The magic carpet ride

Once a month, Mr Ahmed guns his old land cruiser over the sand in front of my house and knocks on my door. He always greets me in Arabic, living in the hope that one day I will finally remember more than how to say "hello", "beautiful" or "god willing". He takes my hand firmly, and pulls me in for a big cuddle. He's only about 5 foot 4, so it's not too overbearing, and he smells like frankincense and camel wool so I can stand it when he cheekily lets the contact go just a little too long. I doubt he tries this move with any of the local ladies, but he knows us westerners are a pack of crazy wenches just gagging for a touch of the exotic.

Before I have time to ask him in, he has slipped off his sandles and sauntered across the threshold with a 6-foot bundle on his shoulder, exclaiming "Hilwah! Hilwah! You will love this one, lady." And though he knows I probably won't buy anything, he tosses 4000 dhirims worth of silk on my lounge-room floor, and asks me to observe the quality, the style, the fineness of the weave. He looks at my face, and misjudges my reaction. He thinks I don't like it, and he bustles back out to his truck to find a different colour. But I adore it. I love them all. The mini-cringe on my face is because I have to tell him that as much as I like all those beautiful carpets, I can't buy them now. And then I know he will ask me why, because deep down, he knows I love them.

"I can't afford it right now"
"No problem, it is gift."
"You don't mean that."
"Heh heh, no ok, I give you good price, best price. It will be nothing to you. You are my favourite customer. I will sell at cost price to you because I like you so much"
"But we just came back from a holiday, we have no spare money now"
"No problem, you pay me later. Six months, OK?"
"But my husband will be angry if I spend his money without consulting him"
"No, lady, you are the boss. He will not be angry, he will have beautiful carpet, AND beautiful wife." Accompanied by another cuddle.
"We have many carpets already"

At which point he begins Operation Floor-Covering, and starts wandering through my house laying rugs on all the spare squares of shiny tile. And when he is finished, it looks amazing. Antique camel-wool rugs in browns and reds sit alongside silk in pinks and greens. I see geometric patterns, the Tree of Life, Arabs on horseback brandishing pistols, and tiny birds and lizards all over my cold boring floor, acting exactly like they belong there.
"You see, never enough carpets!"

Right about now, I usually give him that look that makes him say;
"No problem, I come next month." He leans in closer and places his hand heavily on my shoulder. "You want Pashmina, cushion covers, antique jewelery?"

But today is different. I have seen a brown and mushroomy-pink woolen carpet, about 8 by 5, and I have to have it. He says it is 100 years old, and flips it over and says, "There, you see!" pointing at something - I don't know what. I have no idea whether to believe him, but it has got that gorgeous wonkyness that suggests it has either been made by people with very poor sense of perspective, or maybe that it has been lugged around for a while. He leaves it along with two others he thinks my husband will like, and says;

"Love them for today, lets see if you can let them go tomorrow..."

And he gives me another too-long cuddle and slips on his chunky leather sandles and saunters next-door to make carpet-love to my neighbour.

Dubai. What's not to like...?

You could also check out my other blog, which is a series of photography lessons for dummies. sandpitdiaries.blogspot.com

The spleen of the desert.

In what will prove to indicate the surreal la-de-da quality of my "housewife without work" life, this morning I attended a "House of Colour" morning in the Arabian Ranches.

Now, you may be surprised that I am not going to discuss the morning - which incidentally was not a religious meditative retreat, nor was it an interior decorating seminar, but a gathering of middle aged  women who "had their colours done" by the omnipotent Janet Small, our lady of the tangerine and fucialicious. No, I am going to spend the next few paragraphs philosophizing on the decision made by the people who have moved into the Ranches, because it is quite frankly beyond my comprehension, and I really need to convince myself that all the people who live out there are not aliens (the interplanetary ones) because I have some friends that live there, and I really hope they are not going to brainfrack me when I least expect it.

