Our good intentions of getting up early again and going to the gym flew out the window and instead we had a bit of a sleep-in.
Eventually up, organised and out the door into a cab to Sharjah and the Blue Souk in search of Persian rugs.
The cab driver was pleasant and we seemed to make reasonably good time to Sharjah under the circumstances of the traffic. The cost of the cabfare was 30 Dirhams – roughly $10, which when considering the distance we travelled, was pretty good value.
We arrived at the Blue Souk and, although we’d never seen it before, immediately recognised the building. Strangely enough, the whole building is lined in blue ceramic tiles. It’s really beautiful and is constructed in the old Arabian style.
We go inside and there are very few people about. It’s just beautiful inside as well, and we take in the beauty of the ceilings and balustrades. It’s very large. Downstairs there are lots of jewellery shops. The carpet shops are upstairs so we made our way up to level 2, where we were greeted by an Arabic man in a white dishdash. He was very polite and inquisitive as to what we were looking for. We told him we were looking at carpets and he indicated that there was plenty to choose from, which there was indeed. There were dozens of shops, and I could feel a ‘too much choice’ conniption coming on. As we did in the gold souk, we simply chose a shop and went inside.
The Indian owner was again very pleasant and eager for a sale. We told him what we were after and we were requested to take a seat while rug after rug after rug was rolled (with enormous ceremony) before us. I was half expecting Cleopatra to pop out of one. The rugs were just divine and it became difficult to choose between them. We were offered cups of mint tea to help clarify our minds and influence decisions. This must have worked, because finally Mary-Rita made her choice. Now for the haggling. This went on for awhile and I was very amused at the tactics used by both parties in trying to negotiate a fair price. Mary-Rita really is quite the bargainer, and I was impressed with her skills. She eventually settled upon a price with your man and they both seemed happy. In the meantime, I was looking for a much smaller carpet for my bedroom and, as usual, the first one he brought out was exactly the one I wanted. We played the haggling game as well for a couple of minutes before I pulled some cash from my wallet (slightly under half of what he was asking) and offered it over to him. My bid was accepted and we were all happy. Invoices were written, rugs were bagged up and we were good to go.
Your man offered to call a taxi for us to take us back to Dubai, which we gratefully accepted. However, we figured that while we were in Sharjah and the Blue Souk, it would be a crime against consumerism not to look at the other stores in the building. So, off we went in search of some more bargains, which we found. Some souvenirs and some cushion covers and pashminas all came home in our possession. Eventually, loaded down with goodies and carpets, we managed to get some assistance downstairs and outside looking for a cab. Two cabs refused us, not wanting to go to Dubai. It was almost as bad as being in Sydney. We had been told to look for a particular cab company, but by this stage we would have taken anyone who would get us back to the hotel as quickly as possible.
Eventually a cab driver agreed to get us back there. He was a Pakistani man who had lived in Dubai for 18 years. He has 10 children in Pakistan and is supporting his whole family on the money he earns. We asked him if he liked Dubai and he said that he didn’t, but really did not have a choice as to whether he stayed or not. He had to stay to support his family. He worked all the time and had few friends in Dubai. He only goes back to Pakistan very infrequently and he misses his family. It’s all a bit sad when one hears about the sacrifices people make to ensure that their families are cared for.
We made it back to our hotel (cab fare 25 Dirhams) with just enough time to get dressed at a reasonable pace and meet up with the others to go to the Burj Al-Arab for our High Tea experience. Pity we couldn’t have flown to the Burj on our magic carpets.
All in all a very successful morning’s work.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Friday, February 15, 2008
The Sands of Time
After quickly grazing on some of the tasty treats from our executive floor lounge, we race back downstairs to be collected for our desert safari at 3:00pm. It occurs to me that I'm absolutely shattered - waves of tiredness are breaking over me at the high tide mark, but ah well, I'll sleep when I'm dead, so there's plenty of living to be getting on with until then.
I’ve been looking forward to this desert excursion ever since I booked the trip, and cannot believe that it’s actually happening now.
The desert gets really cold at night, so we rug up in comfortable clothes. Unfortunately the desert doesn’t particularly care about fashion, but I do manage to pop on a bit of a sequin Arabian style top underneath my hoodie, just so I feel a little bit girly. We can’t have the romantic adventure of camel riding under the desert sky completely obliterated by having to wear a tracksuit and runners. That’s just not cricket, although one does really need the tracksuit if one is to avoid hypothermia, which probably would obliterate the romantic adventure faster than a bad hair day.
Our Arabian Adventures driver today is Sunil, a lovely lad who knew that we were over for the Collingwood game, but who also didn’t know a thing about football. Strangely enough, Sunil would also be one of the few Indians on the planet not obsessed with cricket. Of course he knows how to say the words Sachin Tendulkar with precisely the correct inflection and tone of reverence, but that’s about it. I’m immediately suspicious – can a girl trust an Indian who doesn’t love cricket? Well, I guess we’re about to find out.
On the day to the Dubai Desert Conservation Reserve, where we’ll be surfing the sand dunes, the others and I give Sunil a bit of a rundown about how to play AFL and the virtues of Collingwood over all the other AFL clubs. Of course it’s always a bit tricky trying to explain the rules of a behind when it’s actually a beside, and before too long, your man Sunil was completely confused. However, given that he is male after all, that’s to be expected. In the absence of small words and diagrams, there’s not a lot that could be done. I amuse myself by explaining the finer points of ‘jumper punching’ to him and demonstrate using the back of his shirt. Poor Sunil. If he could have opened the door, flung himself from the moving vehicle and run screaming into the desert, never to be seen again, I think he gladly would have done so. However, he was unfailingly polite and assured us that, now he knows all about AFL, he will be sure to watch it whenever he can on TV.
On the way out to the DDCR, which is on the road to Al Ain, we pass the outlet mall, which Sandy, an Australian girl we met at the match, told us about. We beg Sunil desperately to stop there on the way back so that we could forage out some bargains, but he refused, saying that we must adhere completely to the schedule and no unauthorised deviation from that schedule was permitted. I tried the pitiful pleading look and was about to downshift into the ‘crying girl’ persona, but he was totally unmoved. It was pointless wasting precious liquids from my body, so I refrained. Men are such cruel beasts. I commit the outlet mall to memory, knowing that there will be no chance in Hell that we’ll get back there on this trip, but look out for next time. My next trip to Dubai (which I hope will be in horse racing season) will be much longer than this one and will absolutely, positively involve copious amounts of shopping. Oops, I think I can feel interest rates rising again. Best phone the Reserve Bank and have a little chat with the Governor.
But, I digress (shopping will do that). We arrive at the DDCR and are permitted entry. All up tonight there will be about 250 people joining us. Apparently it’s like this every night, with some evenings hosting over 300 people. Who would have thought simple sand could be such a revenue raiser?
Not long after we get inside the reserve, all vehicles stop and the tyres are deflated about half way. This apparently is done to ensure safety whilst we’re careering about the dunes, and stops the cars from rolling. Excellent. Hadn’t even thought about the car possibly rolling until that was pointed out. Think of anything but camels.
Unfortunately also at this point, I realise to my horror that my walnut sized bladder is full to bursting and there’s not a ladies room in sight. I ask Sunil whether there’s a toilet anywhere near by and he calmly points towards a large clump of bushes and smiles at me. At first I think he’s having me on, and I laugh along with him until it dawns on me that, no, he’s not having me on. I’m having myself on apparently, which as we know by now is the usual state of affairs. It’s just as well that I (being a girl with a ‘delicate system’) always travel with a spare packet of tissues and antibacterial hand gel. At this particular moment in time, it’s more precious than water. Mary-Rita needs to go as well, so we warn everyone not to come anywhere near us and head towards the bushes. Mary-Rita finds a safe spot and I act as lookout. However, just as she’s taking care of things, the lovely Nathan decides to wander up a sand dune very close to where we are. He was walking away from us and obviously hadn’t heard us say anything about attending to the call of nature. Nathan has had a tendency to wander off throughout the whole trip, so this was not a surprise, but it was however a particularly inconvenient moment for us ladies. I decide to engage some mental telepathy and send him a clear message - Turn. Around. Now. Nathan. And. You. Will. Be. Killed. Painfully. Luckily, this seems to get through, as he continues along his merry way without causing us any embarrassment. Once Mary-Rita sorted herself out, I decided that perhaps her spot wasn’t so safe after all and I hunted down another more concealed one in the other direction. However, it wasn’t as concealed as I thought, and I was also in grave danger of discovery when another group of people wandered a little too close for comfort. Nothing quite like being caught with your knickers down mid-stream to put the fear of God into you. However, all was well in the end and we escaped unscathed. It brought back memories of being at Entabeni Reserve in South Africa, where each morning we’d go for a pre-sunrise drive in search of the lions. The rangers would load us up with coffee and tea to keep us warm in the early-morning frigidity, so by the time we actually made it to the area where the lions were supposed to be, I was so desperate to pee I could cry. There was a particularly large clump of bushes where everyone would go, and this bush became my friend for 4 days running. I discovered on the last day that the lions were in fact only about 200 metres away on the other side of a large clump of grass trees directly in line with our jeep, and that lions can run 22 metres per second. You don’t need to be Einstein to work out that had a lion been in the mood for a bit of a snack, there'd be barely enough time to raise your head let alone to pull up your knickers before it had ripped out your jugular. Comforting thought that.
However, in this environment we were safe, as I’m certain the camels weren’t any threat to us unless they decided to walk straight over us and crush us to death.
Hop back into the cars and head towards the dunes. Sand dunes are much bigger than they first appear to be, and at times our jeeps were almost vertical. We go pretty fast over these dunes and sometimes the cars are almost going sideways. I was terrified, as I now couldn’t get the thought of the car rolling over out of my head, but it was good fun. It’s a case of “this will be enormous fun if I don’t die in the process”. Of course we were all put to shame when Gladys was squealing like a toddler and having the time of her life. She’s 90.
We had 2 guys in our car, and to preserve their dignity, I won’t say which two. However, one of them was feeling mighty sick, and we had to slow the car down so that he didn’t disgrace himself in front of all the girls. That would be a ribbing he'd never get over. We had a drink stop, at which point Mary-Rita and I decided to change cars and swap places with some of the boys. Unfortunately, our friend did eventually become sick and he was unable to enjoy the evening, spending most of it lying down in the back seat of our jeep.
During the dune ride, we came to the camel farm, where all the camels are housed. We had some photos taken with them. The camel herd told us that we could hug our camel in the photo if we wanted to. I decided that was a great idea, although Mary-Rita wasn’t convinced. She contented herself with just patting its neck while I gave it a hug. However after about 10 seconds of this, the camel spied the water trough and decided to give us the flick. It took off at an impressive rate with me still clinging to its neck, much to the amusement of the camel herd and everyone around us. Good photo though.
We then found the tent where there was a falcon with its keeper. We lined up to get our photos taken with it, but had to do them again as neither Mary-Rita nor myself particularly liked the first round of pictures that were taken. We did end up getting some good photos and realised afterwards that we were supposed to give a donation to the falcon’s keeper. I managed to creep back in and slip some money into the box.
There are also goats kept at the farm and we spied some babies frolicking about. They’re so gorgeous and the goat herd fetched one and brought it over for us to hold. Again, another donation, but it’s a good photo opportunity. Peter took my photo and managed to cut off the top part of my head, but at least we got a close up of the goat. Which goat you might ask?!
After we’d gotten all of our photos and the Bedouins had relieved us of some of our money, we piled back into the cars and reached a point where we could have a stunning sunset experience. All of the cars stopped in one big gathering, and everyone race up the sand dunes (have you ever tied to run up a sand dune? It’s really hard!) to reach the top and grab photos. At this point we spied a tourist group of Japanese all wearing their ‘SARS masks’ – what’s that about??? Have a little chuckle as one Japanese girl fills up an empty bottle with sand so that she can take home some of the Arabian desert. God love the Japanese. They’re such odd little biscuits.
We got some lovely sunset photos and took turns acting the fool by crawling up the dunes like Burke & Wills. It was great fun and those memories are the special ones that life is all about making. One of the things that stands out in my mind is how the sand looks almost like mist as it's being blown about by the wind. It swirls around over the top of the dunes with a life of its own and makes nature-perfect patterns in the rest of the dunes. It's just beautiful and something one could watch for ages if one had the time.
Eventually we arrived at the Bedouin camp where we were to have our dinner. It’s very impressive – large Bedouin tents with long rows of tables and cushions to sit on; lots of gorgeous Persian rugs on the ground (Mary-Rita and I paid close attention to the colours and texture of the rugs in preparation for our ‘carpet shopping’ trip tomorrow); lanterns hanging from various points; a water well; a large cooking area and some very impressive toilet block facilities, made in the style of the ‘wind tower’ buildings we’d seen earlier that day at the Bastakia site.
We settled in to our cushions and immediately headed towards the ladies who were doing the henna painting. We’d been given the good oil on that the day before by Michael and James, who’d already done the dune dinner. As the camel rides are the first thing we see when we arrive at the camp, everyone lines up for those immediately, and therefore the henna painting lines become quite long later in the evening. We got our henna done first and could then relax for awhile before we had dinner and went on the camel rides.
I chose to have a floral design painted down from my forearm to the tip of my fingers. The ladies are very skilled at this and they were just delightful. More donations. The henna goes on black with the consistency of toothpaste. It’s a stain, so you need to let it set for about 30 minutes or so, before the top ‘crusts’ (just like toothpaste if you leave the lid off) and falls off. You’re then left with a lovely henna design on your skin. It lasts for about a week. The ink these ladies used was brown, and although I think I would have preferred the maroon or the black, it was still really attractive. We got loads of photos of it so we can remember the experience long after the henna has faded.
At this point, Nathan, God love him, decided he liked several designs, so he kept going back and getting more – snakes, scorpions and the like. Unfortunately the ladies didn’t know how to do a magpie, so we all missed out on having a special Collingwood henna tattoo.
Dinner was a feast of roast meats, salad, tabouleh, hommus and the like. Very nice indeed. As I’m on the dry for Lent, I chose not to have any wine, but the boys were delighted to find that Fosters beer was available, so they got stuck into that.
Mary-Rita, Peter, Grant and I all decided that there was going to be a bit of a queue for the dinner buffet, so this was the perfect time to go for a camel ride. Turns out we were right, as there was nobody else around and we got to go around twice, which was great fun. Our camels were feeling a little boisterous and kept trying to bite each other, but as they had a tea cosy on the end of their snouts, this could have been a bit tricky. Maybe that’s the camel version of jumper punching?
It’s probably not most people’s life-long dream to jump on top of an animal that’s 5 times human size and weighs 20 times your own weight, and try to get it to move at your will when it would rather be lying down sleeping. But hey, we’re in the Arabian desert, it’s night-time, the sky is full of stars and there’s camels to be ridden. Who’s not going to do that??? It was a great experience and our camels were very well behaved under the circumstances. While we were riding around, the words to that old song, “Ahab the Arab” kept going through my mind, which provided me with some secret amusement.
After the ride, we popped back into the tent, grabbed our dinner (without queuing) and settled back at our table. Very fulfilling.
After dinner came the belly dancing display, and loads of people, including our own twinkle toes, Cliffy, got up to dance and shake out the ache. People were having a wonderful time and it was a really lovely evening. Very touristy of course, but you really just have to do it.
At one point all of the lights in the camp were turned off and we could stand around (or lie around) to look up at the stars in the night sky. You really don’t realise how much the city dulls the sky until you’re out in the blackness of the desert or country where you can see the sky clearly. It’s just beautiful. Of course being Australians, the first thing anyone does when they look into the night sky is search for the Southern Cross. So, everyone was busily looking for The Southern Cross and The Saucepan, which prompted some hilariously animated debate as to whether The Saucepan actually forms part of the Southern Cross. At this point several of us started delving back into the deepest recesses of our minds to access the high-school files and remember what we’d been taught. This proved a little difficult for those who’d had a skinful of beer or wine on board. I’ve learned from bitter experience that the deepest recesses of my mind are not a place I like to go alone, as it’s scary down there. From what I can remember of astronomy, The Saucepan is actually the constellation of Orion, it doesn’t form part of the Southern Cross, and the Southern Cross can only be seen in the Southern Hemisphere due to the specific tilting of the earth’s axis. In some very southern parts of the Northern Hemisphere, the Southern Cross can be seen, but it’s very low on the horizon and doesn’t have the same effect as it does for us in Australia. How I can actually remember that off the top of my head completely escapes me, but there you go. Mental note to self – Google it when you have a moment to see if that’s right.
