Road rage in Downtown Burj Khalifa

On the whole, I absolutely love living in Downtown Burj Dubai (or is it Khalifa? I seem to vaguely recall reading something about this). I love the palm tree lined roads, the view of the Burj, the dancing fountain, the fact I’m literally a five minute walk away from the biggest mall in the world and the beautiful contrast between the architecture of the various buildings. However, what I bloody hate is the fact it takes me at least fifteen minutes to get out of the area any time I want to go somewhere.
 

The roads surrounding Downtown are an absolute mess. The nearby Defence Roundabout has been under construction for as long as I’ve been here and it’s STILL no where near completion. Add to that stupid drivers and what you get is one VERY angry Andrea every time I attempt to leave the house. Just look at this picture – this is just one example of the random road works that pop up every five minutes. The worst time is on a Thursday night when I’m desperately heading to the bar, only to find I can’t get out.

Sort it out RTA because I really can’t take it any more!

Mr Good Enough versus Staying Single: I know what I choose

Ladies, listen up and pay attention because what I’m about to say is going to change your life and save you from a potentially miserable existence. If you want to make sure that you definitely get married and have kids by the time you’re 35 (because, let’s face it, that’s what ALL women want, no matter how much we may deny it), then all you have to do is settle. Yes, that’s right – the next time a guy shows interest in you, no matter how much he may bore you or how much the thought of sharing bodily fluids with him repulses you, if overall he seems like an OK guy, then make sure he doesn’t slip away – he may be the only chance you get to live happily ever after before your perky bits head south and you no longer attract any attention. Forget about sexual chemistry, all consuming love and finding someone who inspires you to be a better person. It’s all nonsense, because let’s face it, you’re average and only the 0.01 per cent of people in the world who are impossibly beautiful can attain frivolous things like real love.

This is in a nutshell what author Lori Gottilieb is advising women in her book Marry Him: The Case of Settling for Mr Good Enough. Apparently we’re supposed to forget about passion and having an intense connection with a person if we want to make it down the aisle, because these things are unattainable. Now let me take a deep breath before I continue, as reading the article relating to this in The Times last week (http://women.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/women/relationships/article7009556.ece) made my blood boil more than it has done since the Tiger Woods debacle.

First of all, why is it everyone thinks that all women are always on the quest for finding ‘the one’? It’s a popular myth that single women are miserable. As someone who has been on her own for most of her adult life, I’m used to the “oh, don’t worry, you will find someone,” comments and the looks of pity I get when I say how long I’ve been single for. At the age of 26 (soon to be 27) I can honestly say I’ve never had what people would call a ‘proper boyfriend’. Now that you’ve all stopped gasping and feeling sorry for me, let me explain why you don’t need to worry: it’s through choice.

For me to actually make an effort with a guy, he has to really stir something in me. First, I have to see him and think wow! He doesn’t have to be conventionally good looking, but there just has to be something about him that makes me stop and catch my breath. Then, he has to be interesting. He has to make me think outside the box and in ways I’ve never thought before. He has to challenge me and make me want to pursue things I’ve never considered pursuing. Thanks to guys I’ve really liked in the past, I was inspired to take up guitar lessons and photography, write poetry, and DJ on a student radio station. Some of them have also forced me to face up to personal issues I’d been ignoring for too long. In short, even though I never had a real relationship with these men, they propelled me forward in some way and made a positive difference to my life. Isn’t that what it’s meant to be about?

Unfortunately nothing ever worked out with any of them. I’m not the best of people when it comes to expressing my feelings with men I like, so in the fight/flight scenario that ensues during the courtship period of a relationship, I always flight, as fighting takes too much effort. Therefore, settling for someone will never be an option for me. I can’t even seem to make the required effort to be with guys I like. I’m just too damn lazy.

Believe it or not, though, I love being on my own and I’m not involved in some active quest to bag Mr Right. I have my studio apartment, my car, my hobbies and an amazing social life that sees me out more nights than in. I also have an amazing family and friends who complete my life in more ways than I thought possible. The thought of having to compromise all this for someone I half like is completely absurd to me. Yes, it would be nice to find a man who meets all the aforementioned criteria, fall in love and settle down, but my point is, unless I find exactly what I’m looking for, then why even bother? And for those of you reading this thinking, wow, she’s in denial -  you’re wrong. This is genuinely how I feel.

Let’s now take a minute to read one excerpt of what this woman said in The Times:

“If you are in denial of this you will make bad decisions and end up single. Whereas if you look at the reality and say: okay, the reality is, as I get older there are going to be fewer available men because people are going to be married; there are going to be fewer available men in my age group because men would like to date someone who is younger and more fertile; there will be fewer available men that I will be interested in because the best guys have already been married. Then maybe you can make an informed choice while you still have time.”