The Arabian ranches is a man-made "oasis" about 15km from anything interesting, and was started by Emaar a few years ago (building continues). They describe it as an area "steeped in the mystery and beauty of the desert", situated "within the heart of the desert". In reality it is a housing development that has wandered off the set of the Truman Show, with all the exotic mystery of a Stepford Wife who has forgotten to pop her happy pill. And if you call the intersection of the E311 and Umm Suqeim rd the "heart of the desert", then good for you, but I think maybe "spleen" or "appendix" is a more appropriate term.

Dubai is known for it's shopping, it's beach, and it's stupendous architecture. The Ranches has several play areas, some communal outdoor pools, a polo club, and a golf club. Oh, and they have a Spinneys Supermarket. Just what I need. A polo club... If only I had somewhere to put my horse...

All the houses look like this ->

but sometimes they are painted different shades of beige... The worst thing is that because they are all the same, it is impossible to retain a sense of direction, especially because none of the roads are straight. So you get stuck in this whirly-girdy hell of beige walls, manicured lawns and grecian columns, just like our realtor did when trying to get us to sign onto a 400,000AED ($120,000) per annum rental when we first arrived in Dubai. Not much of an inspiring introduction...

From what I can gather, 80% of the women have ash-blond hair cut in the shape of 1980s bike helmets, and there is a much higher Hummer - to - Toyota Yaris ratio than anywhere else in the world. There are three exits I think, so you might be able to imagine what it's like in peak hour (not, of course, that stack-hat-hair and Hummers would have any impact on that...) But I guess peak hour need not be a problem, because there is everything you need there (except a LIFE!), and I have known of someone who knew of someone who did not leave the boundaries for four months.

But that's the bad points. What about the good ones?

insert sound of cricket chirruping...

Maybe someone needs to explain this to me, because the area is choc-A-block. And it's not like it's cheap. I live in a 5-bedroom, 5 year old villa with a (shared) stunning pool and gym, and it is cheaper than most of the places in the ranches. I live 5 minutes walk from this beach ->

And I love to go out at night here (Madinat Jumeirah), which is a 15 AED ($4) taxi ride ->



I am in a fantastic position that is close to schools, husband's office (except the Abu Dhabi one - the Arabian Ranges IS closer - but that is in another state), and great shopping centres. I can see the Burj Khalifa out my front window, and the Burj al Arab out my back gate. I am a stones throw from the deeper culture of Satwa and the Creek (where the souqs and crazy gift shops are). Houses in our street have pet goats, chooks, peacocks and unfortunately one god-forsaken rooster.

How could you move to an amazing place like Dubai, and live in an area like the Arabian Ranches that isolates you from all the colour, and even physically isolates you?

I would at this juncture like to point out that I am a "Jumeirah Jane", despite the fact that I live in Umm Suqeim (next-door). I used to have blond hair, but I died it a common shade of red. I drive a Volvo SUV. I play bridge. I spend at least 5 hours a week having coffee with other mums. I actually paid someone to tell me what colours I should wear.

But back to the Ranches - Did I mention how hard it is to get a cab?

Drink Drank Drunk

This drink got drank and then I got drunk. It's a Manhattan at the lounge bar at the Armani Hotel Dubai, and it was delicious. It was followed by shenanigans at Hashi - more here. Taken with an iPhone, so please don't judge my photographic skill on this one - I just can't manage to find an SLR that will fit into a clutch purse...

This is post is in honor or Shutterday.com and their weekly challenge.

Children v none

Last weekend I was treated to a wedding where a surprising number of the guests were childless. These people are unofficially known as our "cool friends". Is it uncool to use the word cool now? I've no idea.

Anyway, I made several observations that I would like to share. Not so much in the hope of depressing parents out there, but it will happen anyway. And to all those friends of mine who want children and for some reason don't have them, I'm sorry if I offend, and I wish you find all that you desire soon - but be warned, you will change...