Of course the evening wouldn’t have been complete without a chorus of “Good Old Collingwood Forever”, which was belted out with huge gusto (fuelled I think by alcohol and exhaustion). Many of the Collingwood staffers came along on this excursion so there were even more of us than usual to fly the magpie flag. We had a lovely time talking with Gary Pert (former Fitzroy and Collingwood great player and Collingwood FC board member) about the South African and Dubai trips and the upcoming planned trip to Ireland. Perty is a really great guy and it’s easy to see why he’s been such an asset to the Club.
After a huge day, it’s difficult not to fall asleep in the back of the car, which is precisely what I do. Wake up in time to see some of the city nightscape as we head back to the hotel.
One more round of “Good Old Collingwood Forever” in the elevator on the way up to our floor and then it’s goodnight and off to our rooms to dream of magic flying carpets.
I’ve been looking forward to this desert excursion ever since I booked the trip, and cannot believe that it’s actually happening now.
The desert gets really cold at night, so we rug up in comfortable clothes. Unfortunately the desert doesn’t particularly care about fashion, but I do manage to pop on a bit of a sequin Arabian style top underneath my hoodie, just so I feel a little bit girly. We can’t have the romantic adventure of camel riding under the desert sky completely obliterated by having to wear a tracksuit and runners. That’s just not cricket, although one does really need the tracksuit if one is to avoid hypothermia, which probably would obliterate the romantic adventure faster than a bad hair day.
Our Arabian Adventures driver today is Sunil, a lovely lad who knew that we were over for the Collingwood game, but who also didn’t know a thing about football. Strangely enough, Sunil would also be one of the few Indians on the planet not obsessed with cricket. Of course he knows how to say the words Sachin Tendulkar with precisely the correct inflection and tone of reverence, but that’s about it. I’m immediately suspicious – can a girl trust an Indian who doesn’t love cricket? Well, I guess we’re about to find out.
On the day to the Dubai Desert Conservation Reserve, where we’ll be surfing the sand dunes, the others and I give Sunil a bit of a rundown about how to play AFL and the virtues of Collingwood over all the other AFL clubs. Of course it’s always a bit tricky trying to explain the rules of a behind when it’s actually a beside, and before too long, your man Sunil was completely confused. However, given that he is male after all, that’s to be expected. In the absence of small words and diagrams, there’s not a lot that could be done. I amuse myself by explaining the finer points of ‘jumper punching’ to him and demonstrate using the back of his shirt. Poor Sunil. If he could have opened the door, flung himself from the moving vehicle and run screaming into the desert, never to be seen again, I think he gladly would have done so. However, he was unfailingly polite and assured us that, now he knows all about AFL, he will be sure to watch it whenever he can on TV.
On the way out to the DDCR, which is on the road to Al Ain, we pass the outlet mall, which Sandy, an Australian girl we met at the match, told us about. We beg Sunil desperately to stop there on the way back so that we could forage out some bargains, but he refused, saying that we must adhere completely to the schedule and no unauthorised deviation from that schedule was permitted. I tried the pitiful pleading look and was about to downshift into the ‘crying girl’ persona, but he was totally unmoved. It was pointless wasting precious liquids from my body, so I refrained. Men are such cruel beasts. I commit the outlet mall to memory, knowing that there will be no chance in Hell that we’ll get back there on this trip, but look out for next time. My next trip to Dubai (which I hope will be in horse racing season) will be much longer than this one and will absolutely, positively involve copious amounts of shopping. Oops, I think I can feel interest rates rising again. Best phone the Reserve Bank and have a little chat with the Governor.
But, I digress (shopping will do that). We arrive at the DDCR and are permitted entry. All up tonight there will be about 250 people joining us. Apparently it’s like this every night, with some evenings hosting over 300 people. Who would have thought simple sand could be such a revenue raiser?
Not long after we get inside the reserve, all vehicles stop and the tyres are deflated about half way. This apparently is done to ensure safety whilst we’re careering about the dunes, and stops the cars from rolling. Excellent. Hadn’t even thought about the car possibly rolling until that was pointed out. Think of anything but camels.
Unfortunately also at this point, I realise to my horror that my walnut sized bladder is full to bursting and there’s not a ladies room in sight. I ask Sunil whether there’s a toilet anywhere near by and he calmly points towards a large clump of bushes and smiles at me. At first I think he’s having me on, and I laugh along with him until it dawns on me that, no, he’s not having me on. I’m having myself on apparently, which as we know by now is the usual state of affairs. It’s just as well that I (being a girl with a ‘delicate system’) always travel with a spare packet of tissues and antibacterial hand gel. At this particular moment in time, it’s more precious than water. Mary-Rita needs to go as well, so we warn everyone not to come anywhere near us and head towards the bushes. Mary-Rita finds a safe spot and I act as lookout. However, just as she’s taking care of things, the lovely Nathan decides to wander up a sand dune very close to where we are. He was walking away from us and obviously hadn’t heard us say anything about attending to the call of nature. Nathan has had a tendency to wander off throughout the whole trip, so this was not a surprise, but it was however a particularly inconvenient moment for us ladies. I decide to engage some mental telepathy and send him a clear message - Turn. Around. Now. Nathan. And. You. Will. Be. Killed. Painfully. Luckily, this seems to get through, as he continues along his merry way without causing us any embarrassment. Once Mary-Rita sorted herself out, I decided that perhaps her spot wasn’t so safe after all and I hunted down another more concealed one in the other direction. However, it wasn’t as concealed as I thought, and I was also in grave danger of discovery when another group of people wandered a little too close for comfort. Nothing quite like being caught with your knickers down mid-stream to put the fear of God into you. However, all was well in the end and we escaped unscathed. It brought back memories of being at Entabeni Reserve in South Africa, where each morning we’d go for a pre-sunrise drive in search of the lions. The rangers would load us up with coffee and tea to keep us warm in the early-morning frigidity, so by the time we actually made it to the area where the lions were supposed to be, I was so desperate to pee I could cry. There was a particularly large clump of bushes where everyone would go, and this bush became my friend for 4 days running. I discovered on the last day that the lions were in fact only about 200 metres away on the other side of a large clump of grass trees directly in line with our jeep, and that lions can run 22 metres per second. You don’t need to be Einstein to work out that had a lion been in the mood for a bit of a snack, there'd be barely enough time to raise your head let alone to pull up your knickers before it had ripped out your jugular. Comforting thought that.
However, in this environment we were safe, as I’m certain the camels weren’t any threat to us unless they decided to walk straight over us and crush us to death.
Hop back into the cars and head towards the dunes. Sand dunes are much bigger than they first appear to be, and at times our jeeps were almost vertical. We go pretty fast over these dunes and sometimes the cars are almost going sideways. I was terrified, as I now couldn’t get the thought of the car rolling over out of my head, but it was good fun. It’s a case of “this will be enormous fun if I don’t die in the process”. Of course we were all put to shame when Gladys was squealing like a toddler and having the time of her life. She’s 90.
We had 2 guys in our car, and to preserve their dignity, I won’t say which two. However, one of them was feeling mighty sick, and we had to slow the car down so that he didn’t disgrace himself in front of all the girls. That would be a ribbing he'd never get over. We had a drink stop, at which point Mary-Rita and I decided to change cars and swap places with some of the boys. Unfortunately, our friend did eventually become sick and he was unable to enjoy the evening, spending most of it lying down in the back seat of our jeep.
During the dune ride, we came to the camel farm, where all the camels are housed. We had some photos taken with them. The camel herd told us that we could hug our camel in the photo if we wanted to. I decided that was a great idea, although Mary-Rita wasn’t convinced. She contented herself with just patting its neck while I gave it a hug. However after about 10 seconds of this, the camel spied the water trough and decided to give us the flick. It took off at an impressive rate with me still clinging to its neck, much to the amusement of the camel herd and everyone around us. Good photo though.
We then found the tent where there was a falcon with its keeper. We lined up to get our photos taken with it, but had to do them again as neither Mary-Rita nor myself particularly liked the first round of pictures that were taken. We did end up getting some good photos and realised afterwards that we were supposed to give a donation to the falcon’s keeper. I managed to creep back in and slip some money into the box.
There are also goats kept at the farm and we spied some babies frolicking about. They’re so gorgeous and the goat herd fetched one and brought it over for us to hold. Again, another donation, but it’s a good photo opportunity. Peter took my photo and managed to cut off the top part of my head, but at least we got a close up of the goat. Which goat you might ask?!
After we’d gotten all of our photos and the Bedouins had relieved us of some of our money, we piled back into the cars and reached a point where we could have a stunning sunset experience. All of the cars stopped in one big gathering, and everyone race up the sand dunes (have you ever tied to run up a sand dune? It’s really hard!) to reach the top and grab photos. At this point we spied a tourist group of Japanese all wearing their ‘SARS masks’ – what’s that about??? Have a little chuckle as one Japanese girl fills up an empty bottle with sand so that she can take home some of the Arabian desert. God love the Japanese. They’re such odd little biscuits.
We got some lovely sunset photos and took turns acting the fool by crawling up the dunes like Burke & Wills. It was great fun and those memories are the special ones that life is all about making. One of the things that stands out in my mind is how the sand looks almost like mist as it's being blown about by the wind. It swirls around over the top of the dunes with a life of its own and makes nature-perfect patterns in the rest of the dunes. It's just beautiful and something one could watch for ages if one had the time.
Eventually we arrived at the Bedouin camp where we were to have our dinner. It’s very impressive – large Bedouin tents with long rows of tables and cushions to sit on; lots of gorgeous Persian rugs on the ground (Mary-Rita and I paid close attention to the colours and texture of the rugs in preparation for our ‘carpet shopping’ trip tomorrow); lanterns hanging from various points; a water well; a large cooking area and some very impressive toilet block facilities, made in the style of the ‘wind tower’ buildings we’d seen earlier that day at the Bastakia site.
We settled in to our cushions and immediately headed towards the ladies who were doing the henna painting. We’d been given the good oil on that the day before by Michael and James, who’d already done the dune dinner. As the camel rides are the first thing we see when we arrive at the camp, everyone lines up for those immediately, and therefore the henna painting lines become quite long later in the evening. We got our henna done first and could then relax for awhile before we had dinner and went on the camel rides.
I chose to have a floral design painted down from my forearm to the tip of my fingers. The ladies are very skilled at this and they were just delightful. More donations. The henna goes on black with the consistency of toothpaste. It’s a stain, so you need to let it set for about 30 minutes or so, before the top ‘crusts’ (just like toothpaste if you leave the lid off) and falls off. You’re then left with a lovely henna design on your skin. It lasts for about a week. The ink these ladies used was brown, and although I think I would have preferred the maroon or the black, it was still really attractive. We got loads of photos of it so we can remember the experience long after the henna has faded.
At this point, Nathan, God love him, decided he liked several designs, so he kept going back and getting more – snakes, scorpions and the like. Unfortunately the ladies didn’t know how to do a magpie, so we all missed out on having a special Collingwood henna tattoo.
Dinner was a feast of roast meats, salad, tabouleh, hommus and the like. Very nice indeed. As I’m on the dry for Lent, I chose not to have any wine, but the boys were delighted to find that Fosters beer was available, so they got stuck into that.
Mary-Rita, Peter, Grant and I all decided that there was going to be a bit of a queue for the dinner buffet, so this was the perfect time to go for a camel ride. Turns out we were right, as there was nobody else around and we got to go around twice, which was great fun. Our camels were feeling a little boisterous and kept trying to bite each other, but as they had a tea cosy on the end of their snouts, this could have been a bit tricky. Maybe that’s the camel version of jumper punching?
It’s probably not most people’s life-long dream to jump on top of an animal that’s 5 times human size and weighs 20 times your own weight, and try to get it to move at your will when it would rather be lying down sleeping. But hey, we’re in the Arabian desert, it’s night-time, the sky is full of stars and there’s camels to be ridden. Who’s not going to do that??? It was a great experience and our camels were very well behaved under the circumstances. While we were riding around, the words to that old song, “Ahab the Arab” kept going through my mind, which provided me with some secret amusement.
After the ride, we popped back into the tent, grabbed our dinner (without queuing) and settled back at our table. Very fulfilling.
After dinner came the belly dancing display, and loads of people, including our own twinkle toes, Cliffy, got up to dance and shake out the ache. People were having a wonderful time and it was a really lovely evening. Very touristy of course, but you really just have to do it.
At one point all of the lights in the camp were turned off and we could stand around (or lie around) to look up at the stars in the night sky. You really don’t realise how much the city dulls the sky until you’re out in the blackness of the desert or country where you can see the sky clearly. It’s just beautiful. Of course being Australians, the first thing anyone does when they look into the night sky is search for the Southern Cross. So, everyone was busily looking for The Southern Cross and The Saucepan, which prompted some hilariously animated debate as to whether The Saucepan actually forms part of the Southern Cross. At this point several of us started delving back into the deepest recesses of our minds to access the high-school files and remember what we’d been taught. This proved a little difficult for those who’d had a skinful of beer or wine on board. I’ve learned from bitter experience that the deepest recesses of my mind are not a place I like to go alone, as it’s scary down there. From what I can remember of astronomy, The Saucepan is actually the constellation of Orion, it doesn’t form part of the Southern Cross, and the Southern Cross can only be seen in the Southern Hemisphere due to the specific tilting of the earth’s axis. In some very southern parts of the Northern Hemisphere, the Southern Cross can be seen, but it’s very low on the horizon and doesn’t have the same effect as it does for us in Australia. How I can actually remember that off the top of my head completely escapes me, but there you go. Mental note to self – Google it when you have a moment to see if that’s right.
Of course the evening wouldn’t have been complete without a chorus of “Good Old Collingwood Forever”, which was belted out with huge gusto (fuelled I think by alcohol and exhaustion). Many of the Collingwood staffers came along on this excursion so there were even more of us than usual to fly the magpie flag. We had a lovely time talking with Gary Pert (former Fitzroy and Collingwood great player and Collingwood FC board member) about the South African and Dubai trips and the upcoming planned trip to Ireland. Perty is a really great guy and it’s easy to see why he’s been such an asset to the Club.
After a huge day, it’s difficult not to fall asleep in the back of the car, which is precisely what I do. Wake up in time to see some of the city nightscape as we head back to the hotel.
One more round of “Good Old Collingwood Forever” in the elevator on the way up to our floor and then it’s goodnight and off to our rooms to dream of magic flying carpets.
The City of Gold
The revolving door between consciousness and unconsciousness seems to be spinning faster and faster, and by now we’re running on pure adrenalin and caffeine.
After what feels like 3½ minutes’ sleep, we’re up again to embark on our ‘Dubai – City of Gold’ half day tour. Shower and get ready in times that would have us drug tested at the Olympic Games, before heading downstairs to hoover up the buffet again. It’s rather bizarre to be eating Indian food for breakfast, but the vegetable curry was simply too good to pass up. On top of porridge and fruit, it certainly makes for diversity of gastronomic experience. Now that we’re au fait with the tea situation, I’ve remembered to bring down a few bags of Irish Breakfast.
Today I meet an Australian man who is now living in Qatar with his wife – they’re living there because he has a job with an American university. They come to Dubai for weekends fairly regularly. He was very impressed when I told him about our Collingwood trip, and sympathised with me that we’d gone down to the Crows on the day. The fabulous thing about meeting Australians overseas is that everyone has a story to tell – if you wait and listen long enough, people will say the most fascinating things. He gave me some tips about what to see and what not to bother with, which was great. Each day we’ve managed to collect an assortment of people to talk to, and that has been just incredible.
We race out the door and down to the lobby to discover that, yet again, we’re the last to arrive. We are greeted by applause from our fellow travellers, in response to which we curtsey daintily. Comedians, the lot of them. Hop on the bus and meet our tour guide, Dominique, and our driver, Ragu. Off we go to collect some more people and begin our tour of the city.