This takes me onto my next point. How exactly is settling for ‘Mr Good Enough’ and getting married better than staying single? If what the media likes us to believe is true and all aging women go through a crisis when they start to attract less male attention and everything starts to sag, how will being married to a guy that you don’t find attractive make you feel better? I thought that the whole point of getting married was so that you end up with someone you are so impossibly in love with, you actually embrace your middle age spread together with the same glint that you had in your eyes for each other when you first met. He will assure you he loves your not-so-perky breasts, while you will coo over his ever expanding waistline. That, I can agree, is something to aspire to. But otherwise, I’d rather stay single and ensure that by the time I’m forty and I start to get wrinkles I’m strong and wise enough to deal with the aging process on my own, rather than have to wake up every morning next to some guy I only married so that I didn’t ‘end up alone’.

Women who want children may argue that it’s easy for me to say in my late twenties that I’d rather be single, as I don’t have the sound of a loud biological cloud to contend with. I must admit, having children never was and still isn’t on my life ‘to do list’ (taking a year out to travel, writing books for a living and having a house by the sea, however, all are). I always say, never say never, as you never know where life is going to take you next, however, I genuinely can say at this point in my life that if I never have children, it won’t be a big deal to me. In keeping with the theme of the article, I still don’t see how advising women who do want children to settle for Mr Good Enough is wise, though.

As someone who comes from a broken home, I know the heart breaking effects troubled marriages have on children. Having to live in a house with parents who don’t like each other much is no fun. I can pretty much guarantee that if you settle for just anyone, eventually you will start to resent this person you’ve agreed to spend your life with. Small fights will become mammoth ones, and all of a sudden you will find yourself trapped in a very messy situation – that to me sounds a lot worse than the other option that is growing old alone. I know there are no guarantees that a marriage will last even when you’re both madly in love with each other, but marriages are hard enough without adding the distinct disadvantage of not liking your husband to it from the start.

So, as I come back down off my soap box, I ask you all to at least think about what I’ve said. If you feel inclined to agree with what Lori Gottlieb is saying, then by all means, go ahead and try out Mr Good Enough. Just don’t expect me not to tell you I told you so.

Once You Go Black...

If by chance you happen to be reading this blog on your BlackBerry, it’s very likely that you’re going to identify with what you’re about to read. Or what’s more likely is the red LED at the top of your screen is about to start flashing and distract you into checking you work email/hotmail/facebook/twitter/BlackBerry chat functions, which means you will never actually finish reading this. Yes, that’s definitely more likely.

Despite years of pitifully looking on at the scores of CrackBerry addicts that adorn Dubai’s malls, clubs and bars, I’m afraid to say I have become one. I recently found myself to be the proud owner of a BlackBerry Curve, since some inconsiderate, drunk pervert spilt his drink all over my beloved Swarovski encrusted Nokia E71 in a bar last week (yes, you read right – Swarovski encrusted. I’ve officially become one of ‘those’ Dubaians). I helplessly looked on as my pride and joy drowned in a Long Island Ice Tea, unable to jump in and save it on time. Despite several resuscitation attempts, she was gone. The lights were on, but there was definitely no one at home.

As I mourned my loss, a good friend of mine came to comfort me. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I will arrange to fix this one and you can have my BlackBerry until I do.” Having a spare phone and that spare phone being no less than a BlackBerry, is something that will probably baffle those of you who are reading back home in the UK. But this is Dubai. Everyone has several phones, particularly the locals who change their gadgets more than they change their kandoras. My friend in question was one such local. So off we went in the middle of the night to a palace (yes, a palace) to collect my replacement phone.

So once I got home that night, I unpacked my new arrival and tried to make sense of all the buttons and functions. At first, I had no idea what the fuss was about. The keyboard was tough to use, the layout was boring and without unlimited internet access the device seemed like an over glorified piece of plastic. An expensive one at that. I lustfully thought of my trusty Nokia E71 and everything we’d been through together: regretful drunkard text messages at 3.10am, shouting matches and awkward phone calls – my phone had been through it all with me. But all this nostalgia was about to dissipate fast.

Speaking to another one of my friends, I found out that Etisalat (a telecommunications provider here in the UAE) currently has a deal on offer – one month’s free internet access for BlackBerrys, no strings attached. Being completely and shamelessly addicted to Facebook, I relished the idea of being able to stalk people’s profiles while on the move. So I decided to give the offer a whirl and see what this bad boy could really do.

