this is the normal East End approach to bargaining.)
“Awright, but just cos Errol in the butcher’s likes you. Twelve.”
I might be a figure of fun, but at least everyone knows me.

Nobody told me that as well as learning to speak in a totally different register I’d have to wear Other People’s Old Clothes to fit in at the other end of Bethnal Green Road: Brick Lane. Here, the whole vintage clothing thing is getting out of control. About twenty per cent of the population living around Brick Lane think they’re living in the Fifties. Hair, makeup, and clothes are all from that era, to the last detail- there are specialist shops for vintage underwear. That’s the good part. The rest dress out of skips/Oxfam and pride themselves on their vintage style, even though they’re, say, wearing a jacket that some Home Counties housewife wore to her son’s wedding in 1990. (Peach viscose, and I nearly made a citizen’s arrest on behalf of the Fashion Police when I saw the offender.) I’m unsurprisingly having difficulty coping with this. On one end of the street I have to dodge street vendors going “Oi! Vat’s a faking BAWGAIN, va’ is” while brandishing ten-pound duvets in my face, and on the other end it seems perfectly normal to wear some old lady’s knickers in the interest of high fashion.

The East End is a thriving artisitic hub. You can’t go two steps without bumping into a seminal installation. There are galleries everywhere. Most of them look like your granny’s front room, only without the wallpaper. I’m beginning to react badly to all the artistic expression. I’m a bit tired of all the kookiness and art galleries in abandoned shacks. Sure, it might be edgy and authentic, but what’s wrong with hanging your conceptual art in a place that isn’t a bloody freezing abandoned factory? Sometimes I find myself longing for Dubai’s marble halls and polished floors. I feel like shouting “OI, FACKIN’ PHILISTOINE CAMIN’ FROO” as I stomp up Brick Lane on my way home.

(By the way, just in case you hadn’t noticed, I can’t do the accent. Every time I try to imitate someone from the East End, like the butcher, in conversation, people say, “You sound just like Dick Van Dyke. Stop.” Apparently Dick Van Dyke is hated round here for his really bad, Hollywood-does-England imitation of East London. Yeah, well, after years of being subjected to everyone from Tom Cruise to Hibernophile tourists to people I randomly meet at work trying to do MY accent, I’m blaady well gawin’ to annoy as many people as POSSIBLE with this one. Innit.)

People do a very strange thing in train stations in England. Here’s the thing. When I have to go somewhere on a train in London (like, for example, Leamington Spa- really) I go to the ticket booth, buy my ticket, and then glance up at the board to figure out my platform. If it isn’t up on the board (and I’m generally early), I figure someone will stick it up in time for me to get on to the train before it pulls out of the station. I also know exactly when my train will depart, and calculate that the station supervisors are going to give me enough time to board the train, between announcing the platform and the train leaving said platform. So I occupy my time sneakily reading about what a love rat Ashley Cole/John Terry/Vernon Kay is off the tabloids in WH Smith. (Not actually picking up the paper, you understand- never touch tabloids. But do frequently get elbowed out of the way as I stand with my head perpendicular to my body by a well-dressed banker-lawyer type lady doing Exactly The Same Thing.)

Most other people who are waiting for a train don’t cadge off the tabloids in the newsagent’s. No, they all stand to attention, in front of the information boards in the train station, eyes fixed on the screens, unmoving. The first time I noticed this phenomenon I was on the mezzanine in Liverpool Street station. I looked down, and it was as if a line-dancing competition (or one of those flash mob things that people organise for mobile phone companies) was about to start. There were literally hundreds of people, all standing in neat lines, perfectly still, staring in the same direction, waiting. And nobody moved for AGES. It turns out they were just waiting for their platform announcements to go up on the board. I think this is really weird. Like, do they really think that the minute the platform announcement goes up on the board it’s going to be a “lifeboats on the Titanic” situation? They must know they’re not all waiting for the same train- British Rail not having warned of a mass exodus to Leamington Spa on a Tuesday morning, for example. Why don’t they just go get a cup of tea and keep a surreptitious eye on the board (and their own watches)?

The whole country (myself included) has gone Election Mad. I’m getting worried about what I will do this time next week when it’s all over. It’s tremendously exciting. I’d have been interested anyway (the Hester household traditionally prepares for electoral contests in the same way other families buy big new TVs for the World Cup) but this particular one is proving utterly riveting. I actually thought this UK General Election might be a bit dull compared to the frantic, proportionally-represented, parochial gaudiness of Irish general elections, or the Byzantine complications of the US presidential elections. Labour versus Tory, well, whatever, I thought. Might as well keep an eye- bit simplistic, but hey, it’s an election.

Enter Nick Clegg, leader of the Liberal Democrats. Who shook everyone up a Whole Lot by appearing on the first Leaders’ Debate with Gordon Brown and Tory leader David Cameron, and sucker punching both of them to such an extent that the whole country (including me) sat up on their sofas and said, “Jesus, who is this guy? He… he’s… really good!” (And every heterosexual woman who saw it felt a stirring in her loins and said to herself: “I can’t say this out loud, but I SO WOULD.”)

So Mumsnet (the biggest wimmin’s website in the country) is showing Lib Dems with an overall majority, the polls are telling us we’ll have a hung parliament, Gordy is on the ropes but hanging on gamely, and the exfoliated, coached-to-within-an-inch-of-his-life-so-he-doesn’t-look-like-a-toff Cameron is realising that his plan to appear “in touch with the people” has been totally bazookaed by someone who actually IS in touch with the people. It’s better than the Olympics. I’m glued to television, radio, print and digital media election coverage all day long.

I’m not registered to vote here because of a series of complications- apparently I could have, but presumed I couldn’t, so didn’t look into registering until it was too late. Anyway, I don’t know if it’s very fair of me to vote when I’m only a wet week in the place. (Though I have discovered that as an Irish person I have the automatic right to vote in UK elections, which even strikes me as a bit much.)

In a way, I’m glad I don’t have the decision to make. I really do think Gordon Brown’s a good man with strong morals and a great work ethic, who has worked hard and used his fine brain for the benefit of his country. He’s not to blame for his sociopath predecessor’s war in Iraq, nor for a load of rogue bankers playing tiddlywinks with the planet’s fortunes…

But then there’s Nick Clegg. And I SO WOULD.

It was a true Bridget Jones moment. Editor emailed with story idea. Belly dancing. Great, I said, fantastic opportunity to observe integral part of Arabic culture. Emailed back enthusiastically to say, “Great. Love to do belly dancing feature.”

It was with the reply that I realised something was horribly wrong. “Wow,” she enthused. “Seriously, wouldn’t have the courage myself. Too conscious of the midriff. Fair play for being such a good sport.”