Ahlan Wa Sahlan – Welcome to Dubai!
The thing that first strikes one about the city of Dubai is the sheer number of towers clawing their way into the sky. They’re all slightly different, but it’s just like Manhattan on steroids, and I can honestly say that it’s not all that attractive. There’s simply loads of them, without any obvious evidence of planning involved. Dominique told us that she'd been going past the camel racing track for ages each day on her tours and pointing it out to the tourists - then, she goes on holidays for three weeks, and when she returned, poof! The camel track had disappeared and was now a construction site. When we went past the site, there was evidence of something going on, but nobody knows what. Buildings just seem to spring up out of the ground overnight. As the old camel racing track was across the road from the Nadd Al Shiba racing track (where the world's richest horse race is run), there could be something planned to do with that, but again, nobody really knows until the thing is built. Just watch this space for a couple of days and see what comes up.
A girl could easily be forgiven for thinking that she hasn’t seen such an odd assortment of erections since the Canterbury Bulldogs last buck’s night at the Catwalk Club. It’s as though all the architects in Dubai have been taking Viagra whilst on a sex-ban. In between all of these glass erections appear mosques, which are built in the traditional form, and it creates a culture-clash juxtaposition of the old and the new. Quite bizarre to say the least. There are virtually no old buildings now in Dubai, aside from the very few that are preserved for cultural posterity. Everything is new and each week it seems as though it has to be bigger and better than it was the week before.
Apart from the buildings, there’s loads to see and we discover that Dubai has a fascinating history. It’s almost impossible to believe now that only 40-odd years ago, the people of Dubai were living in huts made from palm fronds and they were very poor, with little resources. As we gaze into the distance at the Burj Dubai (the world’s tallest building, still under construction – approximately 600 metres high at present with at least 250 metres to go) and the Burj Al-Arab (the famous 7-star hotel shaped like a sail), I think to myself that oil really is black gold. I’m thinking of the Beverly Hillbillies on a national scale. It’s astonishing, although I have a small chuckle to myself as I imagine Jed Clampett and Miss Daisy in a dishdash and abaya.
Driving through Jumeirah is just extraordinary and we pass all of the palaces of the royal family. The beachfront of Jumeirah is completely reserved for their palaces and nobody else is permitted to build there. Wouldn’t you just love to have that kind of pull that you can do whatever you like?
We stop outside the Madinat Jumeirah, a stunning resort containing 2 hotels, over 40 restaurants, 29 individual ‘summer houses’ and over 850 rooms and suites, all connected via a canal system. It’s often called Venice in Dubai and has been designed to resemble an Arabian citadel. It’s so gorgeous it almost defies competent description.
From the Madinat, there are excellent opportunities to take photos of the Burj Al-Arab, rising majestically in the background. Lots of snapping away happening, and we get a couple of great group photos taken as well. Unless one is staying at the Burj Al-Arab or has reservations for lunch, High Tea or dinner, one cannot simply roll up there and have a look around. I guess that’s the privilege of being a 7-star hotel.
We went to have an outside look at the Jumeirah Mosque, the only mosque in Dubai that is open to visitors, although at specific times on specific days. The mosque is an impressive looking building and it would have been lovely to see it inside, but it wasn’t to be for us.
We spent quite a lot of time in the Dubai Museum, which is really well worth a visit. So much to take in that you’d really need several hours there, but we whizzed through as quickly as we could. Just fascinating.
We also got to see the Bastakia, the old wind-towered houses which were the first solid houses to be constructed in Dubai. Only very few of the original houses remain, and they have been preserved for the purpose of cultural heritage. The wind towers were the predecessors to air-conditioning and the locals are obviously very proud of their achievements here.
We ended up taking an abra across Dubai Creek towards the souks. Travelling down the waterway was really interesting and reminded me in many ways of being in Hong Kong. We got to see all the old cargo boats unloading their wares – this is still done by hand, and amazingly, all the cargo sits on the docks (usually uncovered) for up to two or three weeks at a time, without anyone touching it. Crime in Dubai is almost non-existent, and one feels very safe there.
We arrive at the souk area and I can just feel my shopping genes literally jumping for joy at the anticipation of it all. I’m in the mood for some jewellery. First of all though we have to look at the spice souks, which are really colourful and exotic, but there’s not too much point in looking, as we can’t bring back any of the spices into Australia. It's a pity really, as we saw some large containers of saffron which would have been excellent to bring back and they were so cheap we could almost cry. Literally the tiniest fraction of the cost of saffron in Australia. If you've ever bought saffron, you'll know that you can only get it in containers the size of postage stamps and it costs about as much as a pair of shoes on sale.
We make our way into the gold souk as quickly as possible, and Dominique gives us some valuable tips about buying gold in Dubai. It’s almost like Race Around the World though, and as soon as she’s finished, we’re off and running up the street in search of some treasures. To do research here in the short time we have available would seriously send one mad, so we simply choose a shop that has attractive window displays of the kind of jewellery we’d like, and we go in. Very quickly find some things we’d like and start the negotiation process. Mary-Rita ends up being quite the haggler, and she gets a bracelet for a really good price. I’m after a bit more, and look at some diamonds and a couple of bracelets. As we’re short on time, I didn’t bargain as long and hard as I should have, but it’s all a bit late for that now. The shopkeeper tells me that it will only take 10-15 minutes to resize the ring I’ve bought. Of course he’s lying, the filthy swine and he keeps me waiting well past the time that we’re supposed to be back with the group. I jump up and down and get very cross until finally he says that they’ll bring the ring to the hotel later that afternoon. I’m flustered and cranky by the time we rejoin the group, but there wasn’t much to be done for it by then. I’ll tell you this though. I’m having all of the jewellery valued as soon as possible, and if it doesn’t come up to scratch, I’ll be plastering that swindling bastard’s name all over the internet. Of course if it does come up to par value, I’ll be just delighted and will recommend your man to all and sundry. Men really should learn that women are fickle creatures and you really don’t want to mess with us. We get ugly when provoked, particularly when jewellery and shoes are involved. Most women will happily commit murder for diamonds and shoes and not have a skerrick of a conscience about it - or is that just me? No, I'm sure my sisters will all agree that it's not.
Still fuming about that wretched jeweller, we make our way hastily back to the bus and trek back to the various hotels through Dubai’s appalling traffic, which seems to get thicker and slower by the minute. Just like men, actually when a girl stops to think about it. Arrive back at the hotel just in time to have a quick change of clothes and a spot to eat in our special private lounge.
Tonight, we’re off to the desert. Can’t wait for that one.
After what feels like 3½ minutes’ sleep, we’re up again to embark on our ‘Dubai – City of Gold’ half day tour. Shower and get ready in times that would have us drug tested at the Olympic Games, before heading downstairs to hoover up the buffet again. It’s rather bizarre to be eating Indian food for breakfast, but the vegetable curry was simply too good to pass up. On top of porridge and fruit, it certainly makes for diversity of gastronomic experience. Now that we’re au fait with the tea situation, I’ve remembered to bring down a few bags of Irish Breakfast.
Today I meet an Australian man who is now living in Qatar with his wife – they’re living there because he has a job with an American university. They come to Dubai for weekends fairly regularly. He was very impressed when I told him about our Collingwood trip, and sympathised with me that we’d gone down to the Crows on the day. The fabulous thing about meeting Australians overseas is that everyone has a story to tell – if you wait and listen long enough, people will say the most fascinating things. He gave me some tips about what to see and what not to bother with, which was great. Each day we’ve managed to collect an assortment of people to talk to, and that has been just incredible.
We race out the door and down to the lobby to discover that, yet again, we’re the last to arrive. We are greeted by applause from our fellow travellers, in response to which we curtsey daintily. Comedians, the lot of them. Hop on the bus and meet our tour guide, Dominique, and our driver, Ragu. Off we go to collect some more people and begin our tour of the city.
Ahlan Wa Sahlan – Welcome to Dubai!
The thing that first strikes one about the city of Dubai is the sheer number of towers clawing their way into the sky. They’re all slightly different, but it’s just like Manhattan on steroids, and I can honestly say that it’s not all that attractive. There’s simply loads of them, without any obvious evidence of planning involved. Dominique told us that she'd been going past the camel racing track for ages each day on her tours and pointing it out to the tourists - then, she goes on holidays for three weeks, and when she returned, poof! The camel track had disappeared and was now a construction site. When we went past the site, there was evidence of something going on, but nobody knows what. Buildings just seem to spring up out of the ground overnight. As the old camel racing track was across the road from the Nadd Al Shiba racing track (where the world's richest horse race is run), there could be something planned to do with that, but again, nobody really knows until the thing is built. Just watch this space for a couple of days and see what comes up.
A girl could easily be forgiven for thinking that she hasn’t seen such an odd assortment of erections since the Canterbury Bulldogs last buck’s night at the Catwalk Club. It’s as though all the architects in Dubai have been taking Viagra whilst on a sex-ban. In between all of these glass erections appear mosques, which are built in the traditional form, and it creates a culture-clash juxtaposition of the old and the new. Quite bizarre to say the least. There are virtually no old buildings now in Dubai, aside from the very few that are preserved for cultural posterity. Everything is new and each week it seems as though it has to be bigger and better than it was the week before.
Apart from the buildings, there’s loads to see and we discover that Dubai has a fascinating history. It’s almost impossible to believe now that only 40-odd years ago, the people of Dubai were living in huts made from palm fronds and they were very poor, with little resources. As we gaze into the distance at the Burj Dubai (the world’s tallest building, still under construction – approximately 600 metres high at present with at least 250 metres to go) and the Burj Al-Arab (the famous 7-star hotel shaped like a sail), I think to myself that oil really is black gold. I’m thinking of the Beverly Hillbillies on a national scale. It’s astonishing, although I have a small chuckle to myself as I imagine Jed Clampett and Miss Daisy in a dishdash and abaya.
Driving through Jumeirah is just extraordinary and we pass all of the palaces of the royal family. The beachfront of Jumeirah is completely reserved for their palaces and nobody else is permitted to build there. Wouldn’t you just love to have that kind of pull that you can do whatever you like?
We stop outside the Madinat Jumeirah, a stunning resort containing 2 hotels, over 40 restaurants, 29 individual ‘summer houses’ and over 850 rooms and suites, all connected via a canal system. It’s often called Venice in Dubai and has been designed to resemble an Arabian citadel. It’s so gorgeous it almost defies competent description.
From the Madinat, there are excellent opportunities to take photos of the Burj Al-Arab, rising majestically in the background. Lots of snapping away happening, and we get a couple of great group photos taken as well. Unless one is staying at the Burj Al-Arab or has reservations for lunch, High Tea or dinner, one cannot simply roll up there and have a look around. I guess that’s the privilege of being a 7-star hotel.
We went to have an outside look at the Jumeirah Mosque, the only mosque in Dubai that is open to visitors, although at specific times on specific days. The mosque is an impressive looking building and it would have been lovely to see it inside, but it wasn’t to be for us.
We spent quite a lot of time in the Dubai Museum, which is really well worth a visit. So much to take in that you’d really need several hours there, but we whizzed through as quickly as we could. Just fascinating.
We also got to see the Bastakia, the old wind-towered houses which were the first solid houses to be constructed in Dubai. Only very few of the original houses remain, and they have been preserved for the purpose of cultural heritage. The wind towers were the predecessors to air-conditioning and the locals are obviously very proud of their achievements here.
We ended up taking an abra across Dubai Creek towards the souks. Travelling down the waterway was really interesting and reminded me in many ways of being in Hong Kong. We got to see all the old cargo boats unloading their wares – this is still done by hand, and amazingly, all the cargo sits on the docks (usually uncovered) for up to two or three weeks at a time, without anyone touching it. Crime in Dubai is almost non-existent, and one feels very safe there.
We arrive at the souk area and I can just feel my shopping genes literally jumping for joy at the anticipation of it all. I’m in the mood for some jewellery. First of all though we have to look at the spice souks, which are really colourful and exotic, but there’s not too much point in looking, as we can’t bring back any of the spices into Australia. It's a pity really, as we saw some large containers of saffron which would have been excellent to bring back and they were so cheap we could almost cry. Literally the tiniest fraction of the cost of saffron in Australia. If you've ever bought saffron, you'll know that you can only get it in containers the size of postage stamps and it costs about as much as a pair of shoes on sale.
We make our way into the gold souk as quickly as possible, and Dominique gives us some valuable tips about buying gold in Dubai. It’s almost like Race Around the World though, and as soon as she’s finished, we’re off and running up the street in search of some treasures. To do research here in the short time we have available would seriously send one mad, so we simply choose a shop that has attractive window displays of the kind of jewellery we’d like, and we go in. Very quickly find some things we’d like and start the negotiation process. Mary-Rita ends up being quite the haggler, and she gets a bracelet for a really good price. I’m after a bit more, and look at some diamonds and a couple of bracelets. As we’re short on time, I didn’t bargain as long and hard as I should have, but it’s all a bit late for that now. The shopkeeper tells me that it will only take 10-15 minutes to resize the ring I’ve bought. Of course he’s lying, the filthy swine and he keeps me waiting well past the time that we’re supposed to be back with the group. I jump up and down and get very cross until finally he says that they’ll bring the ring to the hotel later that afternoon. I’m flustered and cranky by the time we rejoin the group, but there wasn’t much to be done for it by then. I’ll tell you this though. I’m having all of the jewellery valued as soon as possible, and if it doesn’t come up to scratch, I’ll be plastering that swindling bastard’s name all over the internet. Of course if it does come up to par value, I’ll be just delighted and will recommend your man to all and sundry. Men really should learn that women are fickle creatures and you really don’t want to mess with us. We get ugly when provoked, particularly when jewellery and shoes are involved. Most women will happily commit murder for diamonds and shoes and not have a skerrick of a conscience about it - or is that just me? No, I'm sure my sisters will all agree that it's not.
Still fuming about that wretched jeweller, we make our way hastily back to the bus and trek back to the various hotels through Dubai’s appalling traffic, which seems to get thicker and slower by the minute. Just like men, actually when a girl stops to think about it. Arrive back at the hotel just in time to have a quick change of clothes and a spot to eat in our special private lounge.
Tonight, we’re off to the desert. Can’t wait for that one.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Pies v Crows – The Battle Is On
Match day dawns and we’re up reasonably early under the circumstances. Believe it or not, we actually put on our sweats and head to the gym. A couple of kilometres on the walking machine before we hit the bicycles and cycle half way to Boston. Get off the bike and promptly collapse on the floor, too exhausted to move. Yeah, that feels great.
Nothing quite like a sunrise Arabian style. We watch the sun come up as we're working out, and before too long, the golden glow engulfs the whole city as the rays bounce off the glass panels of the squillion towers surrounding us.
Get ourselves dressed and downstairs to La Cité restaurant where breakfast is served. As Dubai is a melting pot of nationalities, the cuisine is likewise varied. We eye off several enticing dishes and gird our loins for the gastronomic feast about to be served.
The first problem though is a good cup of tea. Unfortunately, the hotel doesn’t seem to have picked up on the fact that Twinings Irish Breakfast is really the only tea a girl can face after a big day. Before too long, there are three full cups of insipid looking dishwater quietly pushed to the edge of the table before I cave in and fetch a teabag from my own personal handbag stash. I request some hot water and finally get to enjoy a proper brew. Heaven!
After inhaling most of the buffet, including the most divine Indian spinach and tofu vegetable curry, we make our way back upstairs to get organised to leave for the match. Although the match doesn’t start until 2:00pm, we’ve been told that the bus is collecting us at 10:00am.
We rush downstairs to find everybody else already there and waiting. Board the bus and do the pickup from the remaining hotels, including the hotel where the Pies are staying. We see a whole load of them out the front and this provides a temporary pick-me-up for us all.
We wave at all the Crows players and entourage from our bus, and get to chat briefly with Mark Ricciuto. He’s truly a lovely fellow and it’s wonderful to hear that he’s recently been married. He said that since he wasn’t playing footy any longer, he’d run out of excuses not to walk down the aisle, so he just had to do it in the end. Good for him, and I hope that he enjoys a long and happy marriage.
