Travel Blog
The author is a travel and feature writer. This is an account of her expat years. Names have been fiddled with to avoid offence but most of what you’ll read here is true. She loves the UK, but hopes to live abroad again before she’s of pensionable age.
Part 28
Background
In 2006, a family of Simpsons from the East of England moved to the Middle East. For the purposes of this story-in-parts, and to allow a little distance from Mr, Mrs and the three mini Simpsons (boy, girl, girl), they will now be referred to as Marge, Homer, Bart, Lisa and Maggie – their Springfield counterparts. When they moved across the world, this Marge and Homer were in their forties, Bart was 13, Lisa was 10 and Maggie was four.
Year 4 – Dubai
December 2009
The festive season is almost upon them, and Marge couldn’t be feeling less Yo Ho Ho if she tried. For not only has swine flu swept through the entire senior school, dragging Bart and Lisa in its wake, so that Marge must cancel any rare and random plans she might have had, but she has twenty-nine emails – twenty-nine – to sift through Re: Rain Damage to Wooden Floor in her house in the UK. The dizzy managing agent, unable to work out how to lower the resolution of the most boring images on earth, is sending them through:
One. Photo. At. A. Time.
Two ill children and a small domestic crisis, and naturally this is the day that Homer is working in Saudi Arabia. Not travelling nearly as much as he did when they lived in Bahrain, he nevertheless does a lot of day trips around the region. Early starts and late returns make him tired, and although he is home a lot more, he’s enjoying his job a lot less. Marge tries to ignore the low buzz of anxiety that trips to Saudi incur. The driving there so bad, the roads so dangerous, she never relaxes until Homer is back.
Determined to distract herself, an enforced ‘home’ day gives Marge no excuse to tackle the Christmas cards. With a recent purchase of some jars of sweet mincemeat and a couple of cans of chestnuts, she’ll have Christmas preparations in the bag with two weeks to spare, if she keeps going like this. Except – despite the fact that she’s a seasoned expat, a veteran of Christmases in the desert, the truth is, there’s a small ripple in the glossy expat-life-is-the-BEST-THING-EVER façade and Marge is not on top of things at all.
Yes, she’s found a Pilates studio with a choice of mat and reformer classes, and a teacher who seems to know her stuff (apart from the fact that she does exactly the same routine each week and has a habit of interrupting the flow with private chats to her favourite clients). Yes, she’s getting fitter – even swimming twice a week too. Yes, Homer is home a lot more, which is great. When he’s not reminding her how exhausted he is. And yes, Dubai has lots of things that Bahrain didn’t. But the lack of direction, a routine, a crowd of good friends is getting to her. It’s making her low and it’s making her sluggish. To compound it all, the weather’s not even cold. How on earth can she ‘do’ winter/Christmas when it’s still thirty degrees?
The children recover from their malaise, and Marge’s time her own again, she discovers Shelter.
Shelter
An arts centre that doubles as a workspace for freelance creatives, it has a cinema, a café and best of all – Other People. Here is the solution. She may not be able to find a job or earn any money. But there’s her novel to be written and lots of time to spare.
Shelter is on an industrial estate called Al Quoz. Marge suggests to Homer that they should go and visit it on the weekend. Homer, not entirely sure that this will be fun, is pleasantly surprised. For Al Quoz is home to Al Serkal Avenue – Dubai’s edgy new art quarter, with galleries and interesting exhibitions, and some decent cafés to boot.
Their sense of adventure piqued, they make their way across the city to Bastakiya. A direct contrast to the converted warehouses of Al Quoz, this, the oldest district of Dubai, with beautiful narrow, windy streets, has been restored to its former glory – allowing visitors to explore traditional houses, stunning courtyards, art spaces, boutique hotels, craft centres and atmospheric restaurants. Unlike any other part of Dubai, here, finally, is a chance to absorb the history of the city, to learn about its rapidly disappearing traditions and culture; gain an insight into all that is fascinating and appealing about the emirate.
Barely into December and it’s National Day. A public holiday to mark the unification of the seven Emirates – Abu Dhabi, Dubai, Sharjah, Ajman, Fujairah, Umm Al Quwain and Ras Al Khaimah. On 2nd December 1971, the rulers of each Emirate signed an agreement, transforming the separate states into one country. Incredible to think that thirty-eight years earlier there was little here but sand. To celebrate such progress, there will be firework displays at the main hotels and processions in the streets. Dubai’s highways come to a standstill with Emiratis driving at a crawl, their vehicles draped in national flags, rear windows obscured, exhaust pipes covered with flapping fabric, a fire hazard waiting to happen. The city is deafened by the cacophony of over-excited car horns.