It was then that I realised I hadn’t read the attachment. (In defence, am very busy person, and attachments are usually very boring.) Attachment, of course, detailed how cool it would be to take uninitiated reporter, and introduce her to world of belly dancing via a proper lesson. With pictures.

Read attachment, put head in hands, and emitted sound only heard from women in childbirth and prisoners under water torture.

Obviously, am woman, therefore, have massive problem with size of belly. Furthermore, have problem with love handles which sit obstinately on hips, despite recent diet of nothing but Cornflakes and Bloody Marys. (Would recommend but for the whole inconvenient business of falling over at inopportune moments.)

As a whole additional layer of problems, am Irish. Therefore, spent ten formative years of life being yelled at by Irish dancing teachers, along the following lines: “What the HELL are you doing? You are [pause for dramatic effect] MOVING your HIPS! How do you POSSIBLY think you’ll win the jig competition if you move your hips? Good Lord, you’ll be moving your shoulders next!” (Cue shuddered intake of breath from the better Irish dancers in the group.)

So, I haven’t moved my shoulders or hips in any meaningful sense since I was eight, bar stretching for the last bag of Doritos in the supermarket or edging someone out of the way at the bar in Buddha on a Thursday night. This was going to be interesting.

Riverdance made a billion dollars out of people who grew up thinking only their feet should move while dancing. Was I really going to try to prove them wrong? White men can’t jump, I say to myself, and Irish girls can’t belly dance. Yikes.

I spend a week waking up at odd moments of the night, gripped by cold, sweaty fear. My dreams are haunted by visions of myself as a sweaty, grimacing plank of wood (extra wide) looking incongruous beside lithe, supple, bejewelled Salomés.

The situation is not helped by the fact that I am met with roars of helpless laughter every time I confess what I plan to do. Colleagues wipe tears of mirth away, and clamour to be allowed to watch. The location for the upcoming belly dancing lesson has to be kept secret, as those who know me bill it the comedy event of the year.

The serious responses are equally unhelpful. At a party four days before The Lesson, I mention my upcoming ordeal to a tanned, size-four supermodel-type. “Oh my goodness,” she enthuses, “that will be fantastic. I tried it myself.” She makes a cute little grimace of discontent, showing perfectly white, even teeth, then indicates her own miniscule midriff. “I wasn’t very good, I’m afraid. You do need a bit of a belly for it to work.” She smiles at me kindly. “I’m sure you’ll be really good.”

Thanks, I mutter, then run away to contemplate throwing myself in the Creek.

The dreaded morning dawns. I wake up feeling nauseous. En route to the (still secret, mercifully) location, I have to pull into a petrol station to buy a bottle of Coke, as my stomach is threatening to heave its contents all over the car. Dosed with said Coke and a handful of travel sickness tablets, I stagger into the Ballet Centre in Jumeirah to meet Isabella, my teacher for the day.

Isabella is a bundle of friendly energy. “Don’t worry!” she tells me. “It’s going to be great!” She leads me to a dance studio and leaves me to change. Black leggings and t-shirt (“So I can see if you are moving correctly!”) and a fringed belt for my hips. At least I don’t have to wear a sparkly outfit. (Though my outfit of choice would involve, I confess, a paper bag over my head.)

I sit on the floor and stare longingly at the emergency exit sign. I have never felt more ill-at-ease in my life. I will never complain about any assignment, ever again. I close my eyes and concentrate on willing a meteorite to hit Jumeirah (sorry, everyone who lives there) just so I won’t have to go through with this.

Isabella bounces into the room, the picture of enthusiasm. “Right!” she says briskly. “Off we go!”

The music starts. Isabella says we’re doing a warm up, and tells me to copy her. She begins to sway and writhe seductively, wreathing her arms, swaying her hips. Obediently, I follow her example, concentrating on copying the movements, before a glimpse of myself in the mirror brings me to a halt.

This is spectacularly embarrassing. I’m moving like Bill Gates at a Pussycat Doll concert. I look like a marshmallow. (If marshmallows wore sparkly belts with tassels, that is.) I feel a wave of despair and sweat beads on my forehead.

“Hey, concentrate! Just look at me!” shouts Isabella, over the thumping Arabic beats. She’s still gyrating. I’m jolted back to the task at hand.

Grimly, I set my jaw and focus. Sheer politeness keeps me lurching through the warm up. Isabella is giving up her Saturday afternoon to teach me, and it would be churlish to sit on the floor like a sulky four-year-old. (Though this is exactly what I feel like doing.)

The music pauses, and Isabella explains we’re going to work on the lower body. As the music starts again, and I imitate her, I find my hips are actually swivelling. Cool. Though for some reason, they will move smoothly in a clockwise direction, but jerk oddly when I try to swivel anti-clockwise.

Then we work on each hip individually, thrusting forward and back, forward and back. Again, I find my right hip copes well with the challenge, but my left cannot seem to execute a non-jerky movement. “No problem!” Isabella shouts cheerily. “It’s always the case. One side of your body will be better than the other to start with!”

A very strange thing begins to happen. Focused on the effort of coaxing long-atrophied muscles into life, and doing so in time to a rather stirring rhythm, I forget that I look Totally Foolish. A sneaky sense of contentment steals over me. Isabella nods approvingly. “Very good.” I feel a fleeting glow of pride as we take a few steps and manage a couple of turns.

Now, however, it’s time for the upper body work. “Lift your arm like this,” Isabella instructs. She raises her arm from her body over her head in the most perfect movement I have ever seen. Her supple arm ripples, her fingers exude sensuality. I’m fascinated by the way such a simple gesture can be so arresting.

I lift my arm, and instantly remind myself of the guy who stands on the airstrip, semaphoring planes as they come to stand. All I need is a luminous jacket and an airport pass, and I’ll have a second career.

“Use your elbow and your hand more,” instructs Isabella encouragingly, executing another perfect sweep of her left arm.

I try again. There is an audible click as my rigid shoulder joints protest against this foreign movement. Isabella’s wide smile fades a little.

“Oh…kay,” she says, “We’ll come back to that. Why don’t we just have fun and shimmy a bit?”

She shimmies. Ah, I can see trouble ahead. This is a movement alien to my Hibernian roots. Without any discernible effort, as far as I can see, Isabella’s chest begins to wobble rhythmically from side to side as if it has a mind of its own. Her breasts move in perfect harmony, seemingly separate from her body. I stare, mesmerised. She finishes with a flourish, then nods for me to start.

In fairness, I try. The result looks like someone with two broken arms trying to shake a wasp out of her bra. It’s probably the least sexy movement I have ever made. I collapse onto the floor in a heap of giggles.