SIZE
With exception to a few wealthy or funny men, they are all thin. And I don't mean in the emaciated stressed out old scraggly way, but svelte.

CLASS
Not only are they thin, but they are chic. Maybe this is something that comes easily to the lean, but I was dressed in a pretty maxi-dress (with a cardi to cover my bingo wings), and they were in pencil skirts and Louboutins - there was not a sensible piece if footwear in sight. The men were all in suits, but still managed to convey a rock-star vibe from behind their D&G frames, even though many were balding.

Which ones have kids?

SPEECH
The other difference is they know how to network. I'm not quite sure what exactly happened to my brain after children - perhaps it is so choc full of school schedules, healthy food options and Teletubbies that it has no room for names of new friends, but they seemed to not only remember each others names (and mine, which sometimes even I forget) but they recall hobbies, careers, notorious events, everything! They actually manage to look interested too, when they ask you how your week was and you tell them about the snot monster that had to be surgically removed from your eldest son's nose.

He has a serious job too...

STAMINA
These people can partay to a degree that left me with my adolescence. They left the midday wedding to 'brunch' (can someone please tell me why brunch is in the mid afternoon in Dubai? It's simply wrong. Should be Lunner or Dinch) where they drank as much as I could handle at dinner. Then they had cocktails by the water at Madinat Jumeirah. They arrived fashionably late to the reception, where they all drank Champagne and vodka before dinner, and then we finally received our entrees at 10:15pm. Then came more eating, and then dancing. We had to go home after the ceremony to entertain the kids and siesta, then joined the party people for a quick drinkie downstairs before coming up. I was falling asleep in my amuse bouche while they looked on in pity. We ran away at midnight, and the stragglers were still going at dawn (when I was waking up). Then they all met up at 1pm for "afters" - Bloody Marys and bacon by the beach. (I just looked like Bloody Mary.... With food poisoning...)

DEDICATION

Skinny, pretty girls

These guys throw themselves in with as much relish as a three year old on a bouncy castle. They eat, drink, dance and partake in all kinds of shenaniganous behavior that scares the be-Jesus out of me. They sometimes do get in trouble, but they continue to jump off the walls like a cat on it's second life, seemingly knowing that the likelihood of fun far outweighs the likelihood of pain, assault, arrest or death. The stag party was in Beirut, where ten guys booked themselves into one hotel room for the weekend, knowing that sleep was not going to be required. Only one didn't make it back to the airport to catch the plane on the Friday evening. But that was ok - 1 lost out of 10 is still 90% success. He turned up at the wedding with a wedge-shaped gash on his forehead, and recollections of waking up in a car with three Lebanese blokes and no money....

LIFE
These people do interesting things. They camp, they abseil, surf and skydive, they go to dance parties, they know famous people, they write, they flirt, they are spontaneous, entrepreneurial, exciting. I don't do much interesting stuff - I don't need to - I live through my children. Oh... I read... and I have started watching a new TV series...

But they will have nobody to care for them as they become old and cantankerous (as I am fully prepared to become - you have all been warned.) Or at least nobody to put them in the nursing home...

Queen of the Emirates (for a day anyway)

Eid al Adha occurred last week. It is a three-day celebration about 70 days after the end of Ramadan, beginning with Arafat day (named after the awful time Abraham had on mt Arafat thinking he was sacrificing his son to a cruel God - fortunately God was kind and swapped Ishmael with a ram so everybody was happy - except the ram of course).

Muslims celebrate this with much feasting and merriment, and often throwing the family goat in the back of the Land Rover and taking it to the abattoir. The beast is apportioned into three - the family, the friends, and the poor. Gotta say, I do love the way Islam includes all (did you read my post about the wedding?), but still getting used to all the required sacrifices - be they beast, beer or bikini...

Positioning of the holiday was Monday to Wednesday, and given we have a Thursday/Friday weekend here, it was not surprising that 564,340 people called in sick on Sunday. Nobody even bothered to call in sick on Thursday because they realized the boss wasn't in either. (I also admire the work ethic here...)

