Interlopers

Dear readers, 

Apologies once again for the time that has elapsed since this blog post and the last one. Your correspondent has been waging war again, this time on the interlopers inhabiting my kitchen: cockroaches.

I have an immense and unreasonable fear of cockroaches. It’s the way they move that gets me. It’s never a great start to the day to walk into the kitchen to find a roach scurrying across the work-surface in the direction of your breakfast. Or to put a piece of toast in the toaster only to have one leap out at you as you switch on the heat. It’s my kitchen and my toaster! And it was certainly time for the interlopers to leave.

Over the course of a couple of months I had managed to empty more than two cans of roach spray into the kitchen all to no avail. The mere smell of the spray was enough to set my pulse racing and I was on the brink of giving myself nerve damage. If things continued the way they were I was quite likely to die of fume-inhalation... They would find me after several days, dead on my back with my arms and legs in the air, twitching slightly...

Things finally came to a head one evening. After a hard day of cleaning, tidying and installing new furniture, hampered by a heavy cold, I had gone into the kitchen to make steak and chips for supper. I stepped away from the kitchen for less than five minutes but came back to discover that the cooker had blown up and there was yet another cockroach getting ready to drag away my steak. It felt like a disaster of catastrophic proportions.

I called my mum. Given the gravity of the situation it was the only proper thing to do. My mum deserves a medal for the number of ledges and high places she has talked me down from over the last few months. She is remarkably good in a crisis, possessing a honed ability to set me back on course once again.

After the phone call I regrouped, drove myself to the nearest hotel, ordered the largest steak on the menu, then sat back to consider my game plan. The cockroaches had certainly won this round, but they had not yet won the war. And if I stopped to think about it objectively I had pest control on my side, so things were not looking good for the cockroaches. We would fight – fight to the death. We would go to the mattresses!

The next morning I put in two phone calls: one to the electrician to come and revive the cooker and one to pest control. Within hours of their visit there were roach corpses littering the kitchen, the hall and even one of the bedrooms. It was clear that the apartment had been harbouring a problem.

I gave it ten days and another can of spray before I called pest control back for another round, to drive out my more hardened adversaries. This time they were thorough.

The final frontier was the kitchen window. It had never been entirely clear where the cockroaches were actually coming from but I had my suspicions that the window was in some way responsible. It is no ordinary window: it’s covered and it has about it a rather sinister air. It overlooks an internal ventilation shaft and I am personally of the opinion that this is from whence the cockroaches came. I turned to the only two lines of defence left available to me: traps and boric acid.

Boric acid comes in the form of a white powder and as I stood at my kitchen window, sprinkling a neat line of white powder along it, it occurred to me that it might be difficult to explain my actions in the event of an in-opportune visit from the authorities. Once finished I laid a neat row of cockroach traps on top of the powder, creating an impenetrable line of defence against the invertebrate kingdom. I stood back, appreciated my courage and ingenuity and attempted to get on with my life. 

Things were going well until several nights later when I was back in the kitchen cooking supper. A pair of antennae appeared on the far side of the toaster. I squealed and leapt backwards – standard – and the damned thing scuttled up the side of the toaster and buried itself inside. My reaction, naturally, was to douse the toaster liberally in roach spray and only after having emptied another half can did it dawned on me that roach spray and toaster might not be an award-winning combination.

I called my mum. Given the gravity of the situation it was the only proper thing to do. She suggested I turn the toaster on. Her reasoning was that it would either fry or evict the cockroach, and if I was going to run the risk of blowing the toaster up it was better to do it while she was on the other end of the phone and able to alert someone of my predicament should the worst happen. After consideration I went with her plan and am pleased to confirm that the worst did not in fact happen. The cockroach did finally venture out, although not before time, and was quickly dispatched by me.

Since then, more than three weeks have past, and I am delighted to report that in the battle of Charlotte versus Cockroaches, Charlotte (assisted by three cans of roach spray, two visits from pest control, a variety of traps, and a quantity of boric acid) has prevailed and taken back possession of her kitchen.

So long Cockroaches! It’s my kitchen now!

A day in the life of DIFC

Dubai International Financial Centre, fondly known as DIFC, is a financial hub for the Middle East, proudly placed to fill the gap between the financial markets of London and New York in the west, and Hong Kong and Tokyo in the east.

Curiously, and in contrast to Canary Wharf, it’s one of the few places in Dubai that doesn’t sport a skyscraper. Instead, the centre piece of DIFC is The Gate which, true to Dubai form, can only be described as iconic. Modelled on the Arc de Triomphe, the immense yet elegant cube with an equally enormous archway through the middle is described as ‘a gateway to a new financial district in Dubai’ – the architect’s words, not mine! I’ve actually tried walking under the arch while looking up to the ceiling with dizzying and near-disastrous consequences.