Once the set-up was complete (a simple process that entailed me sending one text message), the useless and expensive piece of plastic miraculously came alive. At the touch of a few buttons, I suddenly had instant access to personal email, work email, Facebook, MSN and BlackBerry Messenger. I finally understood what a ‘PIN’ was and was scrambling to find out which of my friends were fellow BB users.

All of a sudden my phone was pinging every five minutes. Sure enough I had a load of rubbish to contend with, but spam text messages, emails that entailed me actually doing some work and boring event invites aside, I found myself enjoying being able to access all my accounts at any time. I soon became hooked on the high of getting a new notification. I found myself updating my Facebook status even more than usual (a task I thought was impossible) and wanting to tell the world about every detail of my life (despite the fact I know no one gives a flying crap whether I’m drunk – again).

I’m embarrassed to admit that things got worse. I soon found myself becoming ‘one of those’ BlackBerry users. You know, the ones who parade their phone with the same pride a male gorilla parades its nuts and who always have their phones out on the table in a restaurant/coffee shop, just to prove to the world how important they are. Those who just have to check their phone the minute it pings and gleefully give anyone who owns anything other than a BB the look of pity. Bless, you only have a Samsung.

Like with any great relationship, however, the BlackBerry and I went through a sticky patch. Instant access to your work emails at the weekend is nothing less than masochistic. You may as well willingly chain yourself to your desk and offer to work seven days a week at no extra cost. And no matter how much you try not to check your inbox, the flashing red light will bug you and taunt you until you have lost the will to live and give in, only to find you’ve been given a crap assignment to do, or that the important material that you were waiting for from a PR isn’t actually ever going to make it to you. In one click of a button, your weekend is ruined and you find yourself wanting to lob Mr BB onto Sheikh Zayed road and watch as it’s smashed into smithereens. By having instant access to my work emails, I found myself having instant access to the feeling of dread you get back in the UK when a load of bills drop through the letter box, only this charged up version was not limited to once a day.

I have now had the BlackBerry for just over a week and I still haven’t heard about the fate of my E71. I guiltily have to admit, however, that despite the love I have for my old phone, I think I will be really upset the day I have to give BB up. I am already considering buying my very own BB, as the thought of going cold turkey and not having instant access to Facebook et al is now horrifying to me. Yes, despite the nuisance of having to deal with a work emails at the weekend, I still think that having the ability to check people’s status updates while stuck in yet another traffic jam outweighs the disadvantage. So, OK, maybe I have sold out just a little bit by giving in to the charm of the BB. But the truth is, once you go Black, you really can’t go back.

The Pursuit of Grumpyness

Grumpy, it seems, is the new happy. Following years of getting a bad rap, mine and Victor Meldrew's favourite emotion is making a long awaited comeback.

According to research reported on the BBC news website, being in a bad mood makes us 'think more clearly.' Professor Joe Forgas, an Australian psychology expert who led the study, found that being cheerful can make you more creative, whereas feeling gloomy will make you more attentive and a careful thinker. In other words, feeling a bit down in the dumps once in a while is actually good for you and can help you make the right decisions. The ironic thing is, I could have told you all this back when my cousins and siblings were berating me with nicknames like 'Mrs Happy' and 'Mardy Bum.'

We have been bombarded for the last decade with the concept of positive thinking. Books like 'The Secret' brainwashed us into believing that by continuously thinking positively about a given situation, all potential obstacles would disappear. This was all well and good in the Noughties when the world was enjoying an economic boom. Everything and anything seemed within reach. We could afford to think positively all the time, and, if not, we would whack it on a credit card. Today, the new era of frugality and sombreness brought about by the recession, demands something a little less optimistic. It is now unrealistic to believe that positive thinking can solve all our problems - just ask someone who has recently been made redundant. Being grumpy is therefore the perfect antidote.

Don't get me wrong - I still believe it is desirable to think positively in certain situations. Believing that you're going to do well in a job interview is far more beneficial than walking in believing you're going to fail. However, there is a time and a place for both being negative and positive, and we should not ignore our feelings just because they are not particularly good ones.

It is therefore time to feel good about feeling bad. For one, feeling bad about something tells us that we need to bring about change in our lives. How else are we meant to know that a given situation is not right for us? Just like being scared is a warning that something poses a physical threat to us , I believe being grumpy is a warning that something poses an emotional one. You need to feel persistently bad over a period of time about your job to realise that you need to find a new one, for example.