We would usually head away for Eid, but this year in our loathing of increases hotel prices (e.g. the Mina al Salam went from 990 Dhirims to 3000 - about $800) we decided that on principal we would not. Of course we realised at the last minute that we did not want to be the only people left in Dubai without a share of goat, and so headed for hotelium in search of something nice in Fujeirah, Dibba, or even Al Ain for goodness sake. But of course they were all booked, except for skanky three-stars and more 3000AED prices. So we went to the only place Hambone didn't want to go - Abu Dhabi (he works there 2 days a week and doesn't want to share). Because, surprisingly enough, the Emirates Palace - Abu Dhabi's signature hotel, seemed to have forgotten it was Eid, and actually reduced their rate. Super! (Imagine that in my new english accent - syoooopeer)

We only booked for one night because as you probably gathered already, considering we are lushes, we are quite cheap. And we have figured out that if you turn up early, you can jump in the pool and order margaritas while a lovely lady runs around the entire resort looking for you so you can enter your ready room, because you can't hear the mobile phone over the kids squeals of excitement and your own guffawing. And you can do exactly the same thing on the day after until at least 5pm before they realize you have already checked out and the names on the room and your bill no longer match (oops!)

We were allowed in through security that was equivalent to a UN convention (and we still got through with the scissors, bomb-shaped Lego and a bottle of non-resort wine - yes, I've already said we're cheap), and entered the lobby to be greeted by 100 beautiful hosts and enough gold to make you think your brain cells had finally given up and fried your optic nerve. Kids were presented with gifts, and they fought over the BMW X5 because neither of them had seen a Volkswagon Beetle before (I know anything goes here in the UAE, but I am talking about toys) and ladies got roses. Hambone got nothing but the valet parking ticket. Then we were given one of our rooms (even though it was only midday), and they promised to give us our connecting one very soon. Did not even have to fight for the connecting one - usually we do.

First impression is quite surreal. We are talking about a building about the size of Versailles, complete with art galleries, shops, restaurants, conference rooms, water features, probably an indoor cricket stadium too, but I got tired walking. It's all made of shiny brown granite (or marble, I'm not big on geology), and to be honest, it's not the most beautiful Arabian building I've seen.

Apart from spending an enormous amount of dosh on a fairly clunky building, they have been very clever. They put all the families down one end with a massive pool, lazy river and waterslides. Cascades rain down in pitter-patters or deluges, depending on your fancy, and beside the pool one can lounge on a lounge and drink a drink, and chew the fat with a fatty - because we all know that they hide all the skinny beautiful people away in the honeymoon half of the hotel.

We watched the sun go down over the Arabian Gulf (also known as the Persian Gulf, but definitely not here), and drank cardamom tea with Sa'ala, a bedouin from Liwa who had kindly brought down a couple of camels and set up a tent on the sand complete with rugs and camel bags and old teapots and other kinds of incredibly photogenic stuff.

We ate good room-service food (with real morel mushrooms - where on earth did they find those?) on silk coverlets and drank our home-brought rose wine, and then chased the kids around with enormous feather pillows before cornering them and tickling them to sleep.

Breakfast was the typical stupendous affair, but at 180 dhirims a pop ($50), I wished I had been hungrier. It was followed by another visit to Sa'ala and then 400 more goes down the waterslide, and then an incredibly boring drive back to Dubai.

Lesson learned - there is no McDonalds on Sheikh Zayed Rd in the Dubai direction after about 20km out of Abu Dhabi - no promises to the kids unless you are prepared for 45 minutes of whining. 

It's all Georgio's fault.

Sigh.....