Isabella takes a deep breath, and with a supreme effort, manages to keep smiling. “Veils!” she pronounces triumphantly.

Crestfallen at my total shimmy failure, I wearily choose a large, rectangular piece of pink satin.

Isabella explains that we will be doing the “Egyptian” style of veil dancing, but shows me the alternative, “American” veil, which has rounded edges and is made of chiffon. The lighter material means it floats attractively to the ground when thrown in the air. In the Egyptian style, however, the veil is not thrown, but used around the body.

The music starts and we begin. And suddenly, I know exactly what I’m doing.

Somehow, having a prop (and a very pretty prop, in my favourite colour) banishes all my inhibitions. I am transformed. My hips relax, my shoulders break free, and I am dancing. Isabella’s smile returns, as she calls out “Well done!”

I find that I can follow her manoeuvres effortlessly. I shimmy (well, almost) and shake and rotate and undulate. Looking up, I catch a glimpse of my eyes as I teasingly peek out from behind the veil, and have a heartstopping realisation. I look feminine, flirtatious. I feel… sexy.

I don’t want it to end. The music continues, and I dance, finally able to look at myself in the mirror. When we finish, my smile is so wide I think my face might crack. I feel loose limbed and relaxed. It’s as if my joints have been oiled.

I’ve rediscovered my own body, and it’s lovely. I’m proud of my hips, my tummy. For the rest of the day, I can feel myself walking differently, less stiffly. I’m aware of the movement of my shoulders, the undulation of my hips.

In the evening, I stand in front of the mirror at home, a scarf tied around my waist. I place one foot on the ground in front of me, and practise my movements. (Though I have closed the curtains- in case the neighbours laugh.) I’m determined to get this right- before my lesson next week.

This Irish girl is now a convert. The fear, the awkwardness, the embarrassment- are all forgotten, brushed away in a sweep of pink satin. True, it will take a long time before I stop looking silly- and I’ll never win any prizes for belly dancing. But the twinkle is in my eye, the swing is in my hips, and I can’t wait to go back.

Dubai continues to grow exponentially. Six thousand new people arrive here every month. They jump off planes in their droves, lured by images of skyscrapers and reports of fifteen per cent growth. Unfortunately not one of them knows how to drive. Yeah, no report would be complete… People, we are dealing with Life Or Death situations here, so it’s no wonder this is a major factor in my letters to you.

I realize that I do a HUGE amount of moaning about driving in Dubai, but honestly, it is getting beyond a joke now. I’m thanking my stars for the Pathfinder, which is still big, black and intimidating. At least when one of the many newly-arrived nutters is doing something spectacularly stupid, like throwing the car into reverse on a six lane motorway during rush hour to get back to a slip road, I’m high up enough to see the disaster coming. And yes, I’m still playing air guitar at traffic lights. (Now it’s Fall Out Boy’s “Beat It”. Very appropriate when stuck behind newbies in rental cars.) Mildly aggressive is, for better or worse, the default mode for driving survival here.

It doesn’t work like that at home, though. I was back in Ireland for the Punchestown Festival, and spent the week driving from Kilkenny to Kildare every day. And oh, Jesus, was I grumpy. One of the good things about Dubai is the complete absence of Nissan Micras. (Endangered species. All eaten by the Hummers. Aww. Not.)

Roaring happily along (don’t tell the Ma, it was her new Vectra) I would suddenly find myself stuck behind a Fecking Micra, driven at forty miles an hour by a ninety-year-old farmer on his way to Athy, on a twisty country road where it would be suicide to try to pass. In Dubai, five seconds of friendly tailgating, followed by a terse flash of the headlights, would be enough to make the old slowcoach pull over to let one pass. When I started driving in Dubai I was terrified and intimidated by these incidents. Now I realize that it’s not a road rage thing at all; just a way of saying “Dude, we both know who’s going to win this. I’m bigger, faster, and I don’t care about traffic fines. That’s my business. Move.” So you do, and there are no hard feelings.

Oh, that doesn’t happen in Ireland. People are all very polite, because they’re all related to each other. So when stuck behind a Micra or a lorry or a tractor or (worst of all) a combine harvester, pretty much everyone stays behind in a big long line for forty miles until the pensioner behind the first wheel feels the old prostate niggling and pulls in to a country hotel for a wee. The few brave souls who do pass out on hairpin bends risk their lives and get tutted at. Rightly so.

However, if Dubai driving customs were allowed to prevail in Ireland, the pensioner would feel the need to wee significantly more quickly, as the Terminator headlights of a Nissan Armada filled his rear view mirror. And nobody would have to risk anything.

I think I am becoming more like an Arab. (To the point where I now realize referring to someone as “an Arab” is not only not derogatory, but a proper compliment.) It took me a while, but I can now finally imitate the accent. It’s all about being clipped, gruff and supercilious at the same time. It also involves getting the subject and verb in reverse order in every second sentence, not using very many definite or indefinite articles, and using questions like statements, e.g. “What you arrr doing. You arrr very bad driver. Why you arrr not driving over that man. He is in the way.”

One of my other jobs involves writing features for one of the glossy magazines here. A series of unfortunate events led to the attached article. I thought you might like it.

FROM EMIRATES TODAY:
A one-legged father-of-78 is preparing for his next two marriages as he closes in on his target of having 100 children by 2015.
UAE national Daad Mohammed Murad Abdul Rahman, 60, has already had 15 brides, though he divorces wives to make way for new ones in order to stay within the legal limit of four. His youngest child, Tariq, is 20 days old and his oldest, Ayoob, is 36. And he has more babies on the way from two of his three current wives.
Daad Mohammed lost a leg in a road accident and plans to have an artificial limb fitted in Jaipur in India – and while there he hopes to find one of his new brides. One more has already been lined up in Baluchistan, Pakistan.
“In 2015 I will be 68 years old and will have 100 children,” he said. “After that I will stop marrying. I have to have at least three more marriages to hit the century.
“Two of my wives are pregnant and they will give birth within two months.Tariq was delivered by my wife Mariam. He is healthy and happy and will have two more brothers or sisters soon. And I am also happy because Allah is giving me more children.” The retired truck-driver, policeman and soldier has two other babies – fourmonth-old Alma and eightmonth-old Sara.
Two other children, Adnan and Sulaiman, are under two years old. His wives and exwives include Bedouins from the UAE plus women from India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Iran and Oman. They live in Ajman, Umm Al Quwain, Sharjah, Abu Dhabi and Al Ain. Daad Mohammed, whose home is in Al Bustan, Ajman, spends time with each of them and has a family gettogether every Friday.
He is head of possibly the largest single UAE dynasty with 127 members, including 49 grandchildren, and has 15 houses. Two of his wives have died. Now he is going to have the same type of artificial limb – known as the Jaipur foot – that Indian dancer Sudha Chandran uses.
“After Ramadan, I will go to Jaipur to get an artificial leg and marry a beautiful Rajasthani girl,” he told Emirates Today. “I have had seven Indian brides.
“At present I use a crutch to move around. I am told that the Jaipur foot works better than other artificial limbs.” Daad Mohammed said he received generous support from the Ajman Gover nment, including houses and cash. He was paid a military pension of Dh24,000 a month by the Abu Dhabi Government.
“Even though my family is big, I don’t have any problem managing the budget,” he said. “If I buy fish for the entire family I have to spend a minimum of Dh500 per day. If the menu includes mutton at least Dh1,000 per day is required, and that’s just for the meat.” And despite having so many offspring he does not overlook the vital duty of any dad. He added: “I take care of their requirements – and pay pocket money to each and every child.”