Some of my greatest decisions have come following long mardy spells. The Great Grumpiness of 2006 led me to move to Dubai in early 2007. Had I sat and done what the positive preachers instruct us to do and tried to make myself believe that everything was great, I wouldn't have moved. The reality was, Lincoln was not right for me and my job was boring. I was miserable and no amount of positive thinking was going to make me feel better about the situation because what I really needed was change. I left and everything worked out for the best. Being grumpy gave me the kick in the right direction.

So from now on I'm not going to feel bad about feeling down. I'm going to revel in it, reach for the chocolate, pop open the bubbly and celebrate the fact my next big life changing decision is probably on its way.

Wake Me Up When January Ends

I have always hated January. The post-Christmas anti-climax coupled with those extra pounds you piled on from all that festive eating and drinking lead you to smack back down to earth with a great big wallop, and suddenly all that was magical and wonderful feels very grey. Despite the fact my hearty post-Christmas dinner rear-end cushions most of the blow, I still find January bloody hurts.

For one, everyone is broke. Now that there is a recession this is felt ten fold. All those fools who spent Christmas Eve panic buying iPhones and Guitar Hero version 8327 will have already had their credit card bill through the letter box and sent it straight to the shredder in denial (No, you couldn’t afford it then and you certainly can’t afford it now). Suddenly those ‘oh, go on, it’s Christmas’ drunkard purchases that were made in a haze at 10.56pm at your local Wetherspoon don’t seem so wise. Penny pinching is very much the theme of January and that spreads over into all areas of life. We frequently have ‘leftovers’ for dinner and we ‘make do’ with 10 pints instead of 15.

Another reality that sets in during January is how much of a big fat failure you really are. You spent most of the end of December saying how 2010 would be your year. You made a list of the things you were going to achieve: better job, better ass, better bank balance. Everything seems possible and I put this down to December’s excessive alcohol consumption. Sure, everyone feels they can be as rich and successful as Bill Gates and as beautiful as Beyoncé after one too many sherberts. Even those lists you lovingly wrote that detailed how you were going to achieve all of this made it look possible. Then January comes. The job sites are bare and all you want to eat are deep fried Mars bars. The possible is made very much impossible. I call this the January effect.

When I lived in the UK I put a lot of the unhealthy resentment I have for January down to the weather. Anyone who has lived in the UK knows that the weather is more depressing than sitting through a New Labour conference. January in the UK generally looks like one big grey ball. You look outside and you can’t tell where the grey begins and where it ends. Every day since September you’ve had Christmas tree baubles and lights shoved down your throat by the High Street chains and while this may have seemed grim at the time, at least it added colour to the landscape. All of a sudden you are wishing that the Christmas lights were left up all year around to brighten your spirits. That man from Wiltshire who celebrates Christmas every day of the year isn’t so crazy after all – he was on to something.

It is also generally freezing cold and wet. Rain, rain and more rain. The bad weather means you are confined indoors, which means that any chances you had of burning off those extra post-Christmas pounds are zero to none – NO one wants to eat salad when there is a blizzard outside to contest with. Instead you fry everything, add a load of stodge, and cover it all with mounds of gravy and butter.

I genuinely thought that by moving to Dubai, some of my January-orientated hate would be alleviated. For one, at least the sun is always shinning. If you are a lady it is also still possible to be as drunk as you were in December thanks to those wonderful things called Ladies Nights. However, the anti-climax is still hard to shake off. The job sites are bare, my next holiday is months off and my bank balance looks like it’s been hacked by Alistair Darling. I can’t afford to go away when all I want to do is escape reality. The end of the year is supposed to herald new beginnings, yet everything is the bloody same. To top this all off, any hope I had of some entertainment has dissipated, as my pre-Christmas fling has disappeared into the ether; quite possibly, I suspect, another victim of the January blues.

I have therefore decided there is no trying to dress January up to be something that it isn’t. That would be like trying to transform Skegness into Miami. The conclusion is, this month has always been miserable and will continue to be miserable in the future. It is best to write it off and hope things will be better in February. That way you save yourself the disappointment when nothing materialises.

Therefore, I am off to hibernate. Remember to wake me up when January ends.

No second chances

I spent most of 2009 contemplating one question: is there such thing as fate?

I'm not religious, but the idea of some 'higher being' having mapped out a story for each one of us appeals to the romantic side of me (yes, believe it or not, it exists). So, no matter how much you sway away from what is meant for you, somehow fate will bring you right back to it. It will throw up the right opportunities for you and should you mess up the first time you will get a second chance, because, hey, you're meant to go down that path! It's a comforting thought for people like me who spend most of their lives thinking and less of it actually 'doing'. I can choose not to act and still think I will get another chance. Fate will look after me.