I tend to write about hangovers. A lot. Anyone reading this might assume that I like a drink. A lot. And they would probably be right. I actually even graduated with a diploma in alcohol (wine marketing at Adelaide university). So I like a drink enough to have allowed the study of it to consume all my leisure time for four years. But the truth of the matter is that I am a two-pot screamer, a cheap date, a tipsy-chick who starts dancing after two glasses of wine, and gets a hangover off three. So even though I am always complaining about last night's effects, don't assume that I neck a bottle nightly.

Today I am seriously hung over.

The culprit? Georgio Armani. Yes. I hold him entirely responsible for how I feel right now. If he hadn't placed such a fun restaurant in such close proximity to my abode, then I would not have been drinking amaretto at 2am with a belly full of black cod and champagne, and a bill on the way that was going to freak the pants off Hambone.

The problem was that we started early. We snuck away from the family at 6:30 so we could get down to the Burj Khalifa early and watch the fountains. Which we did over an icy Manhattan in the Lounge at Armani Hotel. We lingered in the minimal zone of steel, brown granite, buff linen and glass until a violinist set up and started playing accompaniment to a recording. Violin karaoke? Yuck. I mean she could play, but I expected something a little more fashion-forward from old George.

So we decided to head down to Hashi early, because last time we were there we propped ourselves at a great little bar with a superb array of single malts, and the beat of mind-blowingly good progressive house being spun by a DJ who we know now only plays Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. No DJ today, but someone at least had set the iPod to 'cool' and we were blessed with better weather and so could sit out.

The chairs are huge rattan contraptions with low wide backs, so you can lay your head back and get this view ->

The terrace is a level above the public concourse, and you get the benefit of seeing the fountains and avoiding Joe public en masse. Unfortunately though you do have to listen to the same music as them when the fountains get going. Whitney bellowed out "I will always love you" drowning Hashi's more appropriate dinner music, and I wondered again if there is anyone with taste in charge of anything in this city. My companions suggested the 50m fountains need colored lights to make them really stand out. Yeah, that would be classy.

After champagne and with grumbles in the belly, we headed to a table with more upright chairs and ordered a jovilet pouilly fume. After ten minutes the waitress realised that none of us were capable of making a decision, and so she made a couple of suggestions. The sashimi comes on deep platters of ice, and is so fresh I swear I saw some of it move of it's own accord. The tempura mix was crispy and hot, and there were some VERY tasty morsels that could have been lobster, but as I never saw a menu I can't be sure. It came with three sauces that my friends liked but I found a little overbearing. I'm a traditionalist when it comes to tempura.
Then we demanded more tempura, and our waitress picked out some tuna/salmon tartare (beautiful, with a basilly kind of marinade I think) and some spicy tuna maki. We graduated onto a Fiano from Mastroberardino (a neutral creamy white wine from Italy we affectionately call the fine masturbator), and then came the black cod. Now I really need to look into this fish. I don't know if it is the fish itself, or the way they cook it, but it tastes just like butter. Seriously like butter. It arrived on a grill atop a ceramic pot filled with coals, and was marinated in something sweet, brown, sticky and salty, a little like teriyaki sauce, but much better than what I get out of the bottle at home. It flakes off into big soft creamy chunks, and when you put it in your mouth you have serious concerns for the poor old black cod, because fish that tastes like this is definitely heading for the endangered species list.

We were starting to slide down in our seats, so we returned to the lounge chairs that allowed a more horizontal pose, and ordered green tea ice-cream and amaretto on the rocks. By that stage we were laughing about all the trophy wives with bald blokes surrounding us, and figuring out how much each of these old dudes was worth based on the quality of his broad. We didn't even care when we heard Celine Dion. Maybe I should blame her for my hangover instead.

And the bill? You don't want to know.

By the way - photos are taken with an iphone, so no comments about focus or aperture please.