By the time we reach Ghantoot, there are cars and buses everywhere and the carpark is absolutely overflowing with chaos. Unlike yesterday where our bus dropped us off directly in front of the stands, this time we’re dropped off a mile away and have to walk quite a distance to get in. My gorgeous Collingwood heels (beautiful black slingbacks with a white stripe – stylish but totally not for walking in) are covered in sand and dust. Security is impressive, and we’re given colour-coded wristbands to distinguish between plebs and celebs.
Lots of promotional activities happening, with both South Australia and Melbourne plugging away their respective virtues to all-comers. Lots of sponsorship signage everywhere. Even SPC is in on the action. It’s all happening at the fair, folks.
It’s absolutely roasting with nowhere to shelter from the sun, and we wander around aimlessly to check out the grandstands. The place looks a little different to yesterday, as the construction was finished and there’s an air of excitement about it all. We were chuffed to see all the expat Aussies coming out of the woodwork in their respective team colours, and it wouldn’t be far off the mark to say that just about every AFL team had a fan representing them in some way. There were jerseys from loads of teams. We spotted a Lions jersey and were thrilled to find a Brisbane girl and her husband, who have been living in Dubai now for about 11 years. They’d like to come home but the money they’re earning is simply too good to walk away from just at this point in time so they’re committed to Dubai for a bit longer yet.
We still have about 2 hours to kill before the match starts and there’s absolutely nothing to do except wander around looking for Aussies to talk to and extract shopping tips from. Luckily, this is not a difficult task and we are armed to the hilt with useful information by the time the siren sounds for the first quarter.
The Pies and Crows both hit the field and it’s game on. The Crows immediately take charge and lead for the whole game. Unfortunately, there’s no famous Collingwood third quarter comeback and the Crows beat us soundly. After much discussion and argument, we decided that the word ‘thrashing’ didn’t quite apply as the loss was by less than 100 points (but only just). It was certainly a whipping, and instead of a murder of crows, we had to eat crow. Not tasty. However, in the style of the true Collingwood Faithful, we consoled ourselves with the knowledge that anyone can go and see Collingwood lose a match at the MCG, but it takes an especially dedicated follower to travel half way around the world to watch them lose. I’ll never again feel as though I’m going a long way to see them in Melbourne.
Full congratulations go to the Crows, who played beautifully on the day. They should have been proud of their performance.
The positive that came out of the game was that the Pies sustained no injuries, despite some pretty rough play at times. This is a huge bonus heading into the season proper and nobody on the coaching staff seemed too concerned about the loss. We all know that Collingwood had a pretty ordinary pre-season last year and look where we ended up. Although it would have been nice to win, we were just excited to be there for the unique experience.
A highlight of the day was seeing two Aussie guys and a couple of their mates dressed identically in a specially made Collingwood dishdash with matching gufta. Hilarious! They were a focal point of attention for everyone, even the opposition.
Another funny moment was when another Aussie guy turned up in a green and gold dishdash. It makes you love being an Australian. We’ll find a way to take the mickey out of anyone, anywhere, any time, without going too far over the bounds of cultural offence. Everyone loved it and the crowd was mostly well behaved and in great form. It was probably a great thing that there was no alcohol allowed on the day, as the sun would have fermented some of those guys into early insanity.
We rounded up our bruised and weary troops and headed for the bus. There was an after-party scheduled for Le Meridien later on, but a few of us in our group decided to give that a miss and head out to calmer waters.
We enjoyed a few cold beverages outside on the terrace of the hotel before we realised it was about 9pm and we’d best be in search of somewhere to eat. After much consideration, we ended up at the Dubai Creek Golf and Yacht Club, which is just beautiful, and even better, just across the road from our hotel (sunstroke will do that to one’s decision making skills). However due to the chaotic 7-lane highway that separated us, it was impossible to just whip across the road without fear of becoming instant roadkill, and we were reluctantly forced to seek a cab to get there, as we weren’t sure exactly where we were going. Needless to say, the cab driver was less than enamoured of us by the time he managed to eject us at our destination.
Despite its name, The Steakhouse is the club’s fine dining restaurant and we certainly had a meal worthy of any member of the Middle Eastern royalty. The walls were adorned with pictures of sporting greats, such as Michael Jordan and Tiger Woods who have frequented the premises, so we figured it would be OK. The wine cellar has to be seen to be believed and we basked in the affluence of our surroundings until we literally couldn’t keep our eyes open any longer. We decided not to torture any more cab drivers and thought we’d make it home easily with a brisk walk. The boys led us down more than one garden path before we found a few dead ends and had to skip through the foliage to get back onto the main driveway leading from the clubhouse. Men and shortcuts – what’s that about????? We had a potentially scary moment as a massive sprinkler system popped into life just as we decided to traverse the green, however we managed to avoid a good soaking by the skin of our teeth. Given that it was less than 15 degrees outside at the time, we were more grateful for this than I could possibly explain.
Eventually we made it back to the hotel, even safely navigating the highway. Not a bad feat all up. Showers and off to the Land of Nod. Tomorrow's going to be another big day.
Day 2 down – 3 to go. Like sands through the hourglass, these are the days of our lives.
Nothing quite like a sunrise Arabian style. We watch the sun come up as we're working out, and before too long, the golden glow engulfs the whole city as the rays bounce off the glass panels of the squillion towers surrounding us.
Get ourselves dressed and downstairs to La Cité restaurant where breakfast is served. As Dubai is a melting pot of nationalities, the cuisine is likewise varied. We eye off several enticing dishes and gird our loins for the gastronomic feast about to be served.
The first problem though is a good cup of tea. Unfortunately, the hotel doesn’t seem to have picked up on the fact that Twinings Irish Breakfast is really the only tea a girl can face after a big day. Before too long, there are three full cups of insipid looking dishwater quietly pushed to the edge of the table before I cave in and fetch a teabag from my own personal handbag stash. I request some hot water and finally get to enjoy a proper brew. Heaven!
After inhaling most of the buffet, including the most divine Indian spinach and tofu vegetable curry, we make our way back upstairs to get organised to leave for the match. Although the match doesn’t start until 2:00pm, we’ve been told that the bus is collecting us at 10:00am.
We rush downstairs to find everybody else already there and waiting. Board the bus and do the pickup from the remaining hotels, including the hotel where the Pies are staying. We see a whole load of them out the front and this provides a temporary pick-me-up for us all.
We wave at all the Crows players and entourage from our bus, and get to chat briefly with Mark Ricciuto. He’s truly a lovely fellow and it’s wonderful to hear that he’s recently been married. He said that since he wasn’t playing footy any longer, he’d run out of excuses not to walk down the aisle, so he just had to do it in the end. Good for him, and I hope that he enjoys a long and happy marriage.
By the time we reach Ghantoot, there are cars and buses everywhere and the carpark is absolutely overflowing with chaos. Unlike yesterday where our bus dropped us off directly in front of the stands, this time we’re dropped off a mile away and have to walk quite a distance to get in. My gorgeous Collingwood heels (beautiful black slingbacks with a white stripe – stylish but totally not for walking in) are covered in sand and dust. Security is impressive, and we’re given colour-coded wristbands to distinguish between plebs and celebs.
Lots of promotional activities happening, with both South Australia and Melbourne plugging away their respective virtues to all-comers. Lots of sponsorship signage everywhere. Even SPC is in on the action. It’s all happening at the fair, folks.
It’s absolutely roasting with nowhere to shelter from the sun, and we wander around aimlessly to check out the grandstands. The place looks a little different to yesterday, as the construction was finished and there’s an air of excitement about it all. We were chuffed to see all the expat Aussies coming out of the woodwork in their respective team colours, and it wouldn’t be far off the mark to say that just about every AFL team had a fan representing them in some way. There were jerseys from loads of teams. We spotted a Lions jersey and were thrilled to find a Brisbane girl and her husband, who have been living in Dubai now for about 11 years. They’d like to come home but the money they’re earning is simply too good to walk away from just at this point in time so they’re committed to Dubai for a bit longer yet.
We still have about 2 hours to kill before the match starts and there’s absolutely nothing to do except wander around looking for Aussies to talk to and extract shopping tips from. Luckily, this is not a difficult task and we are armed to the hilt with useful information by the time the siren sounds for the first quarter.
The Pies and Crows both hit the field and it’s game on. The Crows immediately take charge and lead for the whole game. Unfortunately, there’s no famous Collingwood third quarter comeback and the Crows beat us soundly. After much discussion and argument, we decided that the word ‘thrashing’ didn’t quite apply as the loss was by less than 100 points (but only just). It was certainly a whipping, and instead of a murder of crows, we had to eat crow. Not tasty. However, in the style of the true Collingwood Faithful, we consoled ourselves with the knowledge that anyone can go and see Collingwood lose a match at the MCG, but it takes an especially dedicated follower to travel half way around the world to watch them lose. I’ll never again feel as though I’m going a long way to see them in Melbourne.
Full congratulations go to the Crows, who played beautifully on the day. They should have been proud of their performance.
The positive that came out of the game was that the Pies sustained no injuries, despite some pretty rough play at times. This is a huge bonus heading into the season proper and nobody on the coaching staff seemed too concerned about the loss. We all know that Collingwood had a pretty ordinary pre-season last year and look where we ended up. Although it would have been nice to win, we were just excited to be there for the unique experience.
A highlight of the day was seeing two Aussie guys and a couple of their mates dressed identically in a specially made Collingwood dishdash with matching gufta. Hilarious! They were a focal point of attention for everyone, even the opposition.
Another funny moment was when another Aussie guy turned up in a green and gold dishdash. It makes you love being an Australian. We’ll find a way to take the mickey out of anyone, anywhere, any time, without going too far over the bounds of cultural offence. Everyone loved it and the crowd was mostly well behaved and in great form. It was probably a great thing that there was no alcohol allowed on the day, as the sun would have fermented some of those guys into early insanity.
We rounded up our bruised and weary troops and headed for the bus. There was an after-party scheduled for Le Meridien later on, but a few of us in our group decided to give that a miss and head out to calmer waters.
We enjoyed a few cold beverages outside on the terrace of the hotel before we realised it was about 9pm and we’d best be in search of somewhere to eat. After much consideration, we ended up at the Dubai Creek Golf and Yacht Club, which is just beautiful, and even better, just across the road from our hotel (sunstroke will do that to one’s decision making skills). However due to the chaotic 7-lane highway that separated us, it was impossible to just whip across the road without fear of becoming instant roadkill, and we were reluctantly forced to seek a cab to get there, as we weren’t sure exactly where we were going. Needless to say, the cab driver was less than enamoured of us by the time he managed to eject us at our destination.
Despite its name, The Steakhouse is the club’s fine dining restaurant and we certainly had a meal worthy of any member of the Middle Eastern royalty. The walls were adorned with pictures of sporting greats, such as Michael Jordan and Tiger Woods who have frequented the premises, so we figured it would be OK. The wine cellar has to be seen to be believed and we basked in the affluence of our surroundings until we literally couldn’t keep our eyes open any longer. We decided not to torture any more cab drivers and thought we’d make it home easily with a brisk walk. The boys led us down more than one garden path before we found a few dead ends and had to skip through the foliage to get back onto the main driveway leading from the clubhouse. Men and shortcuts – what’s that about????? We had a potentially scary moment as a massive sprinkler system popped into life just as we decided to traverse the green, however we managed to avoid a good soaking by the skin of our teeth. Given that it was less than 15 degrees outside at the time, we were more grateful for this than I could possibly explain.
Eventually we made it back to the hotel, even safely navigating the highway. Not a bad feat all up. Showers and off to the Land of Nod. Tomorrow's going to be another big day.
Day 2 down – 3 to go. Like sands through the hourglass, these are the days of our lives.
The Boys Are Back In Town
We’d been given about 30 minutes or so to refresh ourselves and meet in the foyer.
Mary-Rita and I are the last to arrive back downstairs, which unfortunately sets a disturbing precedent for the next 4 days. Everyone else is waiting by the time we rush downstairs, flushed and flustered.
We hop onto a bus and head off to some other hotels to collect the remaining members of the Collingwood group. After driving around to a couple of them, we realise with great satisfaction that we seem to have chosen wisely and that the Sofitel is among the pick of the hotels in the city. It is situated virtually on top of the Deira Centre, a massive shopping mall approximately the size of Bundaberg. My eyes glaze over as I anticipate the shopping Mecca that awaits me on our return from the training session.
Originally the match was to have been played at the Dubai Equestrian and Polo Club, but unfortunately, due to the field being ploughed into a quagmire, a change of venue was required. We head out to Ghantoot Polo Club where the match is to take place tomorrow. It’s about an hour’s drive from our hotel, but on a positive note, we get to see quite a bit of the city and surrounds on our way there.
We drive down Sheikh Zayed Road, with which we will become all too familiar in the coming days. It’s massively long, completely flat and bordered on both sides by sand, spinifex and cranes. The occasional camel wandering around breaks the monotony of the scenery.
We arrive at Ghantoot, which borders Abu Dhabi from Dubai. In honour of the match, a special football ground was created, complete with construction of grandstands for the spectators. Things were still being constructed (such as the scoreboard) when we arrived, but we were grateful for a chance to wander around on the field and soak up the atmosphere.
When we arrived the Crows were finishing off their training session, and all of us agreed (upon later reflection and discussion) that those boys looked in fine form. They were as fresh as daisies and ready to go. Their coaches and staff looked relaxed and pretty happy.
Gradually, the Magpies started to appear out of the dressing sheds, resplendent in specially made red training jerseys. Cliff, Nathan, Grant and Peter immediately started looking around for the marketing people to find out how they could get one for themselves. I immediately start looking around for Brodie Holland and wondering how I can get one of him for myself. It was absolutely a case of “Mr Wonderful…….Who??” as the Pies gathered en masse.
Just as I’m scanning the field for a sight of Brodie, a familiar blond head draws my attention, and I’m on it like a shark on a blood scent. BUCKS!
Being a Queenslander means that if you’re a Collingwood member/supporter, you tend to miss out on all the excitement of what’s going on in Melbourne. AFL does not have quite the religious reverence that it does in our southern sister city, so I was completely unaware that Bucks (that’s Nathan Buckley, wearer of No 5, former Captain, Collingwood great and all-round sporting legend for those of you heathens who don’t know of him) was joining the Dubai tour. He’s commentating for Channel 7 and whipped out to have a gander at the boys in training.
I suddenly realise that I’m having an out of body experience and am, in actual irrefutable fact, standing ‘beside myself’. As this dawns on me, I glance across at my other self and realise that she’s gone and done the gaping trout look again, and it’s not a good look at that – I silently Christen myself ‘trout-face’ for the rest of the tour and quietly die inside from the embarrassment.
I surreptitiously take some photos of Bucks before Jeff Clifton, one of our group members and former Collingwood workhorse himself, suggests that I get a photo taken with Bucks. He arranges it, and next thing I know, there I am with Bucks posing for posterity. It was all I could do not to genuflect in front of him, but thankfully managed to restrain myself. This is all a blur of course and I only know that there’s a photo in existence because I’ve seen it. Mary-Rita joins in the action and we get a photo together with Bucks. Even for an ardent Lions supporter such as Mary-Rita, the presence of Bucks among us has a special effect. Such is his presence she’s now also pleased that she decided to venture half way around the world for the experience of supporting Collingwood.
I am most satisfied to report that retirement hasn’t affected Captain Buckley’s physique in any way at this point in time, and he has retained every single one of those qualities inherent in a god-like body. Aside from his Olympian features, Bucks is also a really great guy and lovely to talk with. He’s enjoying himself, making the most of the Dubai trip and his new role with Channel 7.
Next on the list for Trout Face to gape at was number 23 legend, Anthony Rocca. Thankfully, I live in Queensland and am unlikely to encounter him again, as the first words out of my mouth as he comes over for the photo are “Oh My God, you’re massive!” Nice work – I swear I’m a deep shade of beetroot red in the photos.
Mary-Rita spies Brad Scott – former Lion and now Assistant Coach for Collingwood. We have a chat with him and also get some photos taken (….turning Japanese, I think I’m turning Japanese, I really think so, dada dada da da da…..). Shares in Canon have just skyrocketed and the Japanese economy lives to fight another day. Mary-Rita cannot believe Brad Scott’s gone to the Pies and eyes him suspiciously as though she’s discovered he’s Darth Vader in human form. I, of course, congratulate him on seeing the light and joining the good guys – better late than never. I have a theory that every AFL player in the nation wants to play for Collingwood and they only bag the Pies through lip service until they become anointed as one of The Chosen. Once one has played for Collingwood, there’s no going back. It’s like Highlander – There Can Be Only One!