I then start to think of all the children starving in Africa, or those living in war torn regions - suddenly my idea of fate doesn't sound too romantic. I don't see when they get their fairy tale ending.

After a whole year of questioning this concept, an incident proved to me that regardless of whether you believe in fate or not, if you're not prepared to act on what you want when an opportunity presents itself to you, then you have to be prepared to acknowledge the fact you may not get a second chance.

It was the most romantic scenario. The type that could inspire a Hollywood screen play. I'd missed my flight to Birmingham, because I got stupidly drunk the night before and slept in. I ran to the airport, but it was too late. I had to admit defeat and catch the next flight. Luckily, even though the next one was fully booked the staff managed to get me a seat.

I went back to the airport six hours later to catch my newly assigned flight and as I was sat at the departure gate, I saw a tall, dark and handsome guy sat opposite me. He looked over, I looked back. We exchanged several glances, I grinned under my fringe.

Boarding time and I was one of the last to get on the plane. As I scoured the seats to figure out where I would be sitting, I saw him straight ahead. I looked down at my ticket - 22I. I looked up at the seat numbers - he was sat in row 22, right next to the seat I was meant to be sitting in. I smiled to myself - these things NEVER usually happen to me. I'm always sat next to people with bad coughs, screaming children and alcoholics. Never the hot guy, though.

I sat down. He made a few jokes. I laughed and blushed a little. A little too good to be true, I thought to myself.

We took off and about an hour into the flight the woman next to me decided to make conversation. When he started chatting, it transpired that he wasn't even meant to be in that seat - the cabin crew had asked him to move. So not only was I not meant to be on that flight, he was not meant to be in that seat.

The woman on my right turned out to be a racist git, who made an inappropriate comment and stopped our conversation in its path. None of us spoke again until we landed. He offered to get my bag down from the hold and I accepted. I saw him again in the luggage hall, we exchanged a few more glances, then he disappeared through the 'nothing to declare' door at Birmingham Airport. Inside my heart was screaming 'do something,' but my head told me to just let it go. I took the easy option.

So, was it fate? Well, you would think so. I wasn't meant to be on the plane, he wasn't meant to be in the seat. Yet, I did nothing about it. I didn't even find his name out. And as a consequence, I will probably never see him again. He doesn't even live in Dubai - he lives in Doha. This dwindles the chances of meeting again down to virtually none.

So I begin 2010 with a new philosophy. I've forgotten about fate and I vow to act more on impulse. Magic doesn't just happen - you have to make it happen for you. Had I acted on flight EK to Birmingham, perhaps this story would have had a Hollywood ending. But I didn't. And I probably won't get that second chance.

Who Do You Think You Are?

This week I revisited an area of Psychology that has always fascinated me – personality typing.

The idea that people, with all their complexities, quirks and differing behaviours, can be classed according to different personality types used to baffle me. I for one hate to be pigeon holed and like to think I’m unique (which, considering, it is probably a good thing if I am). Is it really possible that we’re all more similar than we think?

When I was at university, I didn’t have time for typing. That was until I stumbled across the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator. The psychometric assessment, which was based on theories made by the famous psychologist Carl Jung, measures how individuals perceive the world and make decisions.

Without getting too technical, the Myers-Briggs typology model regards personality type as similar to left or right handedness: individuals are either born with, or develop, certain preferred ways of thinking and acting. The MBTI sorts some of these psychological differences into four opposite pairs, or ‘dichotomies,’ with a resulting 16 possible psychological types.

The reason I’ve come to find this measurement the most reliable of personality tests is because I used to administer it on my family and friends, and see what they thought. Every single person who has been unlucky enough to fall prey to my assessment concedes that their result fits them perfectly.

I, for one, am an ENFP (the champion or inspirer). One website says: Like the other Idealists, Champions are rather rare, say two or three percent of the population, but even more than the others they consider intense emotional experiences as being vital to a full life. Champions have a wide range and variety of emotions, and a great passion for novelty. They see life as an exciting drama, pregnant with possibilities for both good and evil, and they want to experience all the meaningful events and fascinating people in the world. The most outgoing of the Idealists, Champions often can't wait to tell others of their extraordinary experiences. Champions can be tireless in talking with others, like fountains that bubble and splash, spilling over their own words to get it all out. And usually this is not simple storytelling; Champions often speak (or write) in the hope of revealing some truth about human experience, or of motivating others with their powerful convictions. Their strong drive to speak out on issues and events, along with their boundless enthusiasm and natural talent with language, makes them the most vivacious and inspiring of all the types.

I'll go into more depth another time. But now over to you.

