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.