Three weeks till Christmas and Marge and Homer still don’t have a plan. In Bahrain, they’d found a formula that pleased everyone. Christmas Day, in their shiny new outfits, celebrating at the Ritz Carlton (Bahrain’s only beach hotel) with the several hundred other expats who’d also not left the island. Boxing Day, slob at home – just the five of them – a traditional Christmas Day lunch, games and movies. Marge would like to do something similar here, but having only been in Dubai a few months, a city with dozens of beach hotels, and not yet having built the friendship group required for reliable recommendations, she doesn’t know which one to choose. If she could, she’d wave a magic wand and make Christmas and New Year disappear completely.
Fortunately, the seasonal pressure is temporarily eclipsed. For Marge, in a moment of madness, has succumbed. They visited a dog shelter. The stars were aligned. There was a new litter of – even to Marge’s eyes – nine of the cutest, tiniest, four-week old baby wolves. Actually they are German Shepherd mixed with something long-haired and fluffy – Golden Retriever? Collie? The mother, they know about; an emaciated German Shepherd living on the streets. The father, they don’t – a deadbeat mutt who abandoned his parental duties the minute he’d had his wicked way. (They’ll eventually discover that he was probably a Leonberger, size of a Shetland Pony. For now though, ignorance is bliss.) And as luck would have it, at that moment, a little one hiding under a table – not the shyest, nor the most frenetic – makes a beeline for Marge and clambers into her lap. Seduced, there is no going back. Passing the interview to determine if they are worthy parents of this fur baby, they are told to return to collect their darling in two weeks.
Everyone is excited at the prospect, although Bart and Lisa are so busy enjoying life in Dubai – school is great, people are great, social lives are great – they have little time to dwell on the imminent new arrival. Bart has just found out he’s going to be ‘Audrey II’ in the school production of Little Shop of Horrors. Lisa, slightly less ecstatic, is going to play ‘The Whore’. Maggie, however, is ALL about the puppy. For the first time since they arrived in Dubai, her face is lit up with a permanent smile.
A trip to the desert – dune-bashing down the orange peaks and a picnic, while not as exciting or as adventurous as their rough and ready expeditions in Bahrain, when they’d set off at dusk in a caravan of 4x4s, into the heart of the butter-yellow dunes, with supplies of wood to make fires, barbecues, deckchairs, blankets, food and flasks of mulled wine, guitars and a whole host of close friends, nevertheless seals the start of some new friendships.
And with the same friends they attend the highlight of Dubai’s social calendar the Rugby Sevens. So much more than merely rugby, normal rules do not apply. Dubai’s strict drinking restrictions are non-existent, schools are closed as if it’s a national holiday, the expat youth of Dubai and beyond get pissed as fast as they can in one part of the stadium, whilst their teachers and parents, grateful for corporate hospitality, follow suit in another.
Barely back at school, and Maggie is ill this time, curled up on the sofa with a sore throat and cough. Bang go Marge’s plans again to make a start on the Christmas shopping. Instead she does the online presents for those abroad, and makes the reservation for Christmas lunch at a hotel, suggested by some neighbours. There’ll be a Santa’s Grotto, and carol singing, and fun activities for Maggie and, of course, outstanding food. The only thing is, and Marge hasn’t yet mentioned it to the children, they will be going with these neighbours, who they barely know. Deep down, she is not sure if this was a particularly good idea, but the neighbour (who is lovely) asked her if they could do something together, and Marge couldn’t think of a reason why not – apart from the fact that Christmas Day with practically strangers might just be a disaster.
“It’ll be fine,” Homer assures her, positive to the last. Marge tries to ignore the niggle that, in her desperation to get Christmas Day sorted, she may have completely ballsed it up.
The weather turns, and a weekend of rare winds and torrential rain transforms roads without drains into rivers. With Dubai under water, drivers, unaccustomed to severe weather conditions, tailgate with their hazards on.
But as luck would have it, this climate aberration coincides with Dubai’s International Film Festival. Of course Marge is not organised enough to have scanned the programme in advance and planned what they will see. But one of the venues – the Madinat Jumeirah – is just up the road. With nothing better to do, they wade up there to see what’s on. Not sure what to expect, but surprised by little (it is Dubai, it is a five star hotel resort), there’s a (sodden) red carpet, people sparkling in designer gear. Even paparazzi. French film, ‘Le Petit Nicolas’ is showing. Not a movie any of them has ever craved to see, let alone heard of, but the weather’s rubbish, the hotel’s glorious. It’ll kill a few hours…
As the film begins, Marge experiences a startling Proustian moment. A buried memory of reading the book at school pops into her head, and there she is, in her French class. Wooden desks. Blue school uniform. Odour of pubescent girls. 1980.
Film over, and, surprisingly, much enjoyed, they explore the Madinat. A resort designed to replicate traditional Arabia with an identity issue. There are two hotels, a luxury souk (an oxymoron if ever there was one, nothing’s less than fifty dollars), Venetian-style waterways with abras instead of gondolas, a Greek amphitheatre, a regular theatre, and over fifty restaurants covering much of the rest of the world. Is it a town? Is it a stage set? No! It’s a hotel designer’s concept of ‘let’s introduce foreign people to a sanitised version of the Middle East’.
Marge browses the theatre programme, thrilled to see that not only is there panto – Sleeping Beauty, but also Peter Pan on Ice.
‘Maybe just one…?’ Homer suggests, as Marge books tickets. Marge shoots him a glare.
Energised by such an enjoyable weekend, filled with festive cheer, Marge decorates the fake tree pink-and-turquoise-let’s-be-kitsch. Christmas, apart from no presents, is shaping up nicely. Carols and mulled wine on the 23rd at the Embassy – thank you Homer’s-colleague-the-Ambassador’s-wife; dinner at one of the neighbour’s on the 24th; Hotel Brunch with the other neighbours they barely know, on Christmas Day (not dwelling on that for now); traditional lunch at home on Boxing Day; Sleeping Beauty on the 27th (Peter Pan on Ice didn’t make the cut); NYE – supper at home with friends. If they can find any.
With just a week to go until the puppy arrives, Marge won’t admit to being slightly nervous about the whole house-training malarkey. She’s making a conscious effort to focus on the things that are good, (a vibrant city, so much to do, culture, the arts, wow-factor architecture, normal-ish people), rather than the things that are out of her control (getting a job, life having some meaning…) or the factors she dislikes (sense of entitlement, spoilt-brat mentality, ‘the largest’, ‘the highest’, ‘the best’).
This simple tactic, to her relief, shifts her mood from deranged-with-gloom to take-on-the-world. The puppy will be a wonderful addition to the family. Yes, Marge may have raided the cleaning section of the supermarket and now has a box filled with every brand of disinfectant and upholstery cleaner known to man. And yes, Homer I’ve-always-loved-dogs may nearly have bottled out of the dog adoption process a couple of days earlier, because the furniture might get ruined. But being too wimpish to share this decision with the children, and Marge bloody well not doing it for him, the new addition will be joining them, and ‘a puppy is for life and not just for Christmas’ will become their reality.
A friend from the UK emails Marge and asks if it’s as bad in Dubai as the media makes out. ‘You seem to be having so much fun,’ she says, (Marge can embellish anything with words), ‘but your descriptions don’t match what we’re being told in the press. Abu Dhabi has given Dubai $10bn to pay off debts but you never mention the recession, the penniless expats… ‘
Marge pauses for thought. Having only been here a few months, she is only vaguely aware of people losing jobs. Homer’s work – management consultancy, seems relatively unscathed, for now. Emiratisation of Dubai’s workforce (an initiative by the UAE’s government, to employ its citizens in a meaningful and efficient manner in the public and private sectors) has a long way to go. Generally speaking, most senior management positions are held by western expats, while an eastern workforce covers retail, menial labour and the construction chain gangs. Emiratis in the workplace are a rare phenomenon
But, the economic downturn has affected property prices, construction and finance. Before the Simpsons moved to Dubai, but when Homer was already working there, he would often nearly miss his plane home on a Thursday evening, because of congestion on the Sheikh Zayed Highway. Now there are rarely jams – many expats were forced to leave to escape debt and consequently prison, doing moonlight flits, their cars now gathering dust, abandoned at the airport.
Of course Marge knows the Dubai gloss is merely a veneer, that the contrast between the haves and the have-nots is stark, that really she is living in a police state, that civil liberty and freedom of speech are just an illusion, that slavery is alive and kicking. But she is careful about what she shares by email and on social media, regaling friends instead with light-hearted anecdotes of family dramas, settling in, and life in the sand.
Last week of school before the Christmas holidays, and Maggie is unwell again – a stomach bug this time. Struggling to keep anything down, Marge gets her to sip a spoonful of liquid every fifteen minutes in an unsuccessful attempt to stay hydrated. Unable to do any shopping, Marge rereads the children’s Christmas lists,. Bart’s, likely to bankrupt a small kingdom, still manages to raise a smile. His final three presents:
– A ticket to the UK
– Trust
– No curfew (+ the names of those friends whose parents don’t insist they’re home by 2am)
But Marge’s amusement is short-lived, for Maggie has been alternating her rehydration sips with chucking it up again for eighteen hours now, and Homer is at Bart’s school concert with the car. It’s times like this that Marge misses established friendships and neighbours she knows she can call on any time of the day or night. By the time Homer returns, Maggie is so listless that they whisk her straight off to hospital.
“Have some juice,” says Nurse Stupid.
Barely meeting the back of Maggie’s throat, the liquid arcs out with all the grace of an elephant’s spray. Marge sidestepping swiftly, bites her tongue to hide her annoyance – mustn’t fall out with the staff – and waits for the paediatrician.
“She has a rotavirus,” he says. “She’s dehydrated.”
Tell me something I don’t know, thinks Marge.
“No. Food. NO. DRINK.” He spells out to the nurse. Then back to Marge again – “She must stay in overnight on a drip.”
With the choice of a chair or sharing Maggie’s bed, Marge opts for the latter. But, unable to sleep for fear of getting tangled in the tubes or falling off the edge, she takes comfort, at least, in the fact that Maggie is finally comfortable.
The next day, sore tummy aside, Maggie, no longer putty-coloured, can go home. But by the evening she’s unwell again, the vomiting resumes, and at daybreak they are back in the hospital. The Paediatrician more interested in how much Marge is going to pay than in treating her child, ignores Maggie completely. Cutting short the appointment, Marge takes Maggie to a GP recommended by other school mums. A fellow Brit, warm and friendly, he makes Marge relax and Maggie smile. She’s on the mend, he reassures, she’ll be fine in twenty-four hours. And just as he claims, after a decent night’s sleep, Maggie wakes the next morning, her tummy all settled, her appetite back.
With all the gastro-drama, Puppy Adoption has had to be postponed until the day after Boxing Day. Marge knows she should be disappointed, but inside she secretly rejoices.
A phone call from Friday Magazine – the English weekly colour supplement of Gulf News – comes out of the blue. Why has she not been in touch? asks the editor’s assistant. Doesn’t she want to write for them? Marge removes the phone from her ear and gives it a death stare. When he’d called several weeks earlier – on the back of her Hello, I’m Marge, employ me letter – asking if she’d like to come in and meet the editor, Marge had said, ‘Yes please.’ And he’d replied, ‘The editor will be in touch to arrange a date.’
But, as Marge reminds him, her tone deceptively polite, this never happened. She’d emailed, she’d called, she’d left voicemails…
“Ah,” he says sheepishly. “I’ve been on annual leave. My boss would like to meet you. Can you come in tomorrow?
There’s presents to buy, her novel to write, a to-do list to do…
‘You churlish brat,’ Rational Side hisses. ‘Show some willing.’
So Marge agrees. A diffident editor, a desultory chat, a ‘send us some ideas and we’ll take it from there.’
Bloody waste of time, Marge snaps at Rational Side. One step forward, twenty-five back. Meanwhile, at his work, Homer has been offered the most appealing of propositions. Would he like to invest £25,000 of his own money in some frivolous venture that his company’s come up with?
“What do you think, Marge? Could be interesting.”
“With what would we do that and why would we bother?” Marge asks. Greedy bastards! A company that’s not honoured one of Homer’s bonuses, nor contributed a penny towards the usual expat package – school fees, flights, rent etc, and, university fees for Bart will soon be imminent, and they want Homer to give them £25,000?
“I don’t think so,” she says.
Homer pens a thanks-but-no-thanks email, expressing his deep disappointment at having to miss out on such an exciting project. Marge is probably usually right. But there goes all chance of promotion. One step forward thirty-eight back.
The children break up and the house takes a breather. Bart sleeping all day and out every night, drops in for food and the occasional shower. Lisa frets about a letter regarding the GCSE meeting at the start of next term.
“I don’t want to do Geography, French, Science, Maths… ”
Marge takes a deep breath and nods serenely. She’ll wait for January. The school can deal with teenage silliness.
Missing the buzzy social life they’d had in Bahrain, Marge and Homer, still Billy-No-Mates, are grateful to be invited to a party by someone Homer has met through work. A nice crowd, the only weirdness is that everyone, apart from them, has a baby or a toddler. Reminds Marge of her (long past) thirtieth birthday party when their house swarmed with tiny tots. The only ones able to complete a conversation, it’s a timely reminder that they’re no longer as young as they think they look.
With six days until C-Day, Homer is roped in to share the Christmas gift hunt, for An Entire Weekend and A Whole Evening (Marge does love the 10am-12pm opening hours), visiting every mall in Dubai. For Homer, this is quite possibly on a par with having to eat fish that looks like fish. For Marge, it’s like a bottomless lobster lunch. Miraculously, they make a clean sweep of all the lists. Admittedly they’ve spent a queasy amount of money, but that’s because Homer refused to do the I’ve-found-the-ideal-gift-but-now-I-must-traipse-round-five-more-shops-to-check-it’s-not-better-cheaper-somewhere-else. Without a doubt, this haul is going to bring enormous amounts of tidings and joy.
Christmas Day arrives and lunch with almost-strangers is sort of fine. Although the children are sad that the adults sit at one end and they are placed at the other (‘You didn’t talk to us the whole meal’) – not an arrangement of Marge’s choosing, but also not a day to argue with new friends.
If she’s honest, this first Christmas in a new country feels surreal – as it did in Bahrain. Once again she must ride the emotional wave of discomfort until it passes. The Boxing Day lunch at home – just the five of them – is a far greater success. Cosy, relaxed, expectations lower; everyone’s happy.
Then they adopt the puppy.
Neo. After Neo in the Matrix. Because – well… he is The One. Neo, however, has grown considerably since they first met him. So much so, that Marge is not convinced he’s the same dog. Then, he fitted in the palms of her hands. Now, just three weeks later, he’s the size of a full-grown beagle.
Scouring the Idiot’s Guide to Training Your Pup, Marge and Homer focus on the chapter: Reading the Signs For When It Needs To Go. Marge does not take her eyes off Neo for a second, and to her delight she gets it right every time. Only Day One, and she’s nailed the housetraining.
Naïve Marge.
A large metal crate that now takes up one wall of the kitchen (the kitchen being the only self-contained room in their open-plan house), because the dog shelter told them that crating puppies helps them feel secure, has the reverse effect. Neo refuses to go anywhere near it, preferring instead to sleep by everyone’s feet. Fine during the day, less fine at bedtime. Reluctantly he is coerced into his prison and proceeds to cry the entire night. Homer, so traumatised by Neo’s whimpers, gets up and lies on the floor next to the crate until morning. Marge is tempted to laugh – she, after all, is a Puppy Whisperer. But, knowing from the bags under Homer’s eyes that this wouldn’t be wise, she offers copious praise, allowing herself only the sliver of a gloat. Homer never got up in the night when the children were babies. He’s the Daddy now!
Maggie, to their surprise, finally in possession of the pet of her dreams, is distraught. “Neo’s your baby now. You love him more than you love me.”
Weary through lack of sleep (Neo is like a baby, without the joy a baby brings), Marge attempts to reassure her youngest that nothing could be further from the truth. Especially when a day later, he has an upset tummy. House-trained, shmouse-trained. Confused by Marge’s shaggy rugs (are they grass?) baby Neo leaves runny, stinky deposits that soak rapidly through them all.
That evening, Marge receives a call from the dog shelter. It’s tragic. They’ve had an outbreak of the Parvovirus and all their dogs, including Neo’s brothers and sisters, have had to be put down. Can she get Neo tested?
“That’s so sad,” Marge says, trying to summon up the requisite emotions – sympathy/concern – trying to suppress the microscopic glimmer of hope (she will admit this to no one, is startled to think like this) that Neo, who has curtailed any freedom she used to enjoy, might have it too.
“No, he’s fine,” the vet reassures her with a relieved smile, another happy customer, “You’ll be able to enjoy your holidays after all.” He sends her on her way with a large bill and a bag of medicine.
The following day, Bart has a ‘gathering’ (not a party) of fifteen of his closest friends. Neo, barely recovered, traumatised by boy-people – their size, their noise – refuses to go outside, will only poo on the rug.
“My parents are having a New Year’s Eve party,” says one of the lads, attempting to ingratiate himself with Marge, who is struggling to feel the love. “Bart will be there. You’re welcome to come too.”
Marge and Homer, who have been psyching themselves up for night in with Neo and the girls in front of the telly (“it will be fun”), are relieved to have an invitation, even if it’s from a seventeen year old, even if they don’t want to go.
Marge calls the mother to ensure it’s legit…
“Absolutely,” says the woman.
… and to see if they can bring the girls as they don’t have a babysitter.
“The more the merrier. There’ll be about fifty of us. It’s three hundred dirhams per couple, and can you bring a bottle of champagne?”
Marge has never had to pay (the equivalent of £50) to go to a house party before; they must be providing an amazing spread.
That evening, NYE Eve, Marge and Homer are tempted to stay in, but who turns down a last minute invitation to dinner with some people they loosely knew in Bahrain, when their social life is so pathetically non-existent?
The next night (the year limping to its finale), it’s New Year’s Eve. Marge is knackered, Homer is knackered, Maggie is knackered. Bart has already gone out; never too early to start celebrating in his book.
Perhaps they could just stay i-
“I can’t believe how boring you are!” Lisa screeches. “I am not staying in on New Year’s Eve!”
Perhaps it will be fun. It can’t hurt to make the effort.
Homer couldn’t agree less. The party is far away, the other side of town, they will need a taxi, there won’t be any later on…
They arrive around nine.
The door is opened by a maid, who lets them in and leaves them in the hall. The house throbs, laser lights flash, the party is thumping. No one says hello, they might as well be invisible.
“I told you it would be a waste – ”
Marge ignores Homer and strides out into the garden, a smile plastered on her face.
“Can I help you?” A woman demands.
Marge explains who they are. The woman introduces herself as the hostess. Marge, unsure of the protocol, hands over the champagne and the three hundred dirhams. A huge bar beckons them. A tray of spring rolls and prawn toasts does the rounds. There’ll likely be more food shortly.
Lisa, spotting two classmates, disappears happily upstairs. Maggie is whiny and bored. Homer has emotionally left. By eleven thirty, face like thunder, he’s installed himself in the chair by the open front door – grandma at the family gathering I’m not taking my coat off, I want to go home. His mission (as he can’t get through to the taxi firm) – to hijack the first taxi he sees.
“We can’t go before midnight,” Marge mutters, embarrassed. She tries to make lame small talk, goes to dance with people she doesn’t know.
Suddenly, Homer is by her side with his first smile of the night.
How lovely. He’s come to dance with her.
“There’s a taxi! Outside the door. It won’t wait. Find Lisa. We’re going home.”
Lisa is upstairs in a room full of teens. Marge summons her out, tells her they’re going.
“Before midnight? That’s rude. I’m staying here.” She returns to her friends.
Out in the street, Homer, looking like he wants to launch himself across the bonnet yelling ‘mine all mine’ (were Maggie not in his arms), is horrified when another couple run out the house, down the garden path, ignore him completely, and jump in.
“THAT’S – ”
Too late.
Homer, his indignation off the scale, opens and closes his mouth like a dying fish.
But it’s gone.
One minute to go, the party poopers of the decade must make a humiliating return. Everyone’s in the garden, the countdown has begun, the champagne has been poured. None for Marge and Homer. There’s lukewarm white wine left for losers. With whoops and cheers, it’s Hap-py New Year! Arms are linked, Auld Lang Syne is sung, Scottish reels are performed. Homer scurries back to the hall. Marge rings for a taxi. Lisa’s given a ten-minute warning. Home by one, it takes another hour to get Homer’s furry love-child settled, some food rustled up, their moods to rise.
Money-making parties, are, so they learn, a ‘thing’ in Dubai. Next year they’ll do like the neighbours. Take a picnic and champagne to the beach, and enjoy a free fireworks display, courtesy of Atlantis and the Burj.
They live and they learn.
Crappy New Year!
To be continued…
daniellesimpson 