What's your type? Take the test and let me know what you think!

http://www.humanmetrics.com/cgi-win/JTypes2.asp
or
http://www.personalitytest.net/cgi-bin/q.pl

Bounce Off

So, let me get this straight…

In Dubai nightclubs it’s ok for a grown man in his thirties to march up to a woman who is minding her own business and tell her to f*ck off, but it’s not ok to take your shoes off when dancing on a podium?

This was the case in Elegante on Friday night. There I was, doing my best Beyonce impression (don’t knock it, I’ve at least got the thighs down to tee), when this burly bouncer of 6 foot 4 completely ruined my style by pulling on my shorts. I looked down to see him pointing at my shoes. Or rather, the lack of.

“Do you want me to fall down,” I yelled.

It was a case of ‘tell it to the hand’ because girlfriend really wasn’t listening. Shoes had to come back on. I didn’t realise that in addition to alcohol and premarital sex, walking around bare foot had also become illegal in the UAE. I must have missed that memo from Sheikh Mo.

So I carried on with my best Beyonce impression, only this time I was trying to balance my body weight, plus alcohol consumed (hence, me, plus two), on four inch stilettos. You don’t need to be a mathematician to know that’s one dodgy formula.

Five minutes later, a random oaf decided to join my friend and I on the podium. He mouthed something along the lines of f*ck off to her (out of nowhere. This is how men like to court in Dubai), to which my natural bull to red rag reaction was to yell who the hell do you think you are (while trying to balance my body weight, plus alcohol consumed, on four inch stilettos).

We grabbed the same bouncer who had so heroically upheld the law on shoes and podiums five minutes earlier, to which we had no response. It seems that it’s perfectly acceptable to tell a girl you’ve never met before to f*ck off. Bare feet on a podium however, Christ, the scandal, call the popos before there’s an upheaval.

It seems that bouncers in Dubai have a problem with women. It’s not just Elegante. I’ve been spoken to like I’m a Russian whore a million and one times (I’m Western and I wear low cut tops. I clearly therefore must perform tricks to earn my dirhams), and when I’ve tried to get a bouncer to intervene, they look at me like I’m the one with the problem.

We eventually were told to get down off the podium, because we wouldn’t accept free drinks from some perverts that were sat on the table beneath us. I mean, who wouldn’t want to share vodka with aging, receding hair-lined, married Lebanese men. We clearly need our eyes testing.

The lesson learnt? Bouncers in Dubai are misogynist bare feet haters and most men in Dubai are (I will let you guess what word I was going to use here). I would say it was never to go to Elegante anymore, but I like the music too much.

Time - where does it go?

It's been a while. Almost a year to be precise. It occurred to me the other day that I hadn't written in my blog in ages - what I genuinely didn't realise was that it has actually been a whole year. I am very aware that what I'm about to ask is the most clichéd of questions, but, seriously, where on earth does time go?

When you're a child and your parents very annoyingly tell you to make the most of your school years because "before you know it you will be old like me and wishing you were young again," you brush it off with a "whatever" and get back to that very important game that you were playing on the Commodore 64 (now I'm really showing my age) without giving it much though. What do grown ups know anyway? They just like to ruin all your fun, embarrass you in front of David from year 10 who you've got a not-so-secret crush on and say things like 'time goes so fast Andrea. Don't wish away your childhood.' Cringe. Dude, cut it out.

Now if only there was a way of ensuring youngsters actually listened to their parents. I'm now 25 (dreaded 26 in May, but let's not get into that right now) and realising that I made a very big mistake in wishing my years away. OK, I'm by no means 'old' but I'm 'older' and realising that some of the best years are already over and done with. Along with those have also gone some of the best experiences.

Climbing a tree and building a house.
Discovering the thrill of winning your first race at school.
Getting drunk for the first time on cider and throwing up while trying to hide the evidence.
The excitement of seeing your first falling star (geeks like me lap stuff like that up. Others might replace this with their first experience with weed or something)
Having your first kiss. (admintingly, my first one was a disaster. This memory has been replaced with a very nicely made up version that involves a young Pacey from Dawson's Creek thank you very much).
Passing your GCSE's and A'Levels.
Getting into university.
Your 18th and 21st birthday (for those of us who actually remember them).
Graduation.
Getting your first job.

Hmmm. Tick, tick, tick. Done, done, done.

Onto my point. As we get older, we get so consumed with our day-to-day lives that time just passes us by without us realising. When you're young and not-so-jaded, every day lasts so long because every day is amazing in one way or another. The only problem is, you don't actually realise it's amazing until it's all over and done with.