A friend of mine reckons DIFC is the place where it all goes on; the place where the deals are sealed, the money is made and the cogs of the financial world never cease turning. Granted he does work, sleep, eat and party within a 500 metre radius of DIFC but I think he’s probably right. As financial centres go, this place is pretty damn impressive. Apparently, its offices are the workplace of more than 11,500 employees, 97% of whom are expatriates and 35% of whom are women, working for over 1000 different banks, asset management firms, insurance companies, law firms and host of others. It has its own legal and regulatory framework and it’s very own courts to ensure that those laws and regulations are upheld. It also has its own underground shopping precinct, a gym, dry cleaners, hairdresser, a collection of modern art galleries and some of Dubai’s finest restaurants and hippest after-work hangouts. It would be entirely possible to live your life in DIFC and never have to go elsewhere.

Now, I have to confess that I am not fortunate enough (or misfortunate enough, depending on your point of view) to be employed by any of the firms that operate out of DIFC, so I can’t vouch for what goes on within the offices of some of the world’s most prestigious firms. But I have spent sufficient time in DIFC, in search of coffee and Wi-Fi, to notice that daily life in the public areas has a rhythm all of its own.

The day kicks off around 7am as the cafe staff and shop attendants, the early birds, and gym goers arrive. For the maintenance and cleaning staff, almost all of whom are from the Sub-Continent, the day started much earlier and initially the telescopic cleaning brushes, mops and dusters far outnumber the suits and laptops. By 8.30am the umbrellas on the balcony are up and the cleaning staff have faded away. Prime commuting time has commenced and judging by the queues at Caffe Nero and Caribou Coffee, one can only assume that a considerable number of the morning’s financial transactions will be fuelled by a quantity of caffeine in a take-away cup. You see the odd person wander past with a Bluetooth ear piece – because that early call just can’t wait – and there seems to be a trend among the women for bringing their lunch to work in a mini cool bag. It goes without saying that there are no men sporting cool bags.

By 9.30 most of the DIFC community are tucked safely away in their offices, save for the canny few who managed to pass off coffee and a cigarette as an important morning meeting. Around 11am a small crocodile of tiny children with attendant day-care nannies wind their way round the balcony on their morning walk. They smile and wave, the cafe staff smile and wave back, and if you look carefully you will notice macho bankers wearing the kind of slushy grin that is most carefully concealed from broody girlfriends.

Things begin to hot up on the balcony around 12pm, as people emerge from their offices to ‘do lunch’ and by 1pm the place is buzzing. Tune into any of the conversations around you you’ll hear such classic lines as, ’We need to figure out how to monetise that.’ Meanwhile downstairs in the Marble Walk the queue at Subway extends around the cafe and out the door. I was under the impression that no self-respecting professional should ever actually be seen buying food in Subway but this clearly isn’t the case in DIFC.

Back on the balcony the lunch rush is over by 2.30 but the cafes continue to hum. Visiting friends and proud parents who dropped by for lunch mill around, reluctant to return to where ever they came from. I’ve also become aware that there is a significant and rather sneaky contingent of people who arrive for a working lunch with a collegue or client and manage to eek out their lunch with puddings and several coffees until well into the afternoon...

Going-home time starts about 6 and runs right through to 8 or 9 in the evening. 10pm and place is virtually deserted, save for Zuma, hottest spot in town, which I’m reliably informed is always busy.

And so another day has passed in the desert and somewhere in the bowels of the building a small army has arrived for another night of cleaning. In just nine hours the financial market will re-open and another working day will kick off all over again but for now it’s time for your correspondent to sign off and head home.

Until next time dear readers, TTFN xxx

Quirks

The other day I passed the Emirates Macaroni Factory. It’s located somewhere between the glassy towers of Business Bay and the dusty chaos of Al Quoz industrial estate and nobody seems too sure as to why it’s there. As far as I’m aware the UAE is not famed for its production of macaroni. I’ve filed it as an odd quirk in a city laden with quirkiness.

Take taxis. Taxis are a relatively cheap and fast way to get around Dubai but it is a well-known fact that most taxi drivers have only been here two weeks, speak limited English and have absolutely no idea where they are going. A sweeping and unjust generalisation you may say, but I have first-hand experience of the hysteria into which taxi drivers can descend if you ask them to take you somewhere other than the Burj Al Arab. Granted they are not helped by the government’s propensity for removing signposts and re-routing roundabouts overnight, but London cabs they ain’t.

I managed to reduce a taxi driver to the brink of tears the other day by asking him to take me a gallery in Al Quoz. ‘I thought you knew where you were going!’ he wailed, increasing his speed with every fresh wave of panic, rendering it virtually impossible for me to work out where we were, let alone where we needed to get to. He eventually ejected me onto the side of the road, begged me not to come anywhere near him and tore off in a cloud of dust. When I finally tracked down the gallery I asked the manager why they don’t have any signposts outside. Apparently the Municipality has a problem with them advertising their existence. Curiouser and curiouser.

Sticking with the theme of transport, let us turn our attention to the road to Abu Dhabi. Dubai is just one of seven Emirate states in the UAE and there comes a time in every Dubai resident’s life when a trip to Abu Dhabi becomes unavoidable. But how to get there? I stopped briefly to consider all the public transport options there are for travel around the UK: train, bus, plane, ferry even. Well, despite the vast acres of open desert available there is no train; the bus takes nearly to a day to travel in each direction and it’s too close to fly. No, there is just one road to Abu Dhabi and embarking on the journey means putting yourself at the mercy of all the madmen on the road, chatting away on their mobile phones, feet on the dashboard, roaring down Sheik Zayed Road at 180 Km an hour with only a finger on the wheel. You suddenly become very aware of your own mortality and, after two trips to Abu Dhabi last week, I have vowed not to go again for a really long time.

On a different note, whose grand idea was it to install revolving doors at the entrance of every building? There must be a higher concentration of revolving doors in central Dubai than anywhere else in the world. The smarter the building, the more likely the doors are to have their very own set of pot plants or antique urns. Unfortunately your correspondent has something of a phobia of revolving doors. I can’t help the suspicion that one day I am either going to be crushed or disrobed by them and it is a real effort of will to maintain my composure.

Then there are the encounters with maintenance staff. Our fridge freezer has been performing under par from the day we moved in to our flat. I promptly informed the maintenance manager of the problem and a series of visits commenced. The men come in threes: one in charge, one to carry the spanner and one to watch. Sometimes there’s a fourth but he usually waits outside... There is much standing around and sucking of teeth. They open the freezer door, they close the freezer door. Then the one in charge commands the one with the spanner to make a tiny adjustment. He closes the freezer door once more with the utmost delicacy and care. ‘No problem!’ he says, the door is fixed. Please sign the maintenance papers. ‘No, no!’ I cry and demonstrate what happens when door is handled a little less delicately. We appear to have reached an impasse: I refuse to admit defeat (and suffer several years of melted ice cream) and they refuse to admit there’s a problem.

I suppose that’s what happens when a multitude of different cultures converge upon a dusty spot in the desert and set about trying to develop it at a rate of knots. There are bound to be some quirks and points of tension. You end up living an odd existence in which it is entirely possible for your bank to send you a text within seconds of buying a pint of milk, to inform you that you’ve made a transaction, but you have to present yourself in person, with a ream of supporting documents if you want to pay your water bill.

Certainly some of the frustrations westerners face in Dubai are a result of the British colonial bureaucracy imported from India, presenting us with hoops which we find both irritating and unnecessary to jump through. But then, as my dad observed the other day, matters could be worse. We could be living in Kuwait. The Kuwaitis, it seems, have imported the French Napoleonic legal system from Egypt, so they’re really screwed.

And so another day draws to a close in the desert.

Until next time dear readers, TTFN xxx

Destination: Dubai

I’m sitting here eating a piece of desperation cheesecake, so named because desperation is the emotion its purchase was borne out of. We’re talking about the kind of tired desperation that stems from trekking the entire length of Dubai carrying your life in a bag; the kind that leads you to try opening the front door with your metro card; the very kind that results in you needing to buy the over-priced piece of cheesecake necessary to relieve this unpleasant emotion.

I’m only slightly perturbed that desperation is the emotion that marks the end of my third week in Dubai. As a quietly confident and eternally optimistic being I have no doubt that the feeling will pass. Active job hunting is really quite tiring, hence the cheesecake, but one could hardly say that the last three weeks have been dull. In fact, they have been something of a social whirl wind. Your correspondent has been spotted at the races, the polo, a VIP lunch at Art Dubai, not to mention the book launch brunch.

For the first ten days I was at the mercy of the Mothership, obliged to do her bidding at every turn. Thus, I spent many hours trailing round Ikea and the like, desperately (there’s that word again) trying to look engaged as we discussed the finer points of bedroom furniture. On the upside there were plenty of pit stops for food. It was a bit like my childhood memories of trips to the garden centre: enduring tedious hours of wandering with the promise of an ice cream at the end.

With the Mothership safely dispatched, I turned my attentions to the serious business of finding a job, setting up office in coffee shops sporting WiFi. I’m now on my third coffee shop, having picked up a series of unwanted yet persistent admirers along the way – apparently this is one of the hazards of studiously minding your own business in a public place. Happily, my efforts have resulted in at least one interview, so progress has been made.

In my additional capacity as housekeeper I’ve been mostly responsible for managing the move to a new apartment, soothing the Fathership as we’ve encountered teething troubles and liaising with the well-meaning but somewhat quirky maintenance team to get our troubles fixed.

On moving-in day the Mothership and I arrived in the new apartment to find it an inch deep in water. We beat a hasty retreat. With the aqueous issue resolved, it was the turn of the removals crew. They were glorious to watch: within two hours they had delivered, unpacked and installed all the furniture, swiftly removing all traces of packing material as they went. It was like a military operation – with smiles – and the only casualty of the whole affair was a light bulb, broken by me. One of them even nipped off for prayer half way through.

Dubai is rather different from life in the Indian Ocean but it has its own idiosyncrasies and the promise of plenty more material to fuel your correspondent’s amusement with local life. I anticipate a long and happy relationship.

So until next time dear readers,

TTFN xxx