Those of you who regularly read these missives may remember that this time last year I was moaning about air travel. Apologies in advance for the repetitious nature of this mail, but dear God, I left Dublin Airport in mid-August (via the airborne route) and it was the seventh circle of Hell. If Dante were alive, he would envisage it as a unique punishment, reserved possibly for those guilty of sins of pride or greed or wearing socks with sandals.

As the possessor of a rather large carbon footprint, I am usually very tolerant of the vagaries of air travel. I realise that not everyone is accustomed to security checks and final calls, and that August is a month where many once-a-year travellers go on their summer holidays. However, Dublin Airport that day was full of people who really should be electronically tagged and prevented from travelling more than two hundred feet from their own homes.

I honestly thought that everyone in the world knew about the liquids/pastes/gels thing at this stage. Not so, as I stood in a very long queue where every second person was having a row with the security personnel about shower gel. As for the metal detectors, I was genuinely astonished by three middle aged women in flowery blouses who held me up for ten minutes while they proved quite unable to grasp the concept of taking their shoes off.

Then it was the queue for a takeaway coffee (“Jaysus, Liam, it’s TREE FECKIN’ FIFTY FOR A FECKIN SMOOO-DIE!”), and an abandoned trip to the loo (“D’YA WANT ME TO HAND YOU IN SOME WIPES, MARY?”) before it all got too much and I fled to an empty gate until my flight was called.

I admit that I was marginally less tolerant that day than usual. This was because I had just finished seven days’ work on the Galway Races, and was not sure I would ever feel normal again. My vision had lost depth of field. I had bruises all over my body. One toe was completely numb. I was sweating profusely behind my knees. The rest of me was, by contrast, really cold. A week of Western madness had left me with the hangover from hell and a determination never to put my body through that punishment again. (And I only went out the last two nights. Christ, if I’d seen the week through they’d have been posting me home in assorted packages.)

I then spent five days in Athens visiting the ancient relics. They’re terribly insulted that I’m referring to them in such derogatory terms. My parents and uncle and aunt are resisting the implication that they are part of antiquity, to be venerated and preserved. I was apparently the only person who was amused by the joke “The ancient ruins were very interesting today. And the Acropoli weren’t bad, either.” (Which I repeated, ad nauseam, to anyone who would listen, at the risk of going without my dinner on two separate occasions.)

Greece is a foreign country. They do things differently there. For one thing, they make slight effort for those of us not of a Hellenic linguistic bent. In the remote coastal village where my uncle and aunt maintain their summer abode, English was of little use, and hand gestures were the only mode of communication for those of us who didn’t know our thetas from our lambdas. My uncle, who speaks fluent (ancient) Greek, was given the task of ordering for us in restaurants. I suspect, however, that his address to the waiter in the average taverna translated as follows: “Brother Spartans, do not be discouraged at our approach. We seek merely to feed and water our horses, for our voyage will be long and our dangers many.” With which the waiter would think, “Goddam tourists. Wish they spoke bloody Greek,” and would appear with every dish on the menu, just in case.

The Greeks made a huge effort to host the rest of the world for the Athens Olympics three years ago. Greek pride was at stake. National socks were pulled up, and every woman, child, and dice-playing husband was drafted into the Sisyphean task of Making Greece Work. Lo, the country surpassed all expectations and operated like a well-oiled machine for the duration of the Games. However, it seems that the moment the last athlete rolled up his sports socks, the whole place heaved a sigh of relief, said “Phew, glad that’s over with for another two millennia,” and promptly went back to being supremely inefficient. They are refreshingly unconcerned about keeping up with the rest of Europe, these Greeks.

Now back in the UAE, I am having an absolute blast. Work is wonderful. My first job involved a documentary about taxi drivers in Dubai, which was tons of work but fantastic fun, despite the 3 a.m. starts. I spent so much time in the taxi centre that by the end I was saying things like, “Eh, Mohammed, you might want to get that GPS checked- there’s a new diversion on Al Khail Road.”

The only slight disadvantage is that now every taxi driver in Dubai knows me. I tend to be subjected to long monologues while being taxied home from nights out, along the lines of: “Hey, Miss Eve, you didn’t interview me! I have some very interesting things to say! Let me tell you them now!” (Sixth circle of hell is being trapped in a taxi in a slightly inebriated state with a taxi driver who wants to be famous. And knows where you live.)

A story appeared in Emirates Today recently which made me laugh so much that I am posting it separately. It involves a UAE national who is sixty, has 78 children- and a wooden leg. I will not elaborate- the original should provide entertainment enough. Rasheed, my driver for work who has featured in these letters before (he of “Village People” fame) witnessed my hysterical laughter as I unfolded the paper one morning. I read the story to him, pausing with every sentence to give in to the giggles. When I had finished Rasheed looked thoughtful for a moment, grinned, then remarked: “It is important he eat a healthy diet.”

Speaking of which, a new billboard has gone up on the road not far from my house, advertising a foodstuff prized in Indian cooking for its unctuous flavour. It features a smiling woman with the slogan: “PURE GHEE”. (If you don’t know, don’t ask.)

Another fun job involved being a presenter for a week. The biggest mobile phone company in the UAE set up a TV channel here for a massive communications exhibition- full set, cameras, lights, the works. (Only in Dubai.) The female presenter broke her arm at the last minute and I was bullied into her job. After the initial disorientation (“how come everyone’s being nice to me all of a sudden?”), I really enjoyed it. I got to feel like I was famous for a week, running around interviewing people and giving away cars as prizes. (That made me very popular, weirdly enough.) I also developed an inconvenient crush on my co-presenter, who is without a doubt The Best Looking Man in the Wurdled. I think I hid it well, except when he’d smile at me in the middle of a link and I’d find myself handing over to Cairo when there was nobody there and burbling in a most unbecoming fashion. I told myself it was the studio lights that were making me sweat so profusely.