Unfortunately, there is no way of making children listen to adults.The only child that will listen to you now is the child within. Life is tough, life is cruel and life is demanding. But don't let it pass you by. I'm guilty of it. I love nothing more than writing, but I let the fact that I write all day for a living stop me from expressing myself with words in the evening.

Embrace every experience and every minute as much as you can. Because that minute that just ticked by while you read this sentence? It just went, and it's never coming back.

As adults it's our responsibility to make sure not a moment passes us by. So, from now on I promise to write in my blog as often as possible, no matter how tired/angry/upset/jaded I am, and even if I have to resort to writing like a child.

Andrea A 4 George Clooney 4Eva.

A Cynic's Melted Heart

To the untrained eye, I’m rather cynical.

I claim that love at first sight is a load of cods waddle, that being sent a bunch of roses would make me want to vomit into my 400 dhs shoes, that men who cry need to take a masculinity test, and that no, there is no such thing as a love that can better you as person. Pretty Woman was rescued by a beautiful looking Richard Gere in a limousine, when the truth is, if she were real she would have probably wound up a wrinkly crack addict, still on the game today.

How very different to the little girl I used to be.

I find it hard to try and figure out when exactly I came to bat for the side of cynicism. I cannot pinpoint one single event that made me turn from the girl who used to pretend that the 10 pound tiara her mum brought her from the Early Learning Centre, was in fact part of the Queen’s crown jewels, and that I was a Princess-in-waiting. Yes, Prince William was promised to me. He just didn’t know it.

I was the little girl who used to kick back on one of the sun loungers in our big green garden and let my head hang off the bottom. I’d then look up at the sky and watch the clouds make different shapes and make up stories about each and every one of them. When asked what I wanted to be when I was older, I’d list off something different every day.

‘Doctor!’, ‘Singer!’, ‘Actress!’, ‘Fashion Designer!’, ‘Rally Driver!'...

I have come to realise that my lack of decisiveness wasn’t because I didn’t have any direction or focus. In fact, I used to exclaim from a very young age that I most definitely would be going to university some day, to a ‘far, far, far away land’. The reason I had so many choices, was because I was such a big dreamer. I wanted to do it all. One lifetime didn’t seem like enough for me. Anything and everything seemed possible.

Now, cynicism prevails.

The batter of life has tried to change me from the girl full of dreams, to the girl who cannot even bring herself to believe that love, may in fact, be real.

The reason I bring this up is because yesterday was Valentine’s Day. As the years have gone by, I have grown to loathe it with a passion. So, when I woke up yesterday, I decided to pretend the day wasn’t happening. It was just any other day. I’d go to work zombie-fied, go through the notions, run out at 6pm, then watch the clock until it turned to midnight and the whole bastard thing was over with.

But then, something happened.

I received a text. From my mum.

‘Happy Valentine’s Day my darling girl, I love you so, so much, will call you later, love mom’.

I paused.

Because of all of my cynicism towards this ‘commercial crap’ of a day, I had completely forgotten what it is supposed to represent. This isn’t a day just for lovers. It is a day to celebrate any kind of love-an often forgotten and less reported human emotion.

I should know, I’m a journalist. Just log onto www.bbc.co.uk/news and try to count how many stories are about love. You will struggle to find many. Now as for the more negative spectrum of human emotion: hate, fear, jealousy, bitterness. That’s all there in abundance.

Love is the forgotten human emotion.

Yet, does it not exist? Without sounding too much like the trailer for ‘Love Actually’, if you do actually look around you, it’s always there. I only had to look on my phone to realise how loved I actually am. I only had to log onto Facebook and see a message from my cousin telling me ‘love u 2 much baby girl’ to see it again.

You see it when a dad is pushing his child in a pram, gleaming with pride. You see it when the elderly couple who are struggling to walk to the grocery store hold hands. You see it when families reunite at the airport’s arrival gates. You see it in a mother’s goodnight kiss to her child.

So why am I focusing on the negatives? Isn't that what evil and cynicism want?

I broke my reverie and decided to go for a coffee. As I walked past one of my colleague’s desks, I noticed her beaming smile. Her husband had sent her a beautiful arrangement of deep red roses. She looked ecstatic. It was almost infectious.

I then realised, I would not vomit if someone sent me an arrangement like that. This guy’s love for his wife was manifested through this bunch of flowers. Why would I not want that? How have I become so cynical to actually believe I do not want that?

My belief, as of yesterday, has changed.

Love is everywhere. And one day someone will love me enough to make Valentine’s Day take on that different special meaning. For now though, I’m one of the very lucky ones. I already have an abundance of love around me.