Our most senior group member, Gladys, gets a photo with Leon Davis, her ‘pin up boy’. A few of us also snap away at Gladys and Leon, savouring this moment for future memories. It's a generational snapsnot to warm the cockles of any heart. Gladys is like a kid in a candy store and we’re all just as excited as each other to be able to mingle with the players. I can honestly say that they don’t make them like Gladys any more. She is such a trooper and has more energy than some people a third of her age. She’s an inspiration to us all and we love her. Same goes for Elsie, Bill and Cliff – it’s wonderful to see such energy in people, and all of them believe that age is only a number and has no bearing whatsoever on a person’s attitude to life. If only the entire Y-Gen would take notes and live life as people such as Gladys, Cliff, Elsie and Bill do, we’d all be much better off. These people are truly a delight to be around and I’m humbled to be in their company.
We hang out with the Pies for a while longer and watch their training session. It’s a gorgeous morning and we’re enjoying every minute of it. Let’s hope the match tomorrow is a success for all. I’m still scanning the scene looking for Brodie Holland before I’m informed of the sad news that Brodie is still in South Africa and won’t be playing with the team tomorrow. I’m disappointed, but there are plenty of consolation prizes happening before me so the wound isn’t too deep.
It’s a warm day and the boys are a little on the warm side after they’ve finished their workout. Jerseys come off and the sight of many a sculpted, glistening torso within touching distance is enough to put a spring into any girl’s step. Oh Thank You God.
All too soon however, our small personal piece of Nirvana comes to an end and we reluctantly board the bus for the trip back to the city. We're all on a high - whether that's from sheer sleep deprivation and jet lag or hormonal imbalance remains to be seen, but, we're almost delirious with excitement.
We arrive back at the hotel and proceed upstairs to our personal lounge where a tasty buffet awaits us. Spend a couple of hours grazing like bovines and admiring the city view before we decide we’ve got the energy to tackle Deira City.
Shop up a storm for what seems like eternity, before we comprehend that we’ve only touched the tip of the iceberg in terms of size of the complex and that we’d need a solid week of specifically dedicated shopping time to fit it all in. Retire graciously to our room for a small rest before we scout out some options for dinner. We’ve been going non-stop since we arrived, and on top of a 16-hour flight to get there, it’s been a very, very long couple of days with little sleep.
Some of the group are off to the Collingwood dinner, although I opted not to go to this, as the players weren't appearing and I thought we'd simply be too exhausted to pay attention. Nothing more humiliating than paying several hundred dollars to go to a dinner and then falling asleep face first in the pumpkin soup.
We decide that we’re just too exhausted to be bothered wandering too far from home, so the Level 2 hotel restaurants seem like a fabulous idea. There’s a gorgeous fine dining restaurant called The Villa in our hotel, where we enjoy exquisite French food and superior service from the staff.
Finish dinner, return to our room, hit the showers and collapse into our beds. Mercifully, they’re so comfortable it’s like sleeping in a cloud. Black out.
End of Day 1 - one down, four to follow. GO PIES!
Mary-Rita and I are the last to arrive back downstairs, which unfortunately sets a disturbing precedent for the next 4 days. Everyone else is waiting by the time we rush downstairs, flushed and flustered.
We hop onto a bus and head off to some other hotels to collect the remaining members of the Collingwood group. After driving around to a couple of them, we realise with great satisfaction that we seem to have chosen wisely and that the Sofitel is among the pick of the hotels in the city. It is situated virtually on top of the Deira Centre, a massive shopping mall approximately the size of Bundaberg. My eyes glaze over as I anticipate the shopping Mecca that awaits me on our return from the training session.
Originally the match was to have been played at the Dubai Equestrian and Polo Club, but unfortunately, due to the field being ploughed into a quagmire, a change of venue was required. We head out to Ghantoot Polo Club where the match is to take place tomorrow. It’s about an hour’s drive from our hotel, but on a positive note, we get to see quite a bit of the city and surrounds on our way there.
We drive down Sheikh Zayed Road, with which we will become all too familiar in the coming days. It’s massively long, completely flat and bordered on both sides by sand, spinifex and cranes. The occasional camel wandering around breaks the monotony of the scenery.
We arrive at Ghantoot, which borders Abu Dhabi from Dubai. In honour of the match, a special football ground was created, complete with construction of grandstands for the spectators. Things were still being constructed (such as the scoreboard) when we arrived, but we were grateful for a chance to wander around on the field and soak up the atmosphere.
When we arrived the Crows were finishing off their training session, and all of us agreed (upon later reflection and discussion) that those boys looked in fine form. They were as fresh as daisies and ready to go. Their coaches and staff looked relaxed and pretty happy.
Gradually, the Magpies started to appear out of the dressing sheds, resplendent in specially made red training jerseys. Cliff, Nathan, Grant and Peter immediately started looking around for the marketing people to find out how they could get one for themselves. I immediately start looking around for Brodie Holland and wondering how I can get one of him for myself. It was absolutely a case of “Mr Wonderful…….Who??” as the Pies gathered en masse.
Just as I’m scanning the field for a sight of Brodie, a familiar blond head draws my attention, and I’m on it like a shark on a blood scent. BUCKS!
Being a Queenslander means that if you’re a Collingwood member/supporter, you tend to miss out on all the excitement of what’s going on in Melbourne. AFL does not have quite the religious reverence that it does in our southern sister city, so I was completely unaware that Bucks (that’s Nathan Buckley, wearer of No 5, former Captain, Collingwood great and all-round sporting legend for those of you heathens who don’t know of him) was joining the Dubai tour. He’s commentating for Channel 7 and whipped out to have a gander at the boys in training.
I suddenly realise that I’m having an out of body experience and am, in actual irrefutable fact, standing ‘beside myself’. As this dawns on me, I glance across at my other self and realise that she’s gone and done the gaping trout look again, and it’s not a good look at that – I silently Christen myself ‘trout-face’ for the rest of the tour and quietly die inside from the embarrassment.
I surreptitiously take some photos of Bucks before Jeff Clifton, one of our group members and former Collingwood workhorse himself, suggests that I get a photo taken with Bucks. He arranges it, and next thing I know, there I am with Bucks posing for posterity. It was all I could do not to genuflect in front of him, but thankfully managed to restrain myself. This is all a blur of course and I only know that there’s a photo in existence because I’ve seen it. Mary-Rita joins in the action and we get a photo together with Bucks. Even for an ardent Lions supporter such as Mary-Rita, the presence of Bucks among us has a special effect. Such is his presence she’s now also pleased that she decided to venture half way around the world for the experience of supporting Collingwood.
I am most satisfied to report that retirement hasn’t affected Captain Buckley’s physique in any way at this point in time, and he has retained every single one of those qualities inherent in a god-like body. Aside from his Olympian features, Bucks is also a really great guy and lovely to talk with. He’s enjoying himself, making the most of the Dubai trip and his new role with Channel 7.
Next on the list for Trout Face to gape at was number 23 legend, Anthony Rocca. Thankfully, I live in Queensland and am unlikely to encounter him again, as the first words out of my mouth as he comes over for the photo are “Oh My God, you’re massive!” Nice work – I swear I’m a deep shade of beetroot red in the photos.
Mary-Rita spies Brad Scott – former Lion and now Assistant Coach for Collingwood. We have a chat with him and also get some photos taken (….turning Japanese, I think I’m turning Japanese, I really think so, dada dada da da da…..). Shares in Canon have just skyrocketed and the Japanese economy lives to fight another day. Mary-Rita cannot believe Brad Scott’s gone to the Pies and eyes him suspiciously as though she’s discovered he’s Darth Vader in human form. I, of course, congratulate him on seeing the light and joining the good guys – better late than never. I have a theory that every AFL player in the nation wants to play for Collingwood and they only bag the Pies through lip service until they become anointed as one of The Chosen. Once one has played for Collingwood, there’s no going back. It’s like Highlander – There Can Be Only One!
Our most senior group member, Gladys, gets a photo with Leon Davis, her ‘pin up boy’. A few of us also snap away at Gladys and Leon, savouring this moment for future memories. It's a generational snapsnot to warm the cockles of any heart. Gladys is like a kid in a candy store and we’re all just as excited as each other to be able to mingle with the players. I can honestly say that they don’t make them like Gladys any more. She is such a trooper and has more energy than some people a third of her age. She’s an inspiration to us all and we love her. Same goes for Elsie, Bill and Cliff – it’s wonderful to see such energy in people, and all of them believe that age is only a number and has no bearing whatsoever on a person’s attitude to life. If only the entire Y-Gen would take notes and live life as people such as Gladys, Cliff, Elsie and Bill do, we’d all be much better off. These people are truly a delight to be around and I’m humbled to be in their company.
We hang out with the Pies for a while longer and watch their training session. It’s a gorgeous morning and we’re enjoying every minute of it. Let’s hope the match tomorrow is a success for all. I’m still scanning the scene looking for Brodie Holland before I’m informed of the sad news that Brodie is still in South Africa and won’t be playing with the team tomorrow. I’m disappointed, but there are plenty of consolation prizes happening before me so the wound isn’t too deep.
It’s a warm day and the boys are a little on the warm side after they’ve finished their workout. Jerseys come off and the sight of many a sculpted, glistening torso within touching distance is enough to put a spring into any girl’s step. Oh Thank You God.
All too soon however, our small personal piece of Nirvana comes to an end and we reluctantly board the bus for the trip back to the city. We're all on a high - whether that's from sheer sleep deprivation and jet lag or hormonal imbalance remains to be seen, but, we're almost delirious with excitement.
We arrive back at the hotel and proceed upstairs to our personal lounge where a tasty buffet awaits us. Spend a couple of hours grazing like bovines and admiring the city view before we decide we’ve got the energy to tackle Deira City.
Shop up a storm for what seems like eternity, before we comprehend that we’ve only touched the tip of the iceberg in terms of size of the complex and that we’d need a solid week of specifically dedicated shopping time to fit it all in. Retire graciously to our room for a small rest before we scout out some options for dinner. We’ve been going non-stop since we arrived, and on top of a 16-hour flight to get there, it’s been a very, very long couple of days with little sleep.
Some of the group are off to the Collingwood dinner, although I opted not to go to this, as the players weren't appearing and I thought we'd simply be too exhausted to pay attention. Nothing more humiliating than paying several hundred dollars to go to a dinner and then falling asleep face first in the pumpkin soup.
We decide that we’re just too exhausted to be bothered wandering too far from home, so the Level 2 hotel restaurants seem like a fabulous idea. There’s a gorgeous fine dining restaurant called The Villa in our hotel, where we enjoy exquisite French food and superior service from the staff.
Finish dinner, return to our room, hit the showers and collapse into our beds. Mercifully, they’re so comfortable it’s like sleeping in a cloud. Black out.
End of Day 1 - one down, four to follow. GO PIES!
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
The Land Of The Crescent Moon
We land in Dubai to be greeted by the biggest airport terminal I think I’ve ever seen.
Due to the sheer volume of flights in and out of the UAE, a new international airport, specifically dedicated for Emirates Airlines, is presently being constructed in Dubai, so we had to park on the tarmac as opposed to pulling up to the walkway gate because they'd run out of walkway gates by the time we arrived. We disembark to a fresh breeze in a balmy 15 degrees. A wonderful change from the roasting humid heat of a Brisbane summer. Buses came to collect us to take us to the arrivals hall.
As we head there, we can see the Dubai skyline in the background – all covered with a fine haze which I understand to be a combination of sand, concrete dust and smog. Early in the morning the misty shroud looks almost romantic, but you probably wouldn’t want to be breathing it in for too long. Goodbye health, hello asbestosis or some such thing which will kill you slowly and painfully.
We reach the arrivals hall and disembark from the bus, where we are met by a lovely and exotic looking girl from Arabian Adventures. It seems as though, as it is in Asia, all westerners seem to look the same to Arabs, so our guide asks me to identify everyone so she can check off her list. Once we were all present and accounted for, we head off towards immigration and security.
I was dreading going through the security check, and fully expected to have a personal appointment behind the curtain with a sadistic, brutish looking woman wearing rubber gloves and a smug sneer. Just as well the girls at Brazilian Beauty had sorted me out before I left Australia and I could disrobe with silky-smooth confidence if required. However, to my complete surprise and delight, we were whisked through the arrival and immigration process inside 15 minutes. In all my experience of travelling, I’ve never gotten out of an airport that quickly before and I wasn't alone there. Every one of us was stunned into silence at how efficiently and quickly the paperwork was taken care of before we were on our way. I’ll tell you this for free – travelling with Collingwood and Emirates has distinct advantages. We felt like very important people as we sashayed past lines of people and through a special line with no queues.
It was almost impossible not to stare at all the people and I tried very hard not to be rude. You suddenly have to pinch yourself and realise that you are indeed in the Middle East when faced with masses of men and women in their traditional dress – men in white and women in black. It’s almost as though the whole emirate of Dubai was barracking for the Pies as we stared into a sea of Magpie colours. We blended in very well, except for the fact that our heads were uncovered.
In response to our questions, we discovered that the male traditional dress is officially called a kandura, but everybody seems to call it a ‘dishdash’. It’s extraordinary how these never seem to look creased or dirty, despite the fact that they’re usually of a pristine white colour in summer (to reflect the sun’s rays). Sometimes the dishdash is olive, brown or grey, but mostly we saw white ones. The headscarf is called the ‘guthra’ and is also usually white, although the Bedouin colours of red and white checks are very popular. The guthra is held in place by the egal – the black rope-like binding that keeps the guthra fixed to the head. Apparently the Bedouins traditionally used the egal to tie the feet of their camels together at night when they were travelling in the desert to stop the camels from wandering.
The women in the UAE wear an abaya – a long black dress made of a lightweight fabric. The abaya is worn over the clothes, which mostly are of Western design. Due to the inordinately large Indian population in the UAE, many of the ladies’ clothes will also be Indian in design and are very colourful under the misdleading black abaya. It is possible to see glimpses of colour as the ladies walk around. Some of their abayas are intricately designed with stunning embroidery and sequin work, and these can cost up to 2000 dirhams to have tailored. With the abaya is worn the ‘shela’ which is the female headscarf. All Muslim women in the UAE will wear the shela to cover their hair in accordance with custom. However, the covering of the face seems to be a personal choice. Some women choose to show their faces, some choose to partly obscure their faces and some choose to cover all of their faces, with just the tiniest slits for sight. The ‘gishwa’ is the veil used to cover the face. Occasionally one might see ladies wearing black gloves as well, and these are called ‘gafaaz’.
There’s something compellingly mysterious about people who are covered up. The Arabs of both sexes are fascinating to look at, and for an avid people-watcher like myself, it’s almost too good to resist openly gaping at them like a trout out of water. However, for the sake of good manners and cultural respect, I keep my gawking to a very discreet level and try not to be obvious. The one mitigating factor is that the Arabs like gawking at us just as much as we like gawking at them so it’s not all ‘one way’ rudeness.
We are whisked far from the madding crowds into the carpark, where fabulously luxurious limousines the size of tanks await us. We get one limousine per pair, so there’s plenty of space. I guess the beauty of owning most of the world’s oil reserves is that everyone can drive around in cars the size of small Australian country towns without remortgaging their houses to fuel them.
We stare out of the windows in numb fascination of the spectacle before us. It’s hot, it’s dry and there are cranes absolutely everywhere you look. Every vacant square metre of Dubai is a construction site. It looks like an elegantly wasted Beirut. In between the concrete rubble stand massive towers of glass and steel, some of them 80 floors high. It occurs to me that a great job for an expat in Dubai would be as a chiropractor to tourists. I can guarantee that many a C4 dislocation has occurred on the drive from the airport to the hotel or on the never-ending round of city tours.
We arrive at our hotel, the Sofitel City Centre, to be greeted by friendly and smiling valets. We’re ushered inside where we try to check in, only to be directed to ‘my colleagues on the 11th floor’. We glance at each other in uncertain doubt before we realise that the 11th floor is for ‘executive guests’ and is in fact the VIP floor.