Floating by the beach

I don't think there is a more pleasant position than lying in grass in a mild tropical climate with a full belly and the sound of a warm breeze rustling through the palm leaves only just louder than the clinking of glasses in the near distance. I am trying to put myself back to that place, and I can see my smile twinkling in the reflection of the monitor just with the thought. I was there yesterday at about 3pm. Now it is 8:30am Saturday and I have a fuzzy head and a dodgy belly. I'm hungry, but downstairs is the domain of young children and overhung fathers and the noise and mess I imagine is making me squirm. Between me and the kitchen lies the commandeered zone - lego land-mines, an infantry of fork-weilding screaming Goldilockses, cavalry of Hambone-riding pingpong-ball gun-toting Lions and Scooby-doo at 500 decibels. Good way to start a diet.

Yesterday began in a similar way (but it was my turn to be hungover) and after the obligatory morning battle scene, we left the mess to Mother Mary (remember, not my mother, our incredibly overworked maid/nanny) and disappeared to a five-star hotel for lunch so we could piss in somebody else's tent - so to speak.


Back to the One and Only, but no 'Rooftop Bar' with children. Instead we went to the Beach Bar and Grill. On the way we shattered the peace of oriental courtyards with trickling streams and bedouin tents, then the expansive velveteen lawns with smatterings of un-cellulited european goddesses in bikinis, and finally to the novelty giant chess set (shockingly not the biggest in the world), which we had to leave once Lion started to use the Bishop as a weapon.

The Beach Bar and Grill lies on the beach (derr...) at the "Palace" end of the resort. The interior is colonial-meets-bedouin, with leather armchairs, azure tiles, iranian carpets and lamps and indoor palms. The warm colours somehow balance the arctic airconditioning they seem to like in this part of the world. When you walk through the back doors, you are hit by the warm sea-air and blinding white of the sand, and so for the first half second you have to stop walking and adjust yourself. Then you notice the turquoise water, the lush greenery and the gently swaying arabian tents on the beachfront. And you're in love.

I was the designated driver, so no wine reviews today, although I can tell you what I should have had - a loooooong gin and tonic (Bombay sapphire and lime wedge thanks), followed by a glass of Taittinger NV, and then 15 glasses of Tavel Rose. Hambone drank Heineken (men!). As I was ordering my mineral water,  dutiful daddy took the leprichauns to the plaground which is perfectly positioned within screaming distance, but not within general child noise distance of the restaurant tables. All returned with the beverages, and I watched frothy banana milkshakes disappear as fast as the first frothy beer, and all were declared to be the best in the world.

Lunch was an entree crab-cake with harissa for me (easily big enough for a main course), and steak for Hambone (juicy, tender and cooked to perfection, and served with half a kilogram of mashed potato). Kids meals are good but pricey (50AED - about $15), and Lion devoured a steak just like daddy's and Goldilocks ignored his lunch entirely, demanding 'MORE banna moothy'. We followed with a superb self-saucing chocolate pud with coffee icecream, which was supposed to be 'shared', but got completely obliterated in two seconds flat. All in all, I found it to be more civilized and worthwhile experience than a Friday 'Brunch' deal, where you get charged 400AED to drink crappy wine and eat off a buffet (although in Dubai, a buffet is usually a pretty good spread - a far cry from the Smorgy's tradition back home)

After lunch I left Hambone in the company of his Heineken and with a view of a bevvy of 30something english beauties having cocktails, and wandered off to do my duty in the playground. After a few minutes I realised that I would not really be required except to break up a fight or call the ambulance, so I retreated to a shady spot on some of that velveteen lawn, and assumed the starfish position.....

Bigger is better

Yesterday I watched my 7 year old son recover from sinus surgery. It was traumatic - the crying, the fainting, the nausea, and Lion had a terrible time of it too. Less said the better, but at least I can recommend a good ENT now that my two snot-monsters have been through procedures. Dr Shuker is a professional with lovely bedside manner for children, and also for mothers who are big cry-babies.

So instead of taking you step-by-step through my mini hell, I'd like to tell you about my day out at the Dubai mall. Mostly because I took some great photos that I would like to show off.