Now that’s something worth believing in.

A City On Heat

I’ve only been here on and off for about a year, but one of the things that struck me very early on is how much more, well, forward men are.

In any one given night out, the average Dubai gal will pick up numerous business cards, telephone numbers, stalkers and propositions for a bit of hot loving in the desert, on a camel, or under Garhoud Bridge. The amount of times I’ve opened my purse in the morning to find various business cards flying out at me are uncountable. Ahmed, Mohammed, James, Thierry, Justin etc etc. And yes, most of the time I’m sat asking Ahmed? Ahmed who?!

Now, this isn’t an excuse for me to sit and boast about my admirers (trust me, some of them are nothing to boast about). ANY girl living in Dubai (single, or otherwise-makes no difference even if you’re wearing a wedding ring) will find the same thing. The guys are persistent, pushy and will stop at nothing to get a chance with you. A combination of the fact that men outnumber women by about 3 to 1, desert heat, and ex-pat loneliness seem to send men wild out here. (well, more wild than normal)

One particular French guy that I met in Boudoir one night stands out in my mind. About five minutes before leaving the bar, I got talking to him through my free cocktail haze. We exchanged numbers, and I left.

Half an hour later, I already had a missed call from the guy. I ignored it, I was too busy dancing. The next day I woke up to three missed calls and a text message ‘Good morning beautiful’. At this stage I couldn’t even remember what the guy looked like, let alone anything else.

He persistently text every day for about a week asking what I was up to. By the seventh day I caved and sent a message back apologising, that I’d been really busy and maybe we could arrange something in the future. My bad, I know, but I hate being impolite!

About a week later I got a rather annoyed text from him. It was something along the lines of ‘hello Miss I’m so overbooked all the time, guessing you’re too important to meet me’. Now I don’t have many experiences with French guys, so I don’t know whether they think being ignored is a good thing. Brits tend to get the hint when they are ignored…well Brits living in Britain that is. It seems that once guys pass Dubai immigration, their crotch area takes over even more brain capacity than normal.

It took him two months to stop contacting me. I’d only been in touch once.

Another French guy could not take the fact that I didn’t want to meet him, so decided that it was my friend’s fault and began texting me insults about her. What a way to try and win me over!

We’ve been in all sorts of crazy situations. Guys chasing after us in cars, guys following us down the street, and even guys trying to follow us into our apartments.
There’s been Matrix guy, French guy, French guy number 2 (even more of an ass), Egyptian guy (who somehow found my work number and thought it would be a good idea to ring me there), Shisha guy(s), Local Hottie, Local Attire guy…The list is endless.

All in all, I find it quite amusing. But it’s hard for a gal like me who isn’t a subscriber to the ‘Fast Love’ plan to separate the players from the bigger players. For now, I guess I will just sit back and observe the fun until one of the normal ones gets off a plane.

Maybe my best bet is to go and snatch one before immigration?

The Taxi Mystery Solved

Following a couple of burgers and a side order of grease at TGI’s in the Crowne Plaza on Thursday night, we made our way into a waiting taxi.

As soon as we got in we were greeted to a rather amusing message from the cab’s GPS system.

‘You have just rejected a job. You have incurred a penalty.’ said the American robot.

The taxi driver collapsed into a fit of giggles.

Now I bloody know why the taxis that I order never turn up.

Welcome

Almost a year ago I had reached a stale mate in my life back home in the UK. I was trapped in Groundhog Day. More unfortunately for me, my version of GD consisted of rain, grey skies, a local government job and the drying up hope of a high flying, post-university life.

Through sheer fear of becoming boring (always my worse nightmare), I decided to pack my life and stilettos into a suitcase (yes, that’s all it took) and move to Dubai. I had nothing to lose, and everything to gain.

Here I am some time later, and I can easily say I achieved what I set out to. My life is no longer boring. In fact, it’s something completely off the other side of the scale. Living in Dubai is bizarre, exciting, intriguing, mesmerising, and at times scary (daily taxi cab user). I work hard, party even harder. And I’m finally on the job ladder I want to be on.

Being single, and female (and Western may I sheepishly add) means some of the experiences I have are, well, worth a mention. I live in the city where Fast Love should be its theme tune and where varying versions of morals (or lack of), beliefs and customs collide in the 48 degree desert heat. So I’ve decided to share my experiences, wonderings and ponderings and general gossip with you all. Those who know me, know I love to talk ;)

I could sit and give a running commentary of my time here so far-it already makes an interesting read. However, I have every confidence that sources of material will not dry up. In fact, things are just about to heat up.

Happy reading. :)