We check in, ogle the view for a bit and quickly change clothes. We have to head straight back out again for our special training session with the Pies.
No rest for the wicked. We're not here for a long time, but we're here for a good time, and it's about to start now.
Due to the sheer volume of flights in and out of the UAE, a new international airport, specifically dedicated for Emirates Airlines, is presently being constructed in Dubai, so we had to park on the tarmac as opposed to pulling up to the walkway gate because they'd run out of walkway gates by the time we arrived. We disembark to a fresh breeze in a balmy 15 degrees. A wonderful change from the roasting humid heat of a Brisbane summer. Buses came to collect us to take us to the arrivals hall.
As we head there, we can see the Dubai skyline in the background – all covered with a fine haze which I understand to be a combination of sand, concrete dust and smog. Early in the morning the misty shroud looks almost romantic, but you probably wouldn’t want to be breathing it in for too long. Goodbye health, hello asbestosis or some such thing which will kill you slowly and painfully.
We reach the arrivals hall and disembark from the bus, where we are met by a lovely and exotic looking girl from Arabian Adventures. It seems as though, as it is in Asia, all westerners seem to look the same to Arabs, so our guide asks me to identify everyone so she can check off her list. Once we were all present and accounted for, we head off towards immigration and security.
I was dreading going through the security check, and fully expected to have a personal appointment behind the curtain with a sadistic, brutish looking woman wearing rubber gloves and a smug sneer. Just as well the girls at Brazilian Beauty had sorted me out before I left Australia and I could disrobe with silky-smooth confidence if required. However, to my complete surprise and delight, we were whisked through the arrival and immigration process inside 15 minutes. In all my experience of travelling, I’ve never gotten out of an airport that quickly before and I wasn't alone there. Every one of us was stunned into silence at how efficiently and quickly the paperwork was taken care of before we were on our way. I’ll tell you this for free – travelling with Collingwood and Emirates has distinct advantages. We felt like very important people as we sashayed past lines of people and through a special line with no queues.
It was almost impossible not to stare at all the people and I tried very hard not to be rude. You suddenly have to pinch yourself and realise that you are indeed in the Middle East when faced with masses of men and women in their traditional dress – men in white and women in black. It’s almost as though the whole emirate of Dubai was barracking for the Pies as we stared into a sea of Magpie colours. We blended in very well, except for the fact that our heads were uncovered.
In response to our questions, we discovered that the male traditional dress is officially called a kandura, but everybody seems to call it a ‘dishdash’. It’s extraordinary how these never seem to look creased or dirty, despite the fact that they’re usually of a pristine white colour in summer (to reflect the sun’s rays). Sometimes the dishdash is olive, brown or grey, but mostly we saw white ones. The headscarf is called the ‘guthra’ and is also usually white, although the Bedouin colours of red and white checks are very popular. The guthra is held in place by the egal – the black rope-like binding that keeps the guthra fixed to the head. Apparently the Bedouins traditionally used the egal to tie the feet of their camels together at night when they were travelling in the desert to stop the camels from wandering.
The women in the UAE wear an abaya – a long black dress made of a lightweight fabric. The abaya is worn over the clothes, which mostly are of Western design. Due to the inordinately large Indian population in the UAE, many of the ladies’ clothes will also be Indian in design and are very colourful under the misdleading black abaya. It is possible to see glimpses of colour as the ladies walk around. Some of their abayas are intricately designed with stunning embroidery and sequin work, and these can cost up to 2000 dirhams to have tailored. With the abaya is worn the ‘shela’ which is the female headscarf. All Muslim women in the UAE will wear the shela to cover their hair in accordance with custom. However, the covering of the face seems to be a personal choice. Some women choose to show their faces, some choose to partly obscure their faces and some choose to cover all of their faces, with just the tiniest slits for sight. The ‘gishwa’ is the veil used to cover the face. Occasionally one might see ladies wearing black gloves as well, and these are called ‘gafaaz’.
There’s something compellingly mysterious about people who are covered up. The Arabs of both sexes are fascinating to look at, and for an avid people-watcher like myself, it’s almost too good to resist openly gaping at them like a trout out of water. However, for the sake of good manners and cultural respect, I keep my gawking to a very discreet level and try not to be obvious. The one mitigating factor is that the Arabs like gawking at us just as much as we like gawking at them so it’s not all ‘one way’ rudeness.
We are whisked far from the madding crowds into the carpark, where fabulously luxurious limousines the size of tanks await us. We get one limousine per pair, so there’s plenty of space. I guess the beauty of owning most of the world’s oil reserves is that everyone can drive around in cars the size of small Australian country towns without remortgaging their houses to fuel them.
We stare out of the windows in numb fascination of the spectacle before us. It’s hot, it’s dry and there are cranes absolutely everywhere you look. Every vacant square metre of Dubai is a construction site. It looks like an elegantly wasted Beirut. In between the concrete rubble stand massive towers of glass and steel, some of them 80 floors high. It occurs to me that a great job for an expat in Dubai would be as a chiropractor to tourists. I can guarantee that many a C4 dislocation has occurred on the drive from the airport to the hotel or on the never-ending round of city tours.
We arrive at our hotel, the Sofitel City Centre, to be greeted by friendly and smiling valets. We’re ushered inside where we try to check in, only to be directed to ‘my colleagues on the 11th floor’. We glance at each other in uncertain doubt before we realise that the 11th floor is for ‘executive guests’ and is in fact the VIP floor.
We check in, ogle the view for a bit and quickly change clothes. We have to head straight back out again for our special training session with the Pies.
No rest for the wicked. We're not here for a long time, but we're here for a good time, and it's about to start now.
The Magpies Have Flown The Nest
Yip dee doo! While Elvis is busy leaving whatever building he seems to be frequenting these days, we’re copying his style and fleeing our black and white nest for a murder of crows (hopefully) in Dubai.
After being up at 4:00am and experiencing a seemingly endless and fairly ordinary day at work, I race home to grab my luggage (and yes, I did repack the whole suitcase in the early hours of the morning), load it into the car and wait – at first patiently, and then with an increasing level of anxiety – for Mary-Rita to arrive. Brisvegas traffic was working its usual magic and she was half an hour late. No problem though, as the airport isn’t far from the leafy streets of Ascot and we make it in fairly good time.
My body seems to have an autopilot switch when it comes to airports and I gravitate towards the Qantas counter before I realise that the Red Roo isn’t going to be taking us anywhere today. Renavigate internal compass and look for the Emirates counter, which, strangely enough, I've never taken notice of before.
It’s plastic ziplock bags a-go-go as we’re warned several times en route about the 100ml liquids regime now in place all over the world. I could seriously stab those idiot terrorists who have forced us to conform to these new rules. I’ll have a smile on my face while doing it and there's not a court on the planet that would convict me. Here’s a stockmarket tip – buy shares in Glad – you’ll be mighty glad you did, as these people are going to make a killing on the supply and demand scale. Here’s another tip – lipstick is considered a liquid and the security people aren’t thrilled when a girl has about 76 of them in various shades skulking around the bottom of the handbag. Go figure. Guess who forgot to read the whole brochure?
My friend Murphy must have been lurking about as usual, because (as usual) I was the person 'selected at random' to have the 'extra' security check for explosives. I must look like an inherently evil Cruella de Vil type girl, as these people just love to pick on me. On my world trip in 2006, we went through 27 flight sectors and I was body searched on every single one of them. I'm no number counter by any means, but even I could tell you that a 100% record of instances of 'random selection' cannot possibly be considered 'random'.
These days, travelling has lost all sense of romance and adventure in between home and the destination of choice. Long gone are the days of the early 20th century when travel involved having trunkloads of monogrammed cases, hat boxes and assorted necessities wheeled onto steamships, aeroplanes or The Orient Express by white gloved footmen, as one prepared to sail serenely down the Nile, explore the darkest secrets of Africa on safari, take tea with the Maharajah in the Indian subcontinent, or stroll down the Champs Elysée in search of one’s next lover. Despite forecasts to the contrary, travel in the 21st century unfortunately does NOT involve meeting George Jetson, Jane his wife, his boy Elroy, or daughter Judy, and definitely not Astro the dog on space age conveyor belts and funky flying cars in the pristine oxygen-deprived stratosphere of the heavens. It involves miniscule travel cases shrink-wrapped in plastic, queuing for centuries in sterile airport lounges, overworked airport staff and cabin crew and disgruntled passengers suddenly suffering unpleasant body odour after being forcibly separated from their favourite perfumes, deodorants and toothpaste.
Luckily for us, we managed to fit our evil, potential-bomb-making-plane-destroying substances inside the Glad bag and we were good to go. Even more luckily for us, I inadvertently mistook a senior pilot for a security guard (mental note to self – book an appointment at the optometrist) and sashayed up to him to find out where I could find a stash of plastic bags. Well, your man was very forgiving under the circumstances and we chatted away to him for awhile before heading of downstairs to the duty-free stores and currency exchange counters. We ran into the pilot again, and this time he’d brought friends, so Mary-Rita and I were graced with the presence of three lovely aviators buying us coffees while we waited to board our flight. Off to a great start so far.
As we got onto the plane, we met the first of our Collingwood group – Cliff and Nathan. These are Gold Coast boys who were immediately identifiable by their Pies jackets and black and white paraphernalia. I had on my Pies polo shirt so it wasn’t too hard to figure out that we were headed for the same destination. We got separated from Cliff and Nathan though and didn’t see them again on the plane.
Mary-Rita and I were exceptionally fortunate to have been seated at either end of an aisle with empty seats between us so we could stretch out and make ourselves comfortable.
Flying is dead boring so there’s no point describing it. Suffice to say that we’re now in Singapore on our stopover, where we meet two more of our group – Grant and Peter – as we headed on our mission to the duty free stores. We struck up some conversation and discovered that we weren’t sitting too far away from each other.
So, Mary-Rita and I are outnumbered by the Y chromosomes 4-2 – which I guess is pretty standard odds when dealing with a footy crowd.
This is going to be very interesting indeed.
Back on the plane for the second sector and try to get some sleep before waking up in the Middle East.
Good night and good luck.
After being up at 4:00am and experiencing a seemingly endless and fairly ordinary day at work, I race home to grab my luggage (and yes, I did repack the whole suitcase in the early hours of the morning), load it into the car and wait – at first patiently, and then with an increasing level of anxiety – for Mary-Rita to arrive. Brisvegas traffic was working its usual magic and she was half an hour late. No problem though, as the airport isn’t far from the leafy streets of Ascot and we make it in fairly good time.
My body seems to have an autopilot switch when it comes to airports and I gravitate towards the Qantas counter before I realise that the Red Roo isn’t going to be taking us anywhere today. Renavigate internal compass and look for the Emirates counter, which, strangely enough, I've never taken notice of before.
It’s plastic ziplock bags a-go-go as we’re warned several times en route about the 100ml liquids regime now in place all over the world. I could seriously stab those idiot terrorists who have forced us to conform to these new rules. I’ll have a smile on my face while doing it and there's not a court on the planet that would convict me. Here’s a stockmarket tip – buy shares in Glad – you’ll be mighty glad you did, as these people are going to make a killing on the supply and demand scale. Here’s another tip – lipstick is considered a liquid and the security people aren’t thrilled when a girl has about 76 of them in various shades skulking around the bottom of the handbag. Go figure. Guess who forgot to read the whole brochure?
My friend Murphy must have been lurking about as usual, because (as usual) I was the person 'selected at random' to have the 'extra' security check for explosives. I must look like an inherently evil Cruella de Vil type girl, as these people just love to pick on me. On my world trip in 2006, we went through 27 flight sectors and I was body searched on every single one of them. I'm no number counter by any means, but even I could tell you that a 100% record of instances of 'random selection' cannot possibly be considered 'random'.
These days, travelling has lost all sense of romance and adventure in between home and the destination of choice. Long gone are the days of the early 20th century when travel involved having trunkloads of monogrammed cases, hat boxes and assorted necessities wheeled onto steamships, aeroplanes or The Orient Express by white gloved footmen, as one prepared to sail serenely down the Nile, explore the darkest secrets of Africa on safari, take tea with the Maharajah in the Indian subcontinent, or stroll down the Champs Elysée in search of one’s next lover. Despite forecasts to the contrary, travel in the 21st century unfortunately does NOT involve meeting George Jetson, Jane his wife, his boy Elroy, or daughter Judy, and definitely not Astro the dog on space age conveyor belts and funky flying cars in the pristine oxygen-deprived stratosphere of the heavens. It involves miniscule travel cases shrink-wrapped in plastic, queuing for centuries in sterile airport lounges, overworked airport staff and cabin crew and disgruntled passengers suddenly suffering unpleasant body odour after being forcibly separated from their favourite perfumes, deodorants and toothpaste.
Luckily for us, we managed to fit our evil, potential-bomb-making-plane-destroying substances inside the Glad bag and we were good to go. Even more luckily for us, I inadvertently mistook a senior pilot for a security guard (mental note to self – book an appointment at the optometrist) and sashayed up to him to find out where I could find a stash of plastic bags. Well, your man was very forgiving under the circumstances and we chatted away to him for awhile before heading of downstairs to the duty-free stores and currency exchange counters. We ran into the pilot again, and this time he’d brought friends, so Mary-Rita and I were graced with the presence of three lovely aviators buying us coffees while we waited to board our flight. Off to a great start so far.
As we got onto the plane, we met the first of our Collingwood group – Cliff and Nathan. These are Gold Coast boys who were immediately identifiable by their Pies jackets and black and white paraphernalia. I had on my Pies polo shirt so it wasn’t too hard to figure out that we were headed for the same destination. We got separated from Cliff and Nathan though and didn’t see them again on the plane.
Mary-Rita and I were exceptionally fortunate to have been seated at either end of an aisle with empty seats between us so we could stretch out and make ourselves comfortable.
Flying is dead boring so there’s no point describing it. Suffice to say that we’re now in Singapore on our stopover, where we meet two more of our group – Grant and Peter – as we headed on our mission to the duty free stores. We struck up some conversation and discovered that we weren’t sitting too far away from each other.
So, Mary-Rita and I are outnumbered by the Y chromosomes 4-2 – which I guess is pretty standard odds when dealing with a footy crowd.
This is going to be very interesting indeed.
Back on the plane for the second sector and try to get some sleep before waking up in the Middle East.
Good night and good luck.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
One More Sleep!
Tomorrow is the big day when we jet off to Dubai. How excitement! The black and white action is about to take off and we're ready to rock and roll.
If I think I’m going to sleep at all tonight, then I’m having myself on for sure. There will be no sleep happening. There will however, be endless tossing and turning, opening my eyes to stare malevolently at the clock every hour on the hour and running through about 6000 lists in my head, occasionally getting up to double, triple and quadruple check that I’ve packed everything I need, getting up again to pace aimlessly around the house and recount the number of knickers I’ve packed.
Today is Ash Wednesday, and like all good Catholics, I dutifully trotted off to Mass at the Cathedral, where the Archbishop anointed my head with ashes (they’re the REALLY black ones this year – clearly a testament to my level of sin over the past twelve months – sometimes they’re a soft grey colour and don’t stand out as much on the skin).
Usually, I go to Mass early in the morning and then head straight to the office, not venturing out until I go home, so my level of humiliation is minimal. I don’t mind walking around the office all day with a big stain in the middle of my scone as everyone knows me and largely ignores it. The one person who did make a comment is a Muslim colleague (and friend) who wasn't working with us last year and forgot it was Ash Wednesday. We both had a good laugh about that.
Of course today would be different to most years. I couldn’t get to early Mass so had to race into the city for Mass at lunchtime, go to a meeting with 12 other people I don’t really know, pick up a few last minute things and go to buy my foreign currency at the bank, where, inevitably there was a queue the size of half the population of Tasmania. Naturally, I must have happened across every non-Catholic in the known universe between the hours of noon and 3pm, many of whom simply stared at me as though I had a nasty and potentially contagious skin affliction going on – a couple of people even backed away a little at the sight of me. Always great for a girl’s self esteem. Some others were very kind in pointing out to me in hushed tones “I’m sorry to bother you dear/darling/lady/miss, but you seem to have a big black smudge on your forehead. Just thought you should know.” Bless their Christian hearts, the little treasures. Under other circumstances, one would be most grateful to be informed that one is walking around with some foreign object or substance attached to one’s face, but today was absolutely, positively, definitely not that day.