First, let me tell you that the whole concept of "mall" in Dubai is completely different to that of Australia, where it simply constitutes a bunch of shops, usually inside, and a food court where you have a 25% chance of food poisoning. In Dubai, the malls stretch for kilometers, and Dubai Mall is not only the largest in Dubai, but apparently the universe. And in the centre stands the Burj Khalifa, the
tallest tower in the universe, named after the ruler of Abu Dhabi, the UAE as a whole, and the financial savior of this fair metropolis.

The mall (like most in dubai) consists of different zones - electronics arcade, kids shops, high end fashion, even a gold souk with stupendous interior design. Then, just in case you didn't come to the shopping mall to shop, you will find an ice rink, an indoor amusement park containing all kinds of stuff (and a gnarly rollercoaster that has cost me my dignity), an aquarium with an underwater zoo and a creepy crawly section that is joined with rope bridges, a Kidzania (where kids play at being adults, and get jobs, go to college and play mid-life-crisis games like racing cars and abseiling), a waterfall, and then a promenade out front with stacks of great cafes and a view of the big
pointy thing and dancing fountains (which of course are choreographed, and shoot up higher than any others in the world).

This day we just stuck with the aquarium and the promenade (with a short sojourn into the fashion zone for mummy, which was accompanied by so much whining that the dress for the wedding was the first one that didn't look horrible, and so I now possess a
frock that resembles Joseph's technicolor dream-coat).

We refueled at  Social House. The decor is warm and welcoming, but don't be fooled by the wooden wine-box perimeter. Upon closer inspection you will find they are branded not with Bordeaux labels, but various other non-alcoholic things that I promptly forgot.

The menu is enormous, with everything from sushi to pizza, and the kids menu surprisingly held some healthy options (which of course were ignored by my leprechauns). Service was friendly and fastish, but did include a couple of translatory mistakes - something we are all used to here. Food was great - the kids macaroni and cheese was declared the best in the world - no the universe, and the sashimi was beautifully fresh. No wine of course....

Then we were surprised by a fountain display, which usually only happens at night. Coooooool. Made up for the lack of Chardonnay with my sushi.

Back to my Sandpit

Do you remember last week - I was having anxiety attacks about the number of construction vehicles on the vacant lot outside my house? I was concerned that the Dubai construction boom might actually be back, and it was starting 25 metres from my youngest son's bedroom. There were whopping great spotlights all pointed to the middle of a one-acre sandpit. And during the day the vibrations of some infernal rumbling mustard-yellow piece of mammoth machinery were disturbing my blogging and assisting in procrastination - in fact forcing me to go downstairs and have many cups of tea.

Well it appears that my sandpit has a different destiny. On Sunday at exactly 5 pm I was drawn outside by the sound of tantric drums, and the low hum of 30 men singing at a distance. I cast my eyes outside, and I saw this:

Much better than 300 labourers laying foundations, don't you think!

So I turned on my camera and set it at the biggest zoom I could find, and started snapping. Then Goldilocks started threatening to roll himself over the edge of the
balcony while chortling and pointing at the "danting, danting! See danting! NOW!", so we ventured downstairs.

I took some more photos on the edge, and then I was approached by the tallest man in the group. Thinking I was about to see my camera get molested, I adopted my most deferential pose and started bowing and whispering my apologies before he was even within ears reach. But when this incredibly attractive and huge man reached me, he did not demand that I delete all photos, leave, and never come back. No! He invited me in!

So I went in, and sat myself down on the gilded chairs which were probably reserved for someone far more special or at least more Arabian than me, and considering me and my son were the only audience, enjoyed my private show - occasionally giving a royal wave to my other son and 'Mother Mary' (not my mum - but out saintly maid) who were stranded on the other side of the road, too shy to come over, and probably thoroughly embarrassed at my behaviour.

I took heaps of photos, particularly of the construction team, who were on hand to make sure the sand didn't get up and start duning again I suppose... However I soon realised however that I was the only one in the arena not doing any dancing or singing, and skulked off quietly.