Ramadan has started, and, in contrast to last year, I’m fine with that. Spending a lot of time with local people here has changed my focus. I woke up on the morning it started and had three text messages on my phone wishing me a Ramadan Kareem. (They do it like New Year’s Eve- once the beginning is announced, everyone texts their friends and family.) The texts made me feel all warm and integrated. Now I won’t hear a word said against it.

I will start by stating the bleeding obvious. It’s hot here. In fact, it’s very hot. Only it’s not extremely hot because that’s still to come in June. And Oh-my-god-I-can’t-believe-human-life-exists-here-hot is in store for July and August.

My evenings of sitting on the balcony, looking up at the Burj al Arab as it changes colour, are numbered. It’s thirty degrees tonight- it was 43 this afternoon. The weather is moving towards what it was when I arrived in this country nine months ago. Except now I affect nonchalance. Hey, is anyone else a little chilly? We desert dwellers are used to the elements- it’s all about the preparation, people.

I am actually being annoyingly sensible. The humiliating memory of collapsing from dehydration in front of my boss last September is still relatively fresh in my mind. Chugging on a bottle of water has replaced chewing gum, smoking and applying lip balm as my oral fixation of choice. I am so hydrated Dubai Municipality could use me as a back up reservoir. My new obsession might be testing the patience of my colleagues. I’ve taken to waggling my plastic appendage at anyone who complains of a headache. And delivering smug speeches about how many litres everyone should be consuming. They can’t tell me to shut up, though, since two days ago a recently-arrived producer had to be carted off to Rashid Hospital and hooked up to a rehydration drip. Heh. Newbies.

The Irish poet Paul Durcan wrote a poem called “The Woman Who Keeps Her Breasts in the Back Garden”. I always liked it because it was such a preposterous idea. However, yesterday I discovered he was actually prophetic. I bought a new pair of breasts and the nice lady in the shop gave me a special travel case for them. So I can take them for a walk if I like. They actually look and feel like real boobs, only with no nipples. You stick them on over your own bosom so you can wear sheer dresses and not suffer the dreaded “party hats” phenomenon. (If you don’t know, don’t ask.)

I need these extra breasts because I have to get into a frock on Friday. The Dubai Irish Society asked me to be one of the judges for the Lovely Girls Competition- sorry, for the Rose Of Tralee Dubai heats. It’s actually bloody hard work. We had a whole day of interviews this week, each girl being lovelier than the last, doing more volunteer work, helping more orphans, playing more instruments… Then we had a dinner to get to know them better. Now we’re studying their written work, and on Friday is the ball where they all do a final interview on stage. Then we have the unenviable task of picking the loveliest of the girls so she can go to the finals in Tralee, out-lovely the entire diaspora, and weep prettily on the stage as the tiara is put on her sweet head. My own head is beginning to ache from all the charity, kindness and goodness. I’m not sure I can take much more happiness and positivity. I’m having those recurring dreams about throwing the puppy under the train again.

I’ll do it for my country. Fake tanned, tweaked, plucked, threaded and waxed in every crease and orifice (and wearing my new boobs), I shall go to the ball. (What a lovely image I’ve conjured there. Sometimes I surprise even myself with my descriptive skills.)

Back to ranting.

Dubai is a place where they really like you to buy stuff. Lots of stuff. They especially like it when you buy far more stuff than you could ever want or afford. It’s very irritating. Every salesperson here is instructed to try to get you to buy as many things as possible, regardless of desire or need. A simple trip to a coffee shop can degenerate into a vignette: the dangers of rampant capitalism on the fragile human psyche.
Me: Hi, could I have a medium coffee with some milk in it please?
Waiter: Anything else, madam?
Me: No, thanks, just the coffee.
Waiter: What about one of our lemon almond dingleberry doughnuts?
Me: No thanks, I’ve just had lunch
Waiter (knowingly): Ah yes, madam, you must feel more like a slice of
mocha extreme unction cheesecake?
Me (firmly): No, seriously, just the coffee.
Waiter: Would you like to super size that?
Me: No. Just. Coffee.
Waiter: What about one of our vanilla banana fellatic chocolate chip muffins?
Me: Lookit. I’m in caffeine withdrawal here. If you don’t give me my
coffee, I might get violent.
Waiter (pleasantly): Certainly madam. May I interest you in one of our
flavoured syrups? We have caramel, vanilla, weeping sore, hazelnut…
Me: Listen here, you freak. Givis the coffee or lose a limb.

As a person who is generally pretty uninterested in having lots of stuff, I pose a threat to the established societal order here. However, the real trouble began last week. I almost caused the cosmos to fall in upon itself, creating a black hole and substantiating the chaos theory, with one simple sentence.

“Hello,” I said to the salesperson in the cosmetics shop. “I’d like to return this, please.”

Air raid sirens began to sound. Local women pulled their children close to them and looked worriedly to the heavens. People beganphoning their loved ones, to make sure they were okay. The entire computer network of the Mall of the Emirates shut down. The electricity grid surged and lights flickered. And of course an argument ensued.

The end result was me writing a Really Pissed Off letter to Harvey Nichols’ head office in London, which took me two hours and was, if I do say so myself, a work of genius. The pen is indeed mightier thanthe sword. Two days later the world had returned to normal, the fissures in the buildings were being patched up, and I had my refund and a very nice free gift. (Possibly to ensure I wouldn’t cause another earthquake.)

A missive from here would not be complete without the latest driving news. As a result of a series of events too complicated to explain, I am no longer the driver of a normal car. Gone is my nippy little Nissan. My means of transport for the next few months is quite frankly the third biggest urban assault vehicle I have ever seen. (The other two are the Hummer and the Nissan Armada but this thing comes damn close.) It’s big, it’s black, and I have to admit it’s Very Sexy. (In a boy kind of way, but we’ll come to that in a minute.) It is the Wagon to run all other Wagons off the road.

Needless to say, my convictions regarding the detrimental environmental effects of gas guzzlers and my firm commitment to eliminating global warming were left behind in a cloud of desert dust the minute I got behind that smartly-designed wheel. Yeah, all those Birkenstock-wearing tree-hugging hippies can just sniff my emissions. Being a Wagon driver is thrilling. When I start the engine, it responds with a primeval roar which causes everyone within fifty metres to look up in wonder. Ferrari drivers let me cut in on them at roundabouts. Security guards let me park in reserved spaces, dazzled by my shiny black paint job. My old life was full of annoying incidents of edging onto highways and being beeped at. Now, suddenly, other vehicles are deferentially getting out of my way. My fender has girth.