I must point out that, as today is Ash Wednesday and therefore the first day of Lent, I am now obligated to make some sacrifices for the good of humankind and undergo a self-penance until Easter. Each year I usually elect to give up shopping, and specifically, shoe shopping. That may not sound like a sacrifice at all to most people, but trust me, for me it’s akin to self-mutilation. Look what you’re dealing with here. The suffering is truly unbearable because, as that swine Murphy must clearly know because he’s planned the whole thing, I will inevitably find, during the Lenten period when I’m not allowed to buy them, the one pair of shoes on the planet that, without which, I will simply drop dead where I stand. Happens every year, and I have the willpower of a gambler trapped in a Las Vegas casino.
As I’m going to Dubai, I’m not even going to pretend that I could give up shopping this year, so I’ve decided instead to forego the pleasures of champagne and chocolate – specifically Turkish Delight, which for me is the heroin of all chocolate. What on earth was I thinking???? On the plus side, foregoing drinking in Dubai should be a relatively easy task – so there’s one week down out of six. Just quietly, making someone like me forego anything pleasurably essential for the good of humankind seems to be a bit of a contradiction in terms – when I’m denied shoes, champagne and chocolate I just get cross and unpleasant – and after 40 days and 40 nights of being cross and unpleasant, no good to humankind of any description can be salvaged from that situation. I’m more amped up than a bikie who’s suddenly realised he’s misplaced his amphetamine stash. It’s ugly from every angle. I’d rather be slow roasted over a fire than go through this, but it’s a worthy exercise and something to feel great about once Easter has passed.
I was telling a friend this afternoon that I’m just praying that all this heavy rain in Brisbane turns into a flood of biblical proportion, drowning every last one of us so I simply do not have to exist through the next 40 days and 40 nights. However, just when I’d want Murphy to do me a favour, he’ll be hiding at the end of the rainbow under his pot of gold, nowhere to be found. The skunk.
I’m evidently not having enough fun in showbusiness at these prospects for penitent purpose. To make life even more exciting, I’m at that week of the month where no woman travelling wants to find herself. So, I’m hormonal at a tsunami level on the Richter Scale, and without the medicinal aid of either champagne or chocolate to brighten my day, keep me relatively sane and ensure that I’m fit to remain a safe member of society.
How much fun do you reckon I’m having right at this minute? NOT. Put it this way – Nirvana right at this point is a vision of every man on the planet with a very, very large kitchen knife protruding from between his fifth and sixth ribs. I hate to say it, but even Mr Wonderful is included here. Probably not a healthy manifestation, but most neurologically balanced people would agree that you just don’t mess with a woman when she’s in this condition. Just back away slowly and don't make any sudden movements. Not to worry though – I shall be perfectly content once I have a painkiller or two – preferably ones the size of Jupiter, and a good soak in the bath – preferably one the size of a lake. I feel it would be better for us all if I were heavily medicated for the next 72 hours.
As well as being Lent, it’s also Chinese New Year. The moon is a busy little orb this week for sure. This year is the year of the Rat, the first in the new twelve year cycle. I am desperately praying that it will be a year of Rats only in the symbolic Chinese sense, and not in the sense of the calibre of men who will cross my path. I already know more filthy rodents than I can handle and do not need any more of them disturbing my yin, yang and feng shui.
Ah well, what’s a girl to do? Hop on a plane to Dubai, watch some football and go shopping, apparently. Spare a thought for me as I collapse at the end of each day, exhausted (from all that driving a hard bargain with shopkeepers and drooling over Brodie Holland’s butt), and look forward to a…….Shirley Temple and a rice cracker. Oh dear God, I’m begging you, if you love me at all, please just kill me now.
So, it’s Kung He Fat Choi for 2008 and Ma ‘a Salaam from Brisvegas. Eat, drink and be merry, people. Somebody has to, as it clearly won’t be me. All I can say is, Praise the Lord for a good cup of tea.
If I think I’m going to sleep at all tonight, then I’m having myself on for sure. There will be no sleep happening. There will however, be endless tossing and turning, opening my eyes to stare malevolently at the clock every hour on the hour and running through about 6000 lists in my head, occasionally getting up to double, triple and quadruple check that I’ve packed everything I need, getting up again to pace aimlessly around the house and recount the number of knickers I’ve packed.
Today is Ash Wednesday, and like all good Catholics, I dutifully trotted off to Mass at the Cathedral, where the Archbishop anointed my head with ashes (they’re the REALLY black ones this year – clearly a testament to my level of sin over the past twelve months – sometimes they’re a soft grey colour and don’t stand out as much on the skin).
Usually, I go to Mass early in the morning and then head straight to the office, not venturing out until I go home, so my level of humiliation is minimal. I don’t mind walking around the office all day with a big stain in the middle of my scone as everyone knows me and largely ignores it. The one person who did make a comment is a Muslim colleague (and friend) who wasn't working with us last year and forgot it was Ash Wednesday. We both had a good laugh about that.
Of course today would be different to most years. I couldn’t get to early Mass so had to race into the city for Mass at lunchtime, go to a meeting with 12 other people I don’t really know, pick up a few last minute things and go to buy my foreign currency at the bank, where, inevitably there was a queue the size of half the population of Tasmania. Naturally, I must have happened across every non-Catholic in the known universe between the hours of noon and 3pm, many of whom simply stared at me as though I had a nasty and potentially contagious skin affliction going on – a couple of people even backed away a little at the sight of me. Always great for a girl’s self esteem. Some others were very kind in pointing out to me in hushed tones “I’m sorry to bother you dear/darling/lady/miss, but you seem to have a big black smudge on your forehead. Just thought you should know.” Bless their Christian hearts, the little treasures. Under other circumstances, one would be most grateful to be informed that one is walking around with some foreign object or substance attached to one’s face, but today was absolutely, positively, definitely not that day.
I must point out that, as today is Ash Wednesday and therefore the first day of Lent, I am now obligated to make some sacrifices for the good of humankind and undergo a self-penance until Easter. Each year I usually elect to give up shopping, and specifically, shoe shopping. That may not sound like a sacrifice at all to most people, but trust me, for me it’s akin to self-mutilation. Look what you’re dealing with here. The suffering is truly unbearable because, as that swine Murphy must clearly know because he’s planned the whole thing, I will inevitably find, during the Lenten period when I’m not allowed to buy them, the one pair of shoes on the planet that, without which, I will simply drop dead where I stand. Happens every year, and I have the willpower of a gambler trapped in a Las Vegas casino.
As I’m going to Dubai, I’m not even going to pretend that I could give up shopping this year, so I’ve decided instead to forego the pleasures of champagne and chocolate – specifically Turkish Delight, which for me is the heroin of all chocolate. What on earth was I thinking???? On the plus side, foregoing drinking in Dubai should be a relatively easy task – so there’s one week down out of six. Just quietly, making someone like me forego anything pleasurably essential for the good of humankind seems to be a bit of a contradiction in terms – when I’m denied shoes, champagne and chocolate I just get cross and unpleasant – and after 40 days and 40 nights of being cross and unpleasant, no good to humankind of any description can be salvaged from that situation. I’m more amped up than a bikie who’s suddenly realised he’s misplaced his amphetamine stash. It’s ugly from every angle. I’d rather be slow roasted over a fire than go through this, but it’s a worthy exercise and something to feel great about once Easter has passed.
I was telling a friend this afternoon that I’m just praying that all this heavy rain in Brisbane turns into a flood of biblical proportion, drowning every last one of us so I simply do not have to exist through the next 40 days and 40 nights. However, just when I’d want Murphy to do me a favour, he’ll be hiding at the end of the rainbow under his pot of gold, nowhere to be found. The skunk.
I’m evidently not having enough fun in showbusiness at these prospects for penitent purpose. To make life even more exciting, I’m at that week of the month where no woman travelling wants to find herself. So, I’m hormonal at a tsunami level on the Richter Scale, and without the medicinal aid of either champagne or chocolate to brighten my day, keep me relatively sane and ensure that I’m fit to remain a safe member of society.
How much fun do you reckon I’m having right at this minute? NOT. Put it this way – Nirvana right at this point is a vision of every man on the planet with a very, very large kitchen knife protruding from between his fifth and sixth ribs. I hate to say it, but even Mr Wonderful is included here. Probably not a healthy manifestation, but most neurologically balanced people would agree that you just don’t mess with a woman when she’s in this condition. Just back away slowly and don't make any sudden movements. Not to worry though – I shall be perfectly content once I have a painkiller or two – preferably ones the size of Jupiter, and a good soak in the bath – preferably one the size of a lake. I feel it would be better for us all if I were heavily medicated for the next 72 hours.
As well as being Lent, it’s also Chinese New Year. The moon is a busy little orb this week for sure. This year is the year of the Rat, the first in the new twelve year cycle. I am desperately praying that it will be a year of Rats only in the symbolic Chinese sense, and not in the sense of the calibre of men who will cross my path. I already know more filthy rodents than I can handle and do not need any more of them disturbing my yin, yang and feng shui.
Ah well, what’s a girl to do? Hop on a plane to Dubai, watch some football and go shopping, apparently. Spare a thought for me as I collapse at the end of each day, exhausted (from all that driving a hard bargain with shopkeepers and drooling over Brodie Holland’s butt), and look forward to a…….Shirley Temple and a rice cracker. Oh dear God, I’m begging you, if you love me at all, please just kill me now.
So, it’s Kung He Fat Choi for 2008 and Ma ‘a Salaam from Brisvegas. Eat, drink and be merry, people. Somebody has to, as it clearly won’t be me. All I can say is, Praise the Lord for a good cup of tea.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
A New Name For The Bulls?
The Queensland Bulls are having a bit of a stockmarket run at the moment – perhaps we need to start calling them the Queensland Bears? (just temporarily of course until investor confidence improves). However the market has recovered a little from its frightening slump, and let’s hope that the boys can emulate that by recovering some valuable basis points to keep up a good showing in the one day series. Fingers and toes crossed.
On another note, isn’t it just wonderful to see so many Queenslanders in the Australian cricket team? Although it's widely known in cricket circles that the Baggy Blue automatically becomes a Baggy Green, the Baggy Maroon seems to have been shoved to the back of the cupboard more times than not in the past, but now Cricket Australia clearly has been listening to the advice of fashion gurus the world over - "Blue and Green must never be seen without a colour in between". Obviously that colour is Maroon. Even more wonderful is that our boys seem to be among the most popular members of the team as well – Matthew Hayden, Andrew Symonds, Mitchell Johnson, Ashley Noffke and James Hopes are all respected by their team mates and (mostly) the general public. Well done guys. You’re doing us proud. Keep up the good work.
On another note, isn’t it just wonderful to see so many Queenslanders in the Australian cricket team? Although it's widely known in cricket circles that the Baggy Blue automatically becomes a Baggy Green, the Baggy Maroon seems to have been shoved to the back of the cupboard more times than not in the past, but now Cricket Australia clearly has been listening to the advice of fashion gurus the world over - "Blue and Green must never be seen without a colour in between". Obviously that colour is Maroon. Even more wonderful is that our boys seem to be among the most popular members of the team as well – Matthew Hayden, Andrew Symonds, Mitchell Johnson, Ashley Noffke and James Hopes are all respected by their team mates and (mostly) the general public. Well done guys. You’re doing us proud. Keep up the good work.
Women and Sport
Being a ‘girly’ girl who loves cricket, AFL and Formula One motor racing is certainly a strange existence. Trust me on this. Whilst I don’t think it’s strange at all that I can converse intelligently on a huge spectrum of topics, apparently men do. When it becomes evident to men that you can actually contribute some intelligent input into conversations about a variety of sports whilst wearing a fetching red dress and killer heels, their faces suddenly rearrange themselves into an expressions of rapturous glaze that would make a Krispy Kreme suffer an identity crisis. Naturally, all women are acutely aware that, because they have the emotional range of a salad fork, men have only three facial expressions –
· happy (because there’s sport on TV, cold beer in the fridge and the pizza’s on the way OR they've just been given a Wii/Play Station/XBox with Fight Club on it)
· annoyed/sad/bewildered (because they’ve been asked to watch a chick film-attend a family function or a toddler’s birthday party-take you shopping instead of playing golf-or be forced to watch Grey's Anatomy instead of the State of Origin – insert reasonable request here girls); and
· leering (because they mistakenly believe that they’re about to get sex. This expression appears frequently after the consumption of alcohol).
Recently, I was at a male friend’s birthday party and was discussing the state of the Test series against India with a group of about 7 men – I was the only woman in the group at that time. A barrister friend of mine – a wise and learned man indeed – looked at me earnestly and said something to the effect of, “You know, nothing turns me on quite like a lovely woman who knows her cricket”.
Whenever I discuss cricket with men the conversation is usually genial and pleasant, however things do tend to get ugly as soon as AFL enters the equation. This would be because the minute I mention that I’m a Pie, most men either turn their backs on me and leave the room, threaten me with physical violence or stare aghast at me as though I’m a weeping leper speaking Portuguese. What then follows is usually an interesting conversation, liberally sprinkled with imaginative examples of the vernacular on their part. I simply stand my ground and defend Collingwood in a most ladylike manner, thus annihilating their arguments about all Collingwood supporters being inbred feral pigs with the IQ of a housebrick. One thing is guaranteed though. When I’m talking with men about sport, their blood is racing and I have their full attention.
This got me thinking. Perhaps if more women in the community developed an interest in sport, then perhaps there’d be far fewer men having to call 1800 10 10 80, and we’d all be spared the torture of those hideous ads about nasal delivery technology. It’s just a thought of course, but I think I’m going to run with it and see where it leads.
I might start my research in Dubai……….
· happy (because there’s sport on TV, cold beer in the fridge and the pizza’s on the way OR they've just been given a Wii/Play Station/XBox with Fight Club on it)
· annoyed/sad/bewildered (because they’ve been asked to watch a chick film-attend a family function or a toddler’s birthday party-take you shopping instead of playing golf-or be forced to watch Grey's Anatomy instead of the State of Origin – insert reasonable request here girls); and
· leering (because they mistakenly believe that they’re about to get sex. This expression appears frequently after the consumption of alcohol).
Recently, I was at a male friend’s birthday party and was discussing the state of the Test series against India with a group of about 7 men – I was the only woman in the group at that time. A barrister friend of mine – a wise and learned man indeed – looked at me earnestly and said something to the effect of, “You know, nothing turns me on quite like a lovely woman who knows her cricket”.
Whenever I discuss cricket with men the conversation is usually genial and pleasant, however things do tend to get ugly as soon as AFL enters the equation. This would be because the minute I mention that I’m a Pie, most men either turn their backs on me and leave the room, threaten me with physical violence or stare aghast at me as though I’m a weeping leper speaking Portuguese. What then follows is usually an interesting conversation, liberally sprinkled with imaginative examples of the vernacular on their part. I simply stand my ground and defend Collingwood in a most ladylike manner, thus annihilating their arguments about all Collingwood supporters being inbred feral pigs with the IQ of a housebrick. One thing is guaranteed though. When I’m talking with men about sport, their blood is racing and I have their full attention.
This got me thinking. Perhaps if more women in the community developed an interest in sport, then perhaps there’d be far fewer men having to call 1800 10 10 80, and we’d all be spared the torture of those hideous ads about nasal delivery technology. It’s just a thought of course, but I think I’m going to run with it and see where it leads.
I might start my research in Dubai……….
Rethinking Mr Wonderful
Following yet another week of headlines involving sportsmen behaving badly, I’m wondering whether I should remove my rose-coloured glasses and take another look at Mr Wonderful in the cold, harsh light of day. Is he really the man of my dreams or am I having myself on (as usual)?
I’ve already made it clear that I loathe sportsmen, and after reading any major daily newspaper in the country of late, my argument on that point has been proven time and again.
