Driving me CRAZY!!!

Somebody help me! I want to kill my driver instructor!!! No, seriously, someone needs to write an instruction manual on how to deal with sleaze diseased driving instructors here in Bahrain. I am not asking for much, just some suggestions on what to say when for example your driving instructor declares he is in love with you!

Okay so before you say it, I have tried changing instructors. But my instructor has the upper hand on me since he has my logbook and learners license, so here’s lesson 1:

1. Don’t ever, ever, under any circumstances, no matter how much he insists, leave your log book and license with your instructor because you will never get it back .

So I had the mother of all arguments with my instructor recently, it was the result of him never ever picking up the phone or if he does promising to call me back but never doing so. The final straw was when he absolutely promised to sign off my hours so I could get a date for my driving test before I went to UK recently, I just had to go and meet him at the driving school which was fine, but after all the arrangements had been made, he didn’t take my calls, he didn’t meet me at the designated spot and I didn’t get a test date. I was furious as I had changed all my work plans for the day in question and when I finally managed to get hold of him 2 days later he just said he had been busy. I exploded and unfortunately I might have called him ‘childish’, ‘lazy’ and ‘stupid’ a few too many times. We both agreed it was best if I changed instructor. But getting my logbook has been a mission in itself. This leads me to lesson 2:

2.  There is no point what so ever losing your cool with a driving instructor, or any Arab man for that matter. Shouting gets you NOWHERE. If anything, this only amuses the instructor and only encourages him to be more childish, lazy and stupid.

After agreeing to give it another go with my instructor- simply because he apologised and I wanted my book, during our next lesson, it seemed my instructor had mistaken my anger as ‘passion’. ‘You like to argue with me, huh?’ he said, ‘You have fire…you have passion… I like!’ Great. And speaking of passion, lesson 3:

3. Don’t wear the colour red during a lesson (especially a red dress) the colour red does to an instructor (well my instructor) what it does to a bull in a bull ring when shown the red cape by the matador… makes him go crazy! ‘You look really pretty in red’, ‘Red look beautiful on you’ ‘I can’t help what my heart feels…I love you’!!!

Needless to say my faces shade of red was more impressive than my dress. I could see where the conversation was heading when he told me he was having problems with ‘this girl’, apparently she made him nervous, she always shouts and he doesn’t know how to talk to her. I ignored the feeling he was talking about me, but retaliated jokingly with ‘what about your poor wife?’ He responded by telling me- again, that in Islam he can have 4 wives. I AM NOT GOING TO BE YOUR WIFE!! How many times do we have to go through this!? I was also tempted to point out that if he loves me like he says he does then why the hell don’t you answer my calls!!!?

4. If possible, try to come to your own set of rules for driving. There seems to be no particular set of rules here, the supposed rules change all the time leaving you wanting to pull your hair out. I can’t tell you the different ways I have been taught to park a car in reverse. In actual fact my instructor likes to park the car for me taking control of the steering wheel from the passenger seat and then says ‘very good’!

Driving here is not like driving in the UK…at all. In Bahrain, it’s almost compulsory to talk on your mobile whilst driving, to let your children sit on your lap in the passenger seat, to drive with no seat belts or to pretend you are Michael Schumacher with lightening speeds and impressive lane swapping manoeuvres. Yes, I have to say that I am slightly anxious about the level at which I am being taught to drive, the only things I am learning are to park a car