by Becky Wicks
Pants (I take it this means trousers and not knickers) and skirts have to be of appropriate length, and outside clothing should not expose body parts indecently and should not be transparent. So basically, gymnasts, teenage bogans and cheerleaders are not welcome.
Most interestingly is the ban on hand-holding for unmarried couples. They don’t say exactly how they’re hoping to differentiate between couples who are married and couples who aren’t. Perhaps we’ll all soon be instructed to wear a sign on our foreheads when we’re out and about. Perhaps they’re planning to employ some sort of Relationship Surveyor to peruse the malls in search of wedding rings (or lack thereof) on all entwined fingers. This could be interesting to watch.
[Enter stage left] Love-struck couple, strolling hand-in-hand through the Apple Store, looking for a new laptop to host their naughty threesome photos.
[Enter stage right] Man with frown who asks if they’re legally married.
Her: He hasn’t bothered to ask me yet.
Him: But I was going to, I swear!
Her: When?
Relationship Surveyor: Yes, when?
Him: Errrr … will you marry me, honey? Maybe, sometime in the future? Maybe … I mean, oh God, don’t arrest us, will you marry me now? No pressure. Personally, I’ve seen plenty of Indian men holding hands in Dubai, engaged not to each other, but in a lovely stroll along the open beach. I’m pretty sure they’re not all married, although to date, and to my knowledge, no one of authority has ever said a word. They’ve definitely made sure to eye me up and down as they’ve passed, though — perhaps looking for a wedding ring?
I’m wondering who would get into more trouble if caught touching limbs in a shopping mall — me and my boyfriend (well, ex-boyfriend now, I suppose, who’s technically still married, just not to me) or them? I hope I never find out. Not long ago, two women from Lebanon and Bulgaria indulged in a little smooch on the beach and landed themselves in jail for a month, where they probably got a whole lot more than that. Ouch.
I suppose I have an excuse for finally retiring the mini-skirts, without laying the blame on my shamefully un-toned pins — it’s Dubai’s fault, not mine. Actually, perhaps that’s part of their master plan — the thought behind the plea for women to dress respectfully. It’s ‘Cover it up, love; we don’t want to look at it'.
Hmmmm. It seems Dubai knows what the haggard wishful thinkers of Britain quite embarrassingly fail to comprehend — that mutton dressed as lamb just isn’t all that tasty. Luckily, whatever I can’t wear here, I can most definitely wear, without a doubt, in New York. As I remember rightly, in the Big Apple, anything goes.
20/09
The killer villa crisis …
A new set of rules, recently introduced, is angering people all over the emirate. They state that unless you’re a family, you can no longer share accommodation in one of Dubai’s many villas. I would have quite liked to live in another villa — but maybe with arrangements that didn’t involve sleeping on a concrete bed on a landing under a Twister towel, feeling the evil stares of orphaned children boring into my skull and threatening to invade my dreams. Thanks to these new instructions, it’s not to be.
Dubai Municipality appears to be acting rather like heartless swines about the whole thing. Some people in Karama and parts of Umm Suqeim are currently surviving like squatters, having had their electricity cut off as a warning. All manner of people, from every colour, culture and occupation, have written to the press about how they’ll soon be forced to live on the streets once they’re ushered out of their homes. The papers are screaming with furious soon-to-be refugees. But does the Dubai Municipality care? Quite simply, no.
I am fortunate enough, like many others, to live in a nice home and muse about the petty troubles Dubai sometimes brings me, like jealous married boyfriends, a difficult detox or a missing cleaner, but the people who are laying the foundations — the builders, the bakers, the pedicure-makers — have long been forced out, thanks to all manner of silly new rules like this. As one of the more fortunate expats of the UAE, it saddens me greatly to think of how this city might treat me, should I cease to have a salary and lifestyle that’s thought to contribute in greater measures to its bigger, gold-encrusted dream. Inner-city dwellers have spent years building a life here, and they’re now being forced to leave thanks to nothing more than greed.
The municipality has informed us that evacuating people sharing villas is essential, because they’re straining our public resources and causing health and safety issues. No one can argue with that, I suppose. However, expats living in villas, in one room per person, paying all the bills and living in perfect safety have also been given their marching orders. So everyone’s wondering how unsafe or unhealthy it really is, and how much do they really just want us all out and relocated into expensive and unoccupied high-rise apartment buildings?
In the long run, I’m not exactly sure what all this means for Dubai. If it’s an aim to make us invest and stay longer as the bubble bursts around us, it’s a bit of a funny way of going about it.
27/09
The ethics of endings …
Ewan’s having a very bad week. He’s broken up with Sean. I’ve noticed them spending less and less time together lately, but apparently things came to a head the other night when Sean wanted Ewan to go out and get drunk with him and his friends, and Ewan just wanted to stay home and zone out in front of the TV. A common discussion in any household, you might be thinking, only it’s understandable here because Ewan’s having a totally shit time in his disastrous job and doesn’t have any money.
He’s still working diligently, every hour under the sun to get everything done in the face of total incompetence from everyone else around him, and I guess Sean’s got everything quite cushy really. He’s still living at home with his expat parents who wash, iron and cook for him daily. He’s still speeding around in a very fast, very expensive ‘selfish car’ and wanting Ewan to accompany him to bars, brunches and parties, just like they used to. It’s no one’s fault the dynamics have shifted. They’re just different people. Different people who’ve been drifting slowly but surely like the sands in a gentle Dubai breeze.
I didn’t even hear them arguing in Ewan’s room. I was lying on the sofa watching Gossip Girl when Sean sauntered in solo and gave me a nod as he approached the TV cabinet. I thought he was going to join me on the sofa — Ewan’s been known to kick the poor guy out of his bedroom while he finishes up his day’s workload. But Sean picked up the pirated Will & Grace box set from the shelf, flashing me a rather apologetic look as he rested it under his arm. Alarm bells sounded in my head. I sat up. I knew then that it was over. He loaned it to us ages ago and has never, ever asked for it back.
Later that night when Ewan ventured into the kitchen, he looked remarkably dry-eyed around the detoxifying white facemask he’d applied. He said he was fine and sighed as he poured boiling water over a green tea bag. He really did look fine. I asked him whether he’d done the right thing and he frowned at me over his teacup — a look that said ‘Duh, of course I have'.
I guess sometimes you just know when something’s not working out. But then again, you’re lucky if you’re the kind of person to actually trust your heart and let it go. Some of us try to fight it when we know something’s not working out. We let things drag on unnecessarily and we don’t even know why we put up with it. We analyse the fact that we don’t know why we put up with it; when we realise we don’t know, we experience even more self-loathing for being weak and stupid. Slowly but surely we spiral into a vortex of misery and self-deprecating torture — everything gets messier and more complicated and even dirtier. But we still can’t find the strength to walk away.
I wish I could be more like Ewan. He seems perfectly happy in the knowledge that he and Sean made a clean break before the chance for any real heartache emerged. Now he can get on with his shitty job and come home to his shitty flat on a building site without being nagged about going to the Irish Village
every five minutes.
This clean break — so sudden, so uncluttered and simple — makes me feel even more like a tool for faltering when M&M called me the other day. He’s heard about my birthday plans to visit New York and he wants to come too, which I’m sure is a very bad idea, seeing as we are most definitely not together anymore. When I told him ‘this is a very bad idea, seeing as we’re most definitely not together anymore', he said he’s taking a business trip to London and can simply tag NYC on to the end of it before flying back to Dubai. He said he would stay in a hotel so I wouldn’t have to see him if I didn’t want to, as I’m staying with my friend Todd in Brooklyn.
I didn’t even bother pointing out that NYC is fourteen hours from Dubai, whereas London’s about seven. ‘Tagging it on’ is hardly the term for such an extravagant addition to a business trip. That’s just the way he is. I didn’t even bother asking why he would fly all the way to New York to be with someone who quite possibly wouldn’t want to see him. That’s just the way he is.
I said he could come, if only to get him off the phone. When he, or anyone for that matter, calls me at work, I have no choice but to pace the corridor as I talk and hope EGO The Great doesn’t stroll past and see me slacking off. Of course, EGO spends all day slacking off himself, but he’s earned that privilege and I haven’t.
I also said yes because Stacey’s coming too. She’s flying straight from London to meet me there, which will be awesome!
Perhaps it won’t be too difficult, M&M being there as a friend … if indeed we can attempt to be friends. I don’t actually know what he wants from me, you know. Although we had a break, it wasn’t exactly clean. Certainly not like Ewan and Sean’s. They’ve now committed the final act in severing whatever ties may have bound them. Whatever inkling of hope may have shone for the future has been snuffed out for good. It’s official. They’ve deleted each other on Facebook.
16/10
Even more sex on the beach …
Well, we’ve been watching the headlines since it happened and it was just confirmed, thanks to less-than-dignified medical testing, that our lust-struck heroes, Vince and Michelle, did actually have sex on the beach after their inebriated cocktail afternoon back in July. Having vehemently denied this previously, we’re all still sitting here wondering how much more trouble they can actually stir.
Vince has apologised profusely for his actions on the front page of local rag 7Days, while his mates back in the UK rag to the press about what a ladies’ man he is and how they’re not really surprised he got his horn on in Dubai. (You call yourselves ‘friends'?) Meanwhile, Michelle was charged a few days ago with indecency in a public place, consuming alcohol and having an illicit affair with businessman and visiting holidaymaker Vince.
The majority of people who move to Dubai respect the culture and obey the rules based in sharia law that are enforced by the ruling Maktoum family of the city, so writes one commentator on the UK’s Times Online. ‘Dubai is very accommodating to us Westerners … those of us who have normal moral values live very comfortably here.’ Ouch.
I guess the commentator is correct. Canoodling on the beach, filling cracks with sand in an encounter we may or may not remember the next day has long been a delightful way to spend an evening … in Ibiza. Here, as has been demonstrated many times over with many different issues (including mulled wine) the code of conduct reads differently. We may not have a copy saved on our computers or pasted to the walls, but we don’t need one. We’re not supposed to need one, anyway. It’s ingrained in each of us, from the moment we arrive. It’s common sense. It’s self-control. It just … is.
As I think I said before, since this couple’s cheeky encounter, topped off with a shoe-flinging and flurry of racial abuse, the police have been out in force, checking up on bars and loitering outside popular drinking establishments. We can’t blame them, I suppose. Dubai is a five-star city being mauled in the media for acts that Ibiza has long been taking in its stride.
It is true, perhaps, that in seeking to attract all these Westerners to boost the flailing economy, Dubai is also reaching out to those with opposing values. The Emiratis aren’t so perfect themselves behind closed doors, but heaven forbid they show it — or show their city to be too lenient with troublemakers.
As we know, public displays of affection have long been met with scowls and disapproving looks. Those of us who act without thinking quite often retract in embarrassed shame at momentarily forgetting the rules. It happens sometimes. You do forget where you are. You forget to keep your instincts in check. Some things are hard to get used to, but we do our best to try. These are the things we accept, I suppose, as fair trade for the sunny weather and (so far) tax-free salaries.
We can only hope that people will side with Dubai when it comes to the views on imposing strict rules of conduct. I know I’m being a bit of a hypocrite but most of us move here for a change of scene, not to bring the same unsightly scenes over with us. As for Michelle and Vince … well … without meaning to sound too harsh, I hope they had a good time while it lasted.
02/11
Money and the monkeys …
Money is an issue in our household at the moment. Ewan still doesn’t have any, due to the fact that the media company is going slowly but surely down the pan. He says some suppliers are now refusing to work with him on the basis that they haven’t been getting paid either.
Of course, Ewan had no clue this was happening, but when he brought it to the attention of Heathcliff, he was simply told to keep calling around the picture agencies until he found one that would agree to work with them. When he finally found one, he felt terrible about taking them on. It’s happening more and more these days. He knows full well that whoever he hires will never see anything for their efforts, but he needs these people’s help to put his magazine together … what choice does he have?
Heathcliff also recently hired an editor for a new women’s magazine without telling the editor already working in the position that she was fired. The first editor, a dowdy, chainsmoking woman from rural Ireland who knew sod-all about women’s magazines, had been beyond useless for quite some time and everyone wanted her out. Ewan and his team were called into a conference room one by one to meet the new editor, while the incompetent Irish one was still busying herself with a growing workload in the other room, oblivious to the fact that she’d been usurped. When she was finally given the boot, the poor woman had to slope out quietly under the gaze of a room full of people who’d known for a while what was coming, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.
According to Ewan, the new editor is even worse. She is, in his words, ‘an overly confident cockney bitch from London, with no fashion sense', whose daily uniform includes ‘the same pair of scuffed suede court shoes'. I don’t even know what court shoes are, personally, but judging by the grimace that crosses his face when he mentions them, they are clearly sending shivers down Ewan’s spine on a frequent basis. He just won’t stand for fashion errors of any sort.
This woman also chucks the ‘c’ word at him when he gets there in the mornings. Ewan says this was the highlight of her day when she worked at a trashy UK tabloid. ‘You’re fucking late, you c**t!’ she cries, thinking everyone finds her funny. Unfortunately, this deluded way of asserting her past popularity as a fun-loving, easygoing girl in London is driving everybody mental in Dubai. She’d be ruining Ewan’s day, every day, even if he was getting paid, but seeing as he’s not, he’s pretty much suicidal.
I got an early wake-up call from HSBC this morning, demanding I pay the 900 dirhams from a credit card I told them very clearly to cancel a very long time ago. I cleared it before I cancelled it, and I cancelled it because of their total inability to offer a service that didn’t feel like it was based on an island full of monkeys. So, why the 900 dirhams, I hear you ask? Well, a TV provider I will leave unnamed, whose managing team are also clearly hanging from a branch somewhere slapping their chests like big baboons, has been charging me
a subscription fee every month since I moved out of the old flat, in spite of me calling to cancel that too. So here we have a double case of incompetence, coupled with my tragic, longstanding difficulties with financial situations. Not a good mix.
Money and I have never been the best of friends. I never really used to have any, and now that I do I’m still rubbish with it. Back in London I never used to check my statements for fear of what I might find. Like most of the world I would buy what I wanted on credit, blissfully ignoring my actual poverty-stricken status and skipping joyously through my lavish daily existence like Julie Andrews with armfuls of shopping bags. Like everyone else I thought, ‘I’ll worry about it later'. And of course, when ‘later’ came around, I just got another credit card.
Back to the issue at hand. I’m all grown up now — hence the initial cancellation of a credit card I was no longer using. But alas, alack, the banks have turned their evil on the slightly-more-established me. I offered to pay the outstanding balance on the understanding that they would then, finally, cancel my credit card. The bank informed me delightedly that this was excellent news (although they were sad I wouldn’t be banking with them anymore) and could I give them my new credit card number. Well, of course, I said: ‘No, I have the cash right here. I’ll give you my debit card number. How’s that?’
‘That won’t work,’ the lady said. ‘We only accept credit card payments, and there’s a handling fee, too.’
I was outraged. ‘Do you mean to say that you don’t accept real money?’