I had a big chat to a local man and his daughter who were also on the sidelines watching, and he gave me quite a bit of information. This was the male half of the wedding - the bride and all her entourage would be at a five-star hotel, probably dressed in things we would never expect to see under an abaya. They would be sipping the best non-alcoholic champagne, eating lobster,
and setting up marriages for all the bride's sisters and pretty friends.

The party would go for three days, and at 9pm each night they would serve a feast. As was their nature, they would open the party to all nearby, and everyone would sit down together and eat at the expense of the groom. And at 9pm, we saw this happen. I think they must have fed over 100 strangers - housemaids, local residents, passers-by. Amazing. And to think we had to cross friends off our own wedding lists because we wanted to keep our numbers down.

In two weeks, I am going to the wedding of an Australian and a Russian. They are great people, and I know I will have an amazing time, but a little part of me wishes at least one of them was Arabic.

'One and Only' Husbands

Yesterday at 4:40pm I played SMS tag with Hambone

Him: Pissed. Long lunch
Me: maybe u shld head home n have a sleep. Don't 4get dinner w J and N tonight
Him: lallllaallllaaaalllllaaaaaaaaaaaa
Me: u r abt to get in trouble. U r a very naughty boy
Him: rdjudgfffggffffffgghjgjtfhhhaaasass!!

Unworthy of a reply I thought, so I sent "J" a quick one

Warning. Will b slapping husband around 2nite. Still having lunch 5 hours later.

Dinner was scheduled for 9pm at Nina's with predinner beverages at the Rooftop. So when the only conversation I could get out of Hambone at 7pm was blowing raspberries (him, not me), to say the least I was a little concerned he would end up face down in his tapas and not even make the dinner table.

But as it turned out, either Hambone is very good at holding it together in an inebriated state, or falls apart completely on a small amount of plonk, and can resurrect after a couple of hours. Because dinner was great, and he behaved himself impeccably (after two atomic bloody marys)

The Rooftop is a bar at The One And Only Royal Mirage. Funny thought, they are just about to open another "One and Only" on the Palm Jumeirah. Anyway, it's one of our favorite bars. It's only good for the cooler months, because it's situated on an open rooftop (derr...) and it is decorated in Arabic plush meets space dome. The sea breeze drifts through the gossamer curtains, and the lamps flicker in time to desert drum beats and chillout tunes. The drinks are expensive, but that's not a first in Dubai - the only shock was that my Champagne arrived in a vase. The greater surprise was that it was emblazoned with the Veuve Cliquot logo, proving the stupidity in flute design has come from a house of class and design (I believe V.C. Is now owned by Louis vuitton.), not by some ninny food and beverage manager.

Drinks were followed by dinner at Nina's, what is described as a new wave indo-euro dining experience. (we don't "eat" in Dubai, we "experience cuisines"). Which means they take the Indian style of cooking, and experiment with the kinds of ingredients we are more accustomed to seeing on a European menu.

We ordered a luscious Hugel Gewurztraminer - its spice, fragrance and viscosity the perfect accompanyment to the food, and slurped it while dipping pappadams and roti in relishes and pickles that I found to be pretty standard Indian fare.

Then came the entrees, which were the highlight. I remember looking at the menu and declaring I wanted all of them. But we shared 4 between us, and there was a lobster spring roll thingy with sweet and salty spice that was heavenly.  Mains were what i consider to be more typical Indian curries - with no standouts - but generally were very good.

Dessert was saffron ice-cream on a sliver if Mille-feuille pastry, and it was creamy, super sweet, and although a little cloying, still edging on the divine. It could have been better to split the mango kulfi with J, who truly hit the jackpot. Mind you, she scoffed the lot, double-time.

And Hambone made it all the way through dinner without falling over, falling on his sword, or falling into a deep hole with his foot in his mouth and no ladder in sight. Well done darling.