Driving this behemoth has had an odd effect on me. I’m convinced it is raising my testosterone levels. I have begun to listen to loud manly rock music - a prime example being Daughtry and Puddle of Mud, whose music is noisy and has lots of growling and howling. Somehow I’m getting huge satisfaction from sticking my foot on the gas and feeling the beast take off under me to the soundtrack of “IT’S NOTOVER, BLAM BLAM, THOUGH PART OF ME IS DEAD AND IN THE GROUND… WAH WAH, BLAM BLAM…”. While stopped at traffic lights yesterday, I actually started playing air guitar. I think I’m perspiring a little more. I may have to start waxing my upper lip. It won’t be long before I buy a Playstation and become uncomfortable talking about feelings.

I remain hopelessly uncool. I’m uncool even before it’s cool to be uncool. Right- note to those even more hopelessly unhip than I am. Justin Timberlake has a new song out called “Sexy Back”. This does not mean his girlfriend has a good posterior. It means: “I’m bringing sexy back.” Apart from the fact that one of the guys at work had to patiently explain the concept to me, I’m totally with Prince on this matter. The small-but-perfectly-formed-one was at an awards ceremony lately and said (cue little-unformed-voicebox) “So, someone’s bringing sexy back? I say sexy never left.” Go, little people.

And I can still see past my pelvis, despite the beer gut. Depressingly.

I haven’t written in a while. This is because I have officially Arrived in the Middle East, and so have had to spend some time with my public. Yes, the latest edition of AHLAN! (HELLO! for you morons down the back) features a large photo of your favourite overseas correspondant. I’m standing beside a camel vet who I had only just met on some swanky night out. AHLAN has decided to make us Couple of the Week, despite the fact that the photographer grabbed us from opposite sides of the room and made us grin in chorus. His wife is being a great sport. Ow.

I’ve had to grin alongside far more important people than the Camel Vet in the last two weeks. Last week Our Bertie arrived in Dubai. (Irish Prime Minister, for the non-Irish among you.) Me and my friend St John (he who rescued the giant turtle, for those anoraks who actually follow these missives) went to the Irish Embassy Welcome Reception for the Taoiseach. Not in a million years did we think we’d actually meet said Taoiseach; to be truthful, we were there for the free drink. Alas, put two event-prone people together and the inevitable happens- we ended up having a chat with two lovely guys who happened to be- here we go- the pilots for the Government Jet. Which
meant Bertie came along and talked to us for ages, while we desperately pretended to be sober and interested in international trade. (There are good photos of me lecturing Bertie on foreign policy.)

There followed a fabulous night of which I remember little, but of which I was unfortunately reminded by sixteen photos, courtesy of the Irish Defence Forces, of St John wrestling the mike from one of their own in a row over who could deliver the best rendition of Crazy Love, to the consternation of the pianist in the Dusit Bar.

I am sorry to say that I am fat. Even in the hip spelling, I’m spilling out of every dress I own. Phat or fat, I feel like Dawn French. “Voluptuous” is people being kind. Six months of bloody labneh and manakish (and copious invitations for free drink, mostly courtesy of the Dubai Racing Club) have culminated in me rolling from side to side as I heft my enormous bulk from one end of Nad al Sheba to the other. It’s very discouraging. Especially when my Indian driver, Rashid, looked at me recently and said “I think you put on a few kilos since October.”

Despite his honesty, Rashid remains one of my favourite people here, due to his fabulous innocence. I did a job recently with a foreign crew who I instantly nicknamed “The Village People” for reasons obvious to anyone alive since 1982. Rashid seemed oblivious to the fact that the moustachioed photographer got into his car every morning in full gay police gear, towing the rest of his posse (sunshine yellow shirts and bitch fights) with him. One morning Rashid picked me up before we called for everyone else.

“Rashid,” I said, just looking for a reaction, “do you know the Village People?”
“Oh yes,” said Rashid enthusiastically. “I am, in fact, a Village Person.”

I was momentarily stumped. My gay-dar had been foiled, for the first time ever.

“I am from small village in Kerala,” announced Rashid, smiling proudly.

You couldn’t make it up.

I was so busy smiling I didn’t notice when the cast of Priscilla Queen of the Desert got into Rashid’s van and complained that the heat was melting their makeup. I’m still smiling now.

Those of you who follow international sport will perhaps be aware that the UAE this week carried off the 18th Arabian Gulf Cup. Those of you who don’t will no doubt be grateful to be informed that the sport in question was, in fact, soccer.

The victory in question was so momentous that the Burj al Arab changed colour (I know, I live under it) and a national festival was called. As I describe said festival, I am doing my best not to seem like a grumpy European killjoy. All I can say is, I longed for a celebration akin to Arsenal’s victory in the Carling Cup; where all the wires said, “There will be some sore heads around Highbury this morning.” As I was reading the description of that win, it occurred to me that I had finally established the difference between Arab sports fans and everyone else.

The night the UAE won the football, I was editing late. About eight o clock, our work crew lifted our heads in response to the cacophony of car horns that was blaring in our ears to the exclusion of any other sentient response. Oh boy, we thought, we’ve won the football. We looked at each other, and Keith, the laconic editor who’s lived here for six years, said, “Thankfully we’re working to midnight. They might have gone home by then.”

It was then that I realised that where Irish and English people go to the pub to celebrate, the Emiratis… get into their cars and drive about. Honking. For… (what I discovered would be) four… days.

I was all patriotic and supportive (because said victory hadn’t actually impacted on my life) until yesterday afternoon. After a long day at work (granted, longer because of the Nad-al-Sheba-hangover characteristic of winter in Dubai) I tried to go home from the Mall of the Emirates, a journey which normally takes ten minutes.

The trip took an hour and twenty minutes. Essentially because the Emiratis decided that they wanted to hold a victory parade down my road. But where one would have normally expected floats and fancy dress, what we got was a thousand urban assault vehicles travelling at seventy miles an hour with guys holding their four year olds out of the sun roofs. Tommy Tiernan couldn’t have made it up. At one point Sheikh Mohammed was directing the traffic, because (surprise, surprise) the car in front of him had rear-ended another car and he was trying to get people to move along. (Only everyone went Ohmigodtheressheikhmoletstakeaphoto and chaos ensued.)

Not blaming Sheikh Mo in any way, you understand. In fact (and rather embarrassingly) I think he’s absolutely super. He turned up in the parade ring at Nad al Sheba last Thursday and I got all starstruck. I think it’s because since he became actual ruler of Dubai twelve months ago Stuff has Actually Happened. Like, the morons in the Hummers are actually being arrested when they kill people. It may seem small, but it’s kind of important here. They halved road deaths in a month because he said so. I think I might owe my life to him. And he looks disconcertingly like my Da. (Dudes, don’t even go there.)

In my last letter I announced that I wasn’t going to drive in Dubai. I remember taking one look at the bun fight that is Sheikh Zayed Road at three in the afternoon and saying “Heh, Like I’m going to be one of those mugs. No, I’ll just hide behind my newspaper in the taxi and let someone else do the work.”

Famous. Last. Words. And possibly the reason I haven’t written in four weeks.

I turned up for another freelance job one day to find my boss in disingenuous mode. “Right,” she said. “Let’s go through a few things for this golf shoot.”
There followed a long list of technical issues, on which I dutifully took notes.
“So that’s it, really,” she said. “Oh, and your hired car is being delivered in an hour. Great. See you later.”
She disappeared tactfully into the lift while I stood in the lobby doing my best Bertie Ahern impression. (“Wha’? Hoired car? Wha? YoumeanIhavetafookin’ DROIVE??”)

Sixty minutes later the small Chevrolet and I were eyeballing each other in the car park. It was a seminal moment. I’d like to say I took it in my stride. What I did was shake quite a bit and say the Rosary (I am not fucking joking, people) as I edged the teeny (by comparison) vehicle onto a seven lane motorway full of complete nutters.

You think I’m exaggerating. Okay, let’s look at statistics (since you guys can’t actually see this madness.) Dubai is a city the size of Dublin, with the same population. There is a serious accident here every TWO MINUTES, according to police statistics. That sounds quite appalling but actually, if you live here, you are amazed by this infrequency.

There are massive Mercs weaving through heavy traffic at 100 miles an hour, driven by boy racers with a death wish. There are women in niqabs (think only eyes showing) with no peripheral vision who reckon changing lanes at 80 mph should be someone else’s problem. The worst is the fuckwits in urban assault vehicles who think they own the fast lane. Ordinarily that’s the LAST place I would be in Dubai, but unfortunately the merging of roads means that in a split second I go from being in the slowest to the fastest lane. Whereupon some shithead in a goddam headdress-and-Hummer tries to mow me down as I stick my foot to the floor and try to get to a place where I can change lanes.

Add to this the fact that the whole city is a building site with diversions everywhere. Actual roads have been replaced by bollards, bunting and twisty temporary pathways. Funnily enough, the local population seems to have interpreted this fact as an invitation to train to be rally drivers. And don’t even get me started on the Indian van drivers, who drive like… they’re in India. (I work with lots of nice Indian people here, all of whom tell me that Dubai is fantastic “because people here drive very well compared to home”. Hmm. Yes, well, nobody’s EVER going to see me behind the wheel in downtown Mumbai, then.)

To end this (now probably tedious) rant, I have been (for the moment) cured of the absolute terror of the first few days in the car here. This was because I ended up having to drive a minibus- a manual mammoth with fifteen seats and a load of grumpy Germans in the back- for about ten days. Once that terrifying ordeal was over (the Germans turned out to be worse than any Hummer outside), getting back into the car seemed positively pleasant.

Apart from my adventures on four wheels, I am having a lovely time here. The weather has cooled down a lot- actually to the point where sometimes you have to wear a jacket at night. And it even rained yesterday and today. It felt just like home. Although I did feel sorry for some very grumpy Irish tourists I encountered this morning. Imagine shelling out your hard-earned cash to go on a sun holiday to the desert, only to find everyone in said desert doing the conga because wahey! it’s raining! You’d really have to have some pretty bad karma going on to get that particular deal.

Work is really cool. I’ve done some really interesting things in the line of duty. Like four wheeling up and down sheer dunes in the desert, and hiring boats to sail up and down the Creek, and hijacking golf carts in Dubai’s poshest golf club. (Got into a bit of trouble there.) And in my free time I’ve been diving off boats and parasailing (great for people with geography problems- you can see everything up there) and watching horses run and having my toenails painted. (Essential Dubai maintenance. Not having a manicure here is the etiquette equivalent of farting in people’s faces.)

Added to all this fun is my newest craze- Lebanese food. I still can’t pronounce any of the names of the dishes, but it’s really good. I am therefore still getting fat, but trying frantically to stave off the Dubai stone by sweating it out in the gym. (It’s a bit of a trek to get there, all the same. I have to go all the way to the lift and down three whole floors to the state of the art gym with a view of the Burj al Arab. Not wanting to be an annoying braggart or anything.)

Ramadan is almost over, and to be honest, I don’t know how I’m going to readjust to normal life again. Like, the thought of actually popping a stick of chewing gum into my mouth when it’s still daylight has actually acquired a strange foreign aura. It is truly amazing how quickly one adjusts to the lifestyle. Although I do think that the award for Strangest Middle East Thing So Far has to go to Emirates Today, the daily newspaper here, for their daily Islamic Ramadan Agony Aunt column.

Every day the agony aunt- or uncle, most probably- answers your problems according to Sharia law. Last week a guy wrote in to say that his father had ordered him to divorce his wife for “reasons the father did not mention” and he asked the agony aunt if he should obey his father. The answer was:
“The son should not divorce his wife with no religious reasons because his sons, if any, would be homeless. The son would not be disloyal in this case.”

Which begs the question- do we give a flying **** if the wife or daughters are homeless?

Actually, one could be permanently out of one’s pram here with stuff like that. I have developed a defence mechanism which involves mostly keeping my head down, hanging out with lovely normal people, and focusing on news from other places.

I finally got my web-phone organised and so can phone all of you all the time for free – that is, until the Powers That Be put the kibosh on the new website which has replaced Skype. The Booby Police shut down Skype here, to uproar from the expat community. Now if you click on the Skype website, a message comes up which says “This website has been blocked because it contains content which is against the moral, ethical or religious values of the United Arab Emirates.” For which read: “We’ve got a monopoly on phone calls here, and we’re bloody well going to make sure you foreign gobshites shell out loads of dosh to our state-owned phone company rather than ringing your smelly friends for free.”

Even better, they can’t tap your phone conversations if you call over the internet. Not that anyone should be remotely interested in me talking to Da about the electrician rewiring my parents’ bedroom in Kilkenny. Although I love the thought of some dude in the CID here, painstakingly taking down Daddy saying, “So, anyway, Phil Twomey couldn’t put the bloody sockets flush with the wall and your mother had a fit.”
(Abdel 1: Who is this Fil Two-Me person?
Abdel 2: I know not, my friend, but this man clearly is gifted in the art of sabotage. Should we give him a job?)

Apart from Muslim agony aunts and minor phone irritations, I have entered into Disgustingly Contented Mode in Dubai. This is a direct result of moving into my new apartment (huge, pool, gym, gorgeous view) and hanging out with my lovely Aussie flatmate. And her ma. I must confess I had a few misgivings when Susie said, “Oh by the way, my mum’s arriving on Thursday- for three weeks.” But Joan, her mum, is a joy. Jeeva, who comes in to clean once a week, thinks we are completely nuts. Joan plays the piano for four hours a day. I’m working nights at the moment and so sleep until midday, get up, go to the gym, and sit in the bath for two hours before I have to go to work. Poor old Jeeva was hanging out worriedly at my bathroom door for ages one day last week, until Joan explained to him that no, Miss Eve hadn’t drowned, she just liked to sit in hot water and read books for hours. He threw her a look that said, “You people are completely deranged”. I think he thinks all English-speakers have dangerous water/piano-obsessive-compulsive-disorders.

Work is super. The only thing which remains terrifying here is unfortunately, getting in a motorised vehicle. I had thought I would get behind the wheel quite quickly here. One week on the roads was enough to convince me that for the moment I’m happy enough to let the taxi drivers take that particular risk on a daily basis. Getting behind the wheel in Dubai is the modern equivalent to volunteering to be one of the Christians in the Coliseum- the ones that get mown down by the chariots in “Gladiator”. (With, unfortunately, no Russell Crowe half-dressed on the odd roundabout.)

However, as my cousin John Hester says, there’s really no point having a dog and doing the barking yourself. The two main Dubai taxi companies (and there really aren’t any others) have, in an innovative move, dispensed with the conventional criteria for putting drivers on the road- i.e., you give them half a day with a map and a guide so they know where the basic landmarks are. Nope, they just put the poor guys behind a wheel, not knowing where anything is, ripe to be flagged down by a spatial relations eejit like myself.

It’s actually good for me. It has forced me to be a grown-up, to know where I’m going, to supply myself with maps. Even if I’m the type of girl who has to hold the map facing north and shuffle myself around accordingly. However, when one is travelling at seventy miles an hour along Sheikh Zayed Road, one can’t just stop to move around the map. I’ve had a couple of near-death experiences on the motorway, with the result that I never get into a cab now without a newspaper. I will occasionally peek out from behind the day’s news to offer instructions, before retreating into a cocoon where the tailgating and the crazy Hummer drivers trying to mow me down are just a distant prospect. If I become a (crazily high) road death statistic, at least it will be someone else’s fault.

For the first time ever in my healthy life, I have become acquainted with Being a Total Girl. This is a novel experience for me. I have always prided myself on being the person who can do all-night edits, work seven-day weeks for months, shoulder the tripod and hike ten miles on a work day without becoming whiny. Hell, I got through Cheltenham last year with a lump on my head the size of a golf ball -alas, not from falling off a horse in a cool way- somehow running into the overhang of a truck doesn’t have the same kudos.

So there I was, working away, when one day this week I started to feel a bit weird. A bit vapourish, to be honest. I told myself that I was being ridiculous, until the moment came (rather embarrassingly) where my boss looked at me and said, “Are you sure you’re all right?”
I had gone a fashionable shade of green, and was wobbling like my great uncle Jim when, God bless him, he was in an advanced stage of Parkinson’s.

There’s a word one needs to take to one’s heart when one lives in the Middle East. A concept that has no relevance whatsoever in Ireland. An idea that would be greeted with howls of mirth, were one to articulate it back home. So when my lovely boss said “Aoibhlinn, have you heard of dehydration?”, I would have fallen off my chair laughing, were I not already talking to her from the floor, being unable to stay upright.

I have learned my lesson. Dosed with a packet of salts (I knew there was a Victorian in me somewhere) I learned that if you sweat half your body weight every day, you have to put stuff back in, like. This means keeping Evian in profit, single-handedly. And sucking down rehydration sachets like a wasting jockey. This drinking water business has become a full-time preoccupation. Especially now, during Ramadan, when one has to go into the ladies’ loo to get one’s H2O fix between sunrise and dusk.

There are good things here. The corollary of the hell that is daytime Ramadan is night time here. Sundown heralds the arrival of Iftar, the Muslim “let’s eat everything we should have been eating all day, and more” meal. I got to go to an Iftar feast last night, and it was Totally Deadly. They do things with lamb here that really shouldn’t be legal (except maybe in Mayo). Never in my life have I tasted meat so delicious.

However, that Iftar meal was the location for one of the bigger social gaffes I have made in my life. I arrived late and a bit flustered, having been working all day. I got to the table, sat down, exhaled in satisfaction at the food that was before me, and said, “Jaysus, lads, I’m starving. Haven’t had anything to eat since lunch.”

Everyone blinked at me, and what was worse, didn’t say anything. I promptly dropped my fork and stayed under the table looking for it until my face returned to its natural colour.

I’m getting used to the censorship business, and am starting to see the funny side. Although I did blink a bit in the supermarket today when I discovered that my box of Special K had been targeted by the Booby Police. I picked up the box, wondering why half of it was covered with a big white sticker. Huh, I thought to myself, probably some free pedometer that we can’t send off for here. Then I turned the packet around and a smaller sticker was almost (but not quite) completely obscuring the lady in the bikini sitting on the beach in the picture. The sheer amount of time and effort invested in making sure Nobody Sees Naked Women is really pretty impressive. (I went home and flashed myself in the bathroom mirror, just to feel like a rebel.)

Nad Al Sheba racecourse has become one of my favourite places, and St John, the manager, who’s from Kerry, one of my favourite people- he keeps everyone entertained with his stories. He was walking on the beach one day and came across a huge turtle that had been injured by a speed boat, and was staggering about with a cut on its head, looking concussed. He loaded it into the back of his jeep and took it back to the Nad Al Sheba vet centre, where he called one of the vets to examine it. They put it into a horse box with a hose hanging off the top of the stall to keep it wet, and set about looking for a turtle vet. And they found the only turtle vet in Dubai, a Spanish guy who looks after the turtles in the lake at the Madinat, one of the posh hotels. The turtle was nursed back to rude health and now spends his days paddling about with his new friends in the lake, eyeing up the sunbathers.

Those literary types among you will have spotted the turtle is an anthropomorphic metaphor for my life here in Dubai. I, too, staggered around for the first month feeling as if I’d been hit by a propeller, but am now swimming about much more cheerfully (my lovely new apartment has a pool, heh heh).