After all the wonderfully good deeds they’ve done in South Africa, I’m counting on the Collingwood boys to be behaved like monks in Dubai. A positive in that regard is that alcohol is not readily available in Dubai, so there’ll be almost no chance that any of them will get so flogged they’ll be unable to find their hotel room key and have to sleep outside in the hallway for the night, or that those dreaded words ‘footballer’, ‘alleged incident’, ‘heavy drinking’ ‘young woman’ and ‘nightclub’ will find themselves combined into the headline on the front pages of the local Dubai newspapers after the Pies -v- Crows match.
After the last couple of weeks in Australia, it will be a strange feeling indeed to pick up the paper and not find a story about a sportsman gone feral from drugs, alcohol, ‘roid-rage or an over-active ego.
However, I still can’t equate Mr Wonderful with this kind of behaviour, so I’ll need to start reminding myself that he’s only a man after all and consequently I can’t expect too much. My friend Mary-Rita is great for these situations. She has no qualms whatsoever in having me in bits laughing until tears leak from my eyes with her commentary on what’s wrong with Mr Wonderful upon superficial examination of his person. Of course she is correct on every count, but to me he’s still gorgeous and I just don’t care about the imperfections. I’ve plenty of my own to be getting on with.
I guess the first fact of reality in a relationship with a guy like Mr Wonderful would be that you don’t get to spend much time together at all during the season. However, although some girls might be troubled by that, I don’t view that as a con on the list of pros and cons. Both of us have extremely busy lives and while he’s training, playing and fulfilling his contractual obligations, I can peacefully enjoy my nights out at the ballet, theatre, opera, book club, art gallery opening, chick/foreign films and whatever other social engagements I might have forgotten about at this moment. To me that’s a perfect win-win situation in any language. When you do get to see each other, there’s loads to talk about and you appreciate the time you spend together rather than falling into some boring routine.
Plus of course there’s always the bonus of the “Gosh-we-haven’t-seen-each-other-in-two-weeks-and-my-goodness-I’ve-missed-you” great sex. Oops. Did I just say that out loud? OK, best scrap that last comment. Sex is something I’m not going to admit doing while my Catholic mother is still drawing breath on this planet. I’ve always been of the opinion that a Catholic upbringing provides Protestant psychologists with a lifetime of gainful employment, and discussing sex whilst my mother is in listening or reading vicinity is going to lead me straight to that Anglican couch faster than you can say “Freud’s a pervert”.
The thing about Mr Wonderful that will no doubt burst my romantic balloon is that I’ll probably discover that he has truly disgusting personal habits (remember this boys – tissues, cotton buds and toothpicks were invented so that you don’t have use your fingers, so please stop it), a vile temper that exceeds even my own, a level of self-absorption that allows him to commune with his internal organs at any given moment; AND that he drops hairs all over my pristine 300 count Egyptian cotton sheets and leaves stubble in my bathroom sink.
In order to satisfy my mother and parish priest, I will state categorically that whilst he is in my bed or my bathroom, naturally, I will be nowhere near that area of the house at the time. He is obviously only in my bedroom because he’s had a hard session at training and needs rest and refreshment. Apparently I will be in the kitchen lovingly cooking him a meal before doing his laundry and vacuuming his car (followed closely by racing to the loo to throw up in sheer disgust at what I just said).
I just hope that his ego isn’t actually larger than Russia, otherwise he won’t be able to fit onto the sofa with me for a cozy night of TV viewing. This could also be disastrous, as I have visions of him commandeering the remote control and channel-surfing until I feel the uncontrollable urge to beat him to death with it.
Of course harsh reality goes both ways. Whilst I’m (hopefully not) discovering that he’s a disgusting, filthy skunk behind closed doors, he’ll definitely discover that while I might be able to bite like Nigella (well, I could learn, with some instruction from Paris Hilton) I certainly can’t cook like Nigella and I unfortunately don’t wander around the kitchen in lacy underwear looking for tasty things to pop into my mouth – mostly out of a paranoid fear of psychotic neighbours with telescopic lenses and a subscription to YouTube.
My skills as a domestic goddess lean more towards remembering to call the cleaner and the gardener every fortnight, having Sitar Albion & That Thai Ascot on speed dial plus the correct change out of a $50 note for the delivery driver du jour. I truly love a clean and tidy house, but have no intention whatsoever of making it that way myself. Life’s short, there are experiences to be lived and fun to be had. Housework is not fun unless you are seriously deranged or have the personality of a golf ball. In my world where I am decorative rather than functional, it works like Christmas – you leave out milk and Tim Tams for Santa at night and get presents the next morning; you leave out money and cupcakes every Thursday morning and your house is sparkling by Thursday afternoon. Magic!
In my own defence, I do throw a fabulous dinner party when motivated to do so.
Another downside for him; I am obsessed with my hair – on any given day it will be a different colour, length, texture and style to that from the day before, and no, I don’t particularly care if he doesn’t fancy it. As with the weather in Melbourne, if you don’t like it, just wait a minute, because it will change when least expected. Deal with it.
Also, unless he has an obsession with clothes, he and I simply aren’t going to get along, nor will we get along if he expects me to clean his clothes for him. That’s something he’s either going to have to learn to do himself, or take them to his mother’s house for her to do. I have enough trouble remembering what’s in the closet, what's at the dry cleaner and what’s in the laundry chute (and where are the matching shoes?) from my own wardrobe, let alone worrying about what I’ve allegedly done with his shirts/pants/ties/socks/undies and sporting equipment. Here’s a clue; if I don’t wear them myself, I’m not interested as to their whereabouts. That’s his job.
Same goes with the car keys. I will have absolutely no earthly idea of where his car keys are unless I’ve been driving his car, which I must admit I’d love to do, as apparently it’s faster than mine – a fact I find deeply, insanely, annoying. I made the mistake of asking my brother (an expert in all things automotive) which of our cars would win a race up Mt Coot-tha, fully expecting the answer to be, ”yours of course”, only to be told in mocking tones, “don’t even think about it – he’s going to wipe the road with you”. What the????? My car is a fine example of sexy tri-star German engineering and has a motor twice the size of his matchbox toy. Apparently though, it’s also more than twice the weight, and (allegedly) his goes like a bee in a beer can due to its engine configuration. Apparently over a long distance I might stand a chance of coming close, but in the short term, defeat will weigh on me like a wet blanket on a horse. Not. Happy. Jan.
Various members of my boy posse have frequently told me that I drive like a bloke – a compliment which moves me deeply, as I am fully aware it must have been difficult for them to admit – and most of them will also admit after about 700 beers that I’m actually a much better driver than they are, right before they start crying like a girl into said beer at the humiliation of it all. This skill of mine is due primarily, for sure, to my unfulfilled desire to be a Formula One driver in a Chanel suit wearing Rouge-Noir lipstick. Since I learned to drive, Mt Coot-tha and various streets in Brisvegas have become my own personal racing circuits, a lá Silverstone, Magny-Cours, Monza and Hockenheim. Sadly though, my traffic history reflects my frequent need for speed, and Queensland traffic cops just don’t seem to appreciate how important it is to apex through tricky chicane corners in order to avoid aquaplaning in the wet at 180km per hour. I, of course, can blame my Sicilian, Fiat/Alfa Romeo/Porsche and Ferrari driving ex-fiancé for my indiscretions behind the wheel, but then again, I’ve never met a man I couldn’t blame for anything. I can also double clutch it into third with the best of them largely due to The Sicilian’s expert tutelage - at least he was good for something and appreciated my latent talents. It is totally possible to be both a princess and like fast driving. If Mr Wonderful doesn’t want to play along with me in the car, he’s clearly a big nancy-boy sissy and that would be very unattractive indeed.
So it would appear that Mr Wonderful and I still have a lot of potentially unpleasant things to learn about each other, although I'm just hoping we can get to the good stuff first, and soon. At this moment in time, I'd do just about anything to get him to ask me out, but I shudder to think that I'd ever get to the stage where I’m paranoid enough to check his outgoing text messages every 5 minutes and be afraid to stand near him while he’s cranky and holding a wine glass. That should be enough to turn any girl off relationships with sportsmen.
Damn it, damn it, damn it……..I’m still going to die though if he doesn’t kiss me.
I’ve already made it clear that I loathe sportsmen, and after reading any major daily newspaper in the country of late, my argument on that point has been proven time and again.
After all the wonderfully good deeds they’ve done in South Africa, I’m counting on the Collingwood boys to be behaved like monks in Dubai. A positive in that regard is that alcohol is not readily available in Dubai, so there’ll be almost no chance that any of them will get so flogged they’ll be unable to find their hotel room key and have to sleep outside in the hallway for the night, or that those dreaded words ‘footballer’, ‘alleged incident’, ‘heavy drinking’ ‘young woman’ and ‘nightclub’ will find themselves combined into the headline on the front pages of the local Dubai newspapers after the Pies -v- Crows match.
After the last couple of weeks in Australia, it will be a strange feeling indeed to pick up the paper and not find a story about a sportsman gone feral from drugs, alcohol, ‘roid-rage or an over-active ego.
However, I still can’t equate Mr Wonderful with this kind of behaviour, so I’ll need to start reminding myself that he’s only a man after all and consequently I can’t expect too much. My friend Mary-Rita is great for these situations. She has no qualms whatsoever in having me in bits laughing until tears leak from my eyes with her commentary on what’s wrong with Mr Wonderful upon superficial examination of his person. Of course she is correct on every count, but to me he’s still gorgeous and I just don’t care about the imperfections. I’ve plenty of my own to be getting on with.
I guess the first fact of reality in a relationship with a guy like Mr Wonderful would be that you don’t get to spend much time together at all during the season. However, although some girls might be troubled by that, I don’t view that as a con on the list of pros and cons. Both of us have extremely busy lives and while he’s training, playing and fulfilling his contractual obligations, I can peacefully enjoy my nights out at the ballet, theatre, opera, book club, art gallery opening, chick/foreign films and whatever other social engagements I might have forgotten about at this moment. To me that’s a perfect win-win situation in any language. When you do get to see each other, there’s loads to talk about and you appreciate the time you spend together rather than falling into some boring routine.
Plus of course there’s always the bonus of the “Gosh-we-haven’t-seen-each-other-in-two-weeks-and-my-goodness-I’ve-missed-you” great sex. Oops. Did I just say that out loud? OK, best scrap that last comment. Sex is something I’m not going to admit doing while my Catholic mother is still drawing breath on this planet. I’ve always been of the opinion that a Catholic upbringing provides Protestant psychologists with a lifetime of gainful employment, and discussing sex whilst my mother is in listening or reading vicinity is going to lead me straight to that Anglican couch faster than you can say “Freud’s a pervert”.
The thing about Mr Wonderful that will no doubt burst my romantic balloon is that I’ll probably discover that he has truly disgusting personal habits (remember this boys – tissues, cotton buds and toothpicks were invented so that you don’t have use your fingers, so please stop it), a vile temper that exceeds even my own, a level of self-absorption that allows him to commune with his internal organs at any given moment; AND that he drops hairs all over my pristine 300 count Egyptian cotton sheets and leaves stubble in my bathroom sink.
In order to satisfy my mother and parish priest, I will state categorically that whilst he is in my bed or my bathroom, naturally, I will be nowhere near that area of the house at the time. He is obviously only in my bedroom because he’s had a hard session at training and needs rest and refreshment. Apparently I will be in the kitchen lovingly cooking him a meal before doing his laundry and vacuuming his car (followed closely by racing to the loo to throw up in sheer disgust at what I just said).
I just hope that his ego isn’t actually larger than Russia, otherwise he won’t be able to fit onto the sofa with me for a cozy night of TV viewing. This could also be disastrous, as I have visions of him commandeering the remote control and channel-surfing until I feel the uncontrollable urge to beat him to death with it.
Of course harsh reality goes both ways. Whilst I’m (hopefully not) discovering that he’s a disgusting, filthy skunk behind closed doors, he’ll definitely discover that while I might be able to bite like Nigella (well, I could learn, with some instruction from Paris Hilton) I certainly can’t cook like Nigella and I unfortunately don’t wander around the kitchen in lacy underwear looking for tasty things to pop into my mouth – mostly out of a paranoid fear of psychotic neighbours with telescopic lenses and a subscription to YouTube.
My skills as a domestic goddess lean more towards remembering to call the cleaner and the gardener every fortnight, having Sitar Albion & That Thai Ascot on speed dial plus the correct change out of a $50 note for the delivery driver du jour. I truly love a clean and tidy house, but have no intention whatsoever of making it that way myself. Life’s short, there are experiences to be lived and fun to be had. Housework is not fun unless you are seriously deranged or have the personality of a golf ball. In my world where I am decorative rather than functional, it works like Christmas – you leave out milk and Tim Tams for Santa at night and get presents the next morning; you leave out money and cupcakes every Thursday morning and your house is sparkling by Thursday afternoon. Magic!
In my own defence, I do throw a fabulous dinner party when motivated to do so.
Another downside for him; I am obsessed with my hair – on any given day it will be a different colour, length, texture and style to that from the day before, and no, I don’t particularly care if he doesn’t fancy it. As with the weather in Melbourne, if you don’t like it, just wait a minute, because it will change when least expected. Deal with it.
Also, unless he has an obsession with clothes, he and I simply aren’t going to get along, nor will we get along if he expects me to clean his clothes for him. That’s something he’s either going to have to learn to do himself, or take them to his mother’s house for her to do. I have enough trouble remembering what’s in the closet, what's at the dry cleaner and what’s in the laundry chute (and where are the matching shoes?) from my own wardrobe, let alone worrying about what I’ve allegedly done with his shirts/pants/ties/socks/undies and sporting equipment. Here’s a clue; if I don’t wear them myself, I’m not interested as to their whereabouts. That’s his job.
Same goes with the car keys. I will have absolutely no earthly idea of where his car keys are unless I’ve been driving his car, which I must admit I’d love to do, as apparently it’s faster than mine – a fact I find deeply, insanely, annoying. I made the mistake of asking my brother (an expert in all things automotive) which of our cars would win a race up Mt Coot-tha, fully expecting the answer to be, ”yours of course”, only to be told in mocking tones, “don’t even think about it – he’s going to wipe the road with you”. What the????? My car is a fine example of sexy tri-star German engineering and has a motor twice the size of his matchbox toy. Apparently though, it’s also more than twice the weight, and (allegedly) his goes like a bee in a beer can due to its engine configuration. Apparently over a long distance I might stand a chance of coming close, but in the short term, defeat will weigh on me like a wet blanket on a horse. Not. Happy. Jan.
Various members of my boy posse have frequently told me that I drive like a bloke – a compliment which moves me deeply, as I am fully aware it must have been difficult for them to admit – and most of them will also admit after about 700 beers that I’m actually a much better driver than they are, right before they start crying like a girl into said beer at the humiliation of it all. This skill of mine is due primarily, for sure, to my unfulfilled desire to be a Formula One driver in a Chanel suit wearing Rouge-Noir lipstick. Since I learned to drive, Mt Coot-tha and various streets in Brisvegas have become my own personal racing circuits, a lá Silverstone, Magny-Cours, Monza and Hockenheim. Sadly though, my traffic history reflects my frequent need for speed, and Queensland traffic cops just don’t seem to appreciate how important it is to apex through tricky chicane corners in order to avoid aquaplaning in the wet at 180km per hour. I, of course, can blame my Sicilian, Fiat/Alfa Romeo/Porsche and Ferrari driving ex-fiancé for my indiscretions behind the wheel, but then again, I’ve never met a man I couldn’t blame for anything. I can also double clutch it into third with the best of them largely due to The Sicilian’s expert tutelage - at least he was good for something and appreciated my latent talents. It is totally possible to be both a princess and like fast driving. If Mr Wonderful doesn’t want to play along with me in the car, he’s clearly a big nancy-boy sissy and that would be very unattractive indeed.
So it would appear that Mr Wonderful and I still have a lot of potentially unpleasant things to learn about each other, although I'm just hoping we can get to the good stuff first, and soon. At this moment in time, I'd do just about anything to get him to ask me out, but I shudder to think that I'd ever get to the stage where I’m paranoid enough to check his outgoing text messages every 5 minutes and be afraid to stand near him while he’s cranky and holding a wine glass. That should be enough to turn any girl off relationships with sportsmen.
Damn it, damn it, damn it……..I’m still going to die though if he doesn’t kiss me.
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