by Becky Wicks
I’ve spent the last few nights running events through my mind from under my Twister towel, on my concrete slab, waiting for sleep to arrive. My life is changing so much! I can’t tell anyone else. If I don’t even understand it myself, I can’t expect many other people to understand it either. This isn’t me, it’s really not! Lucy would have killed me over this, back in London. She’d be the first to pull me up by my ear and register me on another online dating site, just to distract me, just to stop me ruining someone’s life, let alone mine. We would have shared a clove cigarette, leaned over the giant open window in the living room that we used to call our balcony and chatted it all out. But the people who know me best aren’t here. And what if it’s the new me, doing all this stuff? And what if I’m a part of a brand-new M&M? If that’s the case, well … who am I to stop him changing direction, if he wants to?
15/08
In the absence of Facebook …
My life has been thrust all too suddenly into the shadows, into a world that exists without Facebook. My new company has banned it. RIP, little blue-and-white companion. So long, buddy. Take care.
I can still access it via a clever little proxy thingy, obviously, but if I’m the only one scrolling past those happy blue banners and guffawing out loud at pictures of my pissed-up friends as everyone else punches numbers at an alarmingly sudden and increased production rate, I think Stanley would get suspicious. So I’ve had to wean myself off it. In my new job this week, I’ve had to do some (gasp) work.
But you know what, although my heart breaks a little more with every message that Yahoo displays, informing me of some exciting Facebook activity beyond my reach, it’s actually quite remarkable how satisfied I feel in other ways, now that I’m using my time a little more constructively — albeit to write about fame-hungry, attention-seeking celebs.
I think Stanley’s impressed with me so far. I’m enjoying it. Although, I have to admit I didn’t expect to be based on the ground floor with all the techies. Because my job falls within the digital department, I’m actually a whole floor and set of elevators away from the glossy magazine staff. There are no celebrity posters on these walls, no crazy family photos in fuzzy frames, no laughing camaraderie or oozing goody bags on any desks. There aren’t even any fake flowers in ridiculously colourful vases, or newspaper cuttings featuring colleagues’ names — the kind you paste above their computer for a joke when a headline also features words like ‘murdered’ or ‘bitten by camel'. It’s nothing like the kind of stuff that was so prevalent in my glossy mag office imaginings.
Down here it’s heads down, earphones on, techie-work-work, nerd alert. And flirting with M&M on instant messenger is the only decent conversation I can get.
In the absence of anything much to do besides creating a backlog of celebrity profiles and shooting my new email out to every PR company I know (which isn’t many yet, as I’m expected to create all my own contacts, according to Stanley), I find myself scouring the net for more freelance opportunities and watching Facebook from the sidelines. I feel a little lost, if I’m honest. Alone. Shut out.
I guess I could always email people, but who the hell writes emails to their friends anymore? They’d all just think I was weird. I could pick up the phone for a chat, but come on, who’s got time to talk to one person when they could be messaging ten at once, while attaching a photo album and a video-guided tour of their bedroom? No. I have to learn to let go, accept that things are changing. Or maybe I’ll have to stay home every evening and do the night shift instead.
19/08
Confessions of a nail-biter …
Before yesterday, I’d had one manicure in my whole life. It was a freebie, forced upon me by a PR lady who wanted a review of a brand-new London nail salon. On reflection, the guys at work were probably so disgusted at the continuous sight of my chewed cuticles and split tips bashing at the keyboard that they tricked me into it. I’ve just never been that bothered about them, to be honest.
Only there’s something about Dubai that makes me want to look pretty. I don’t know if it’s M&M, or the sun and the fact that everything seems illuminated here somehow, but as I step out into a new social circle, I’m fully aware that when I’m holding that glass of champagne, engrossed in a conversation, the person I’m talking to might only be interested in the fact that half of my fingernails appear to have been eaten. Maybe I’m getting older. Maybe my priorities are changing, but it’s just not very lady-like, is it?
So yesterday, after work, and after getting lost for an hour in the rabbit warren they call the Mall of the Emirates, I tentatively pushed my way through the door of a nail salon … and discovered a whole new world.
As I was ushered into a chair by a Filipino with a stick-on smile, I stared around at the rows of polish and cleaning fluids and people stretched out on chairs being pampered from their massaged heads to their glossed-up toenails. I was afraid — and rightly so, actually. My Filipino took one look at my fingernails and practically gagged.
What the f*&k have you been doing to your hands, you disgusting, irresponsible Western ignoramus?! screamed her eyes. ‘What you want done today?’ said her mouth.
I scrolled through the list of options with hunched shoulders and an ignorant glaze across my face. How the hell do I know?
In the end I opted for some acrylic tips because Heidi said they were the best, but not the fill-in whitener underneath, because [begin interesting nail fact] the chemicals in fill-in whitener stunt your nail growth [end interesting nail fact]. Will I still be able to chew? I felt like asking, as I watched her filing my teeth’s hard work away onto a bleached white towel. Will I be able to bite my cuticles off … you know, the bits that fray and then peel so half your finger’s hanging off …’cause that’s the best bit. Will I? WILL I?
When she was done filing, she got the glue out. I was terrified. I watched her stick ten false nails over the top of my own carefully nibbled digits and paint over them in gold — not once, not twice, not thrice, not four times … OK, four times. Four coats. Four. There’s more clothing on my nails than there is on my entire body right now!
She admired her handiwork with the kind of pride one assumes a mother might exhibit when looking at a precious newborn. ‘Brand-new nails!’ she exclaimed, beaming, and promptly stuck my hands under a drying machine for twenty very boring minutes. The good thing is, though, that at this particular place (and so I’m told now, a good few others in Dubai too) you can watch Friends while the entire procedure is taking place. You simply slip a comfy pair of headphones over your ears and there’s Joey, Monica and Chandler having a bicker as your hands are beautified. Fabulous.
I must admit I left feeling rather exhilarated, like I’m a real woman. True, I smudged two nails when I fidgeted in my seat but it’s better than the freebie session back in London, when I ruined seven before I even got to the tube.
They’re not entirely practical, though. I keep hitting the wrong keys on the computer. And I feel a little dishonest, like I’m fooling the world, like I’m living a lie. I find myself wondering whether a man would be able to tell . oh, OK, one particular man if we’re going to get into it. Should I scratch my nails down his back, would he recoil in disgust, sensing a fake? Would he even notice? In fact, would any man notice if a girl he saw yesterday with barely any fingernails at all suddenly rocked up with talons like a hawk?
I guess I’ll quash my inner nail-biter for now, if not to impress a man but for the sake of having socially acceptable hands. Oh, and also, for all fellow bite-ees who were wondering, you can bend acrylic with your teeth if you really try. It’s just not as satisfying because you can’t feel it.
21/08
Money, money, money …
Luckily, the travel publishers never got around to sponsoring me before I left to join my new employer, but now the process to grant me residency has begun through my new company. Doing this means I won’t have to do a visa run to Bahrain every three months or so, which is what a lot of pe
ople seem to be doing at rather less trustworthy companies. This also means I get a proper bank account and won’t have to keep cashing cheques.
I met with HSBC today in the lobby of my workplace — there’s a special representative who comes and signs up every new employee. I, for one, am really very grateful for any help at all on this matter. I am absolutely rubbish with money. Anything to do with maths, numbers or finance sends me into a cold sweat. Opening a bank account in Dubai, however, was a little bit strange. No sooner had I sat down and started ticking boxes on the form, than the lovely lady started asking me how much money I wanted to borrow.
Now, can I just say that in a UK branch of HSBC, had my ears picked up this question they would have fast dismissed it as a silly fantasy, a daydream concocted by my tired brain: They’ll never let you borrow any money. You already owe about eight grand to the same bank. Don’t answer her. You’re clearly crazy.
But no. It seems that HSBC Dubai has absolutely nothing to do with HSBC UK. The world’s most locally recognised logo, perhaps. ‘World’s local bank?’ Not really.
On this occasion, much like a Manchester-based KFC employee might call a man in a branch in Marrakech and find no link whatsoever in their daily duties, the UK had not been summoned to inform Dubai that while I was running amok in the sandpit, earning a tax-free salary, I was also dodging my debts. And now I was being offered more money.
This, actually, was a very good thing. And a very necessary thing for me, because in Dubai, as I’ve mentioned, you’re not allowed to pay your rent month by month. Instead, you have to hand the whole lot over for six months or a year, in one or two cheques. And, of course, you generally need a place to live when you arrive somewhere new. And when you’re the young, ambitious, self-starting type of person Dubai is trying to attract, chances are you’re probably not going to have in excess of 50,000 dirhams stashed away, ready to hand over to your landlord. Luckily, I had enough saved for my stay at the Iransion, as he didn’t want much in the way of a deposit. But I’m assured the next landlord will.
As it happens, I left the lovely bank lady with the promise from her that should I need a loan to pay my rent once I move out of the Iransion, all I have to do is ask. And if I need any more for a car or even a mortgage, I should please just give them a call. At the flick of a switch, they’ll be only too happy to deposit however much I’d like into my account (with a ridiculously high interest rate, of course), which will enable me to pay it off every month, considering I still have a job. This will, of course, be adding to the secret debts I already find rather difficult to pay back in the UK, but really . well, I don’t really have a choice, unless I want to live on the street.
And let’s face it, if I do move home, I’m sure the money I would have swiftly paid back to HSBC UK using HSBC Dubai’s generous loan will make me look like an angel to my local branch. Perfect. This place is great!
22/08
Freebies make the world go round …
The job’s going relatively well, now that the site has finally launched. So well, in fact, that I’m absolutely swamped. And even if I did have access at work, I wouldn’t even have time for any Facebook admin.
The thing is, what initially seemed like quite a cushy gig is actually a mammoth task, as I have no one else to help me. I kind of thought there might be someone else here by now. But nope … I am literally writing the content for an entire website on my own. Slightly worrying. Worse still, no one upstairs on the mag has been given any incentive to help me. Hazel hasn’t even spoken to me since I started. I had a great idea for a feature on the working midgets of Dubai — there’s one in that club I went to after brunch that time, The Lodge, who’s always getting pulled around the room on roller-skates by another man called Mr Cheese — but so alien am I in her world that she probably mistook my email for spam and deleted it.
Elsewhere in the world, you’d probably never dream of making one person responsible for an entire website, one that stretches into cyberspace in at least eight different categories. Would you? I mean, I don’t know, but it feels like a huge and daunting task to me. There’s also talk of me going on the radio soon, to chat about celebs and promote the website! M&M tells me it’s a brilliant opportunity. I will say, he’s very good at seeing the positive in every situation, and making me feel as though I can do anything I set my mind to . even when I clearly can’t.
I’m getting out and about a lot, meeting PR people and the like, who are all really excited about the site once I tell them of its existence. I have to admit, it might all be a bit bizarre, but it’s better than spreadsheets and quite exciting, I suppose. Well . it would be, if anyone knew to read what I’ve written, or anyone in the office actually cared to talk to me, for that matter. Honestly, it’s like working in a frickin’ morgue with all the techie folk. No offence — I’m sure they’re all ludicrously busy, punching numbers and writing code and hacking into the National Bank of Dubai — but most people prefer to break up their day with a little light banter, a giggle, or even a wheelie swivel chair race down the corridor. Not here.
I bet they’re doing that upstairs. I bet there’s a whole other world of glossy magazine-dom I’m just not allowed to witness in this very building. I bet they’re doing all sorts of fun things up there, without me, like styling each other’s hair and planning things like Mojito Mondays (virgin mojitos, of course). Could it be that there just won’t ever be a job as great as the one I left behind? And even more frightening — just as my blogging days have come to an end, are my blagging days over, too?
The unseasoned blaggers among us might say I’m a spoiled brat, one who expects the world to place everything in her lap without making any effort. But anyone who works in the media will know that once you’ve become accustomed to such treatment, it’s a painfully slow recovery process when it goes away. It hurts a little, at first. It’s disgusting I know — totally spoilt-brat territory. But it’s true. You know it’s true. The reason we work these jobs for so little dosh is because of the perks. That’s just the way it works. Take away the perks and you’re just another desk-monkey, who now has to spend even more money on nice things to compensate for the misery of not having any.
I’ve been working in Dubai’s media industry now for more than two months, and I only just got my first invite to a free piss-up this morning. I know. Shocking, isn’t it? I have to admit, I felt a little flurry of joy to see a fleck of the life I once led bounce back into my inbox. But the game is played a little differently here, too. In fact … scrap that. There isn’t even a game. In spite of having relatively few contacts at the moment, I still get a host of press releases every day. Most of them are in Arabic and accompanied by a badly written email, reading, ‘Please publish this in your publication. Thanks a lot.’
Thanks a lot? Um . no. Hang on a cotton-picking minute, love. Where is my free holiday/dinner/CD/theatre ticket/perfume/box of wine? You can’t thank me for helping you out when I haven’t actually helped you out, because you haven’t helped me out first. What is it exactly that you’re not getting? Did I really leave England and turn up in a place where everyone’s just so nice to each other, simply because it’s just such a lovely world? Because if so, I don’t like it.
Regarding the site launch, M&M says this company is renowned for making a rush job of things. How infuriating!
Still, perhaps I do need to be a little more patient with things, before I wind up looking for job number three (sigh).
24/08
An Iranian art attack …
Wish it could be Christmas every day? Well, it jolly well can be, if you live in my villa. To be honest, I wasn’t quite sure what the inventor was doing with his days, really, now that the fleet-horse is almost complete. But since last Sunday, Stacey and I have come to the sudden revelation that not only does our Iranian landlord invent mammal-powered motors, he also creates art.
I may not have discussed the serene, winged angel lady who adorns our bedroom wall. She perches on a grassy knoll
between our two beds, wild fruit between her fingers, a sword in her belt and a lovely bunch of sunflowers on her lap. She also appears to have borrowed an earring from Pat Butcher in ‘Eastenders’ — the amber glow of which is only enhanced, I feel, by the luminous orange border on which her beauty hangs above our beds. He must have got the cardboard from the craft shop.
Behind this caring angel is a shimmering metropolis shrouded in a mysterious pink haze. I’m told it’s the ancient Persepolis, just outside the Iranian city of Shiraz. M&M thinks he put it up prior to our arrival, thinking it would encourage Allah to protect us, which I think is very thoughtful (even if it gives me the creeps).
Imagine my delight when arriving home from an evening at the cinema the other night (which I paid for), I found another work of art pasted lovingly on our bedroom door. I actually had to touch it to get into the bedroom. This one features two little children — girls — who appear to have lost their way on a rather windy moor. They seem to be sisters, but gaze morosely from a loose rock, as though asking which fellow orphan took their shoes away. I’m wondering if they’re supposed to represent Stacey and me, clearly at a crossroads in our lives, living on the Iranian’s landing.
Both pictures have been stuck at a ‘fun’ angle on a cardboard background. I rather prefer the orange one to the black that surrounds the children, but as gestures from our landlord they’re both very, very special. Stacey suggested that maybe they’re supposed to inspire us, seeing as we haven’t given him any suggestions on how to take the fleet-horse to America yet. I told her I really hoped that wasn’t the point, although I fear she may well be right, because yesterday we were blessed with another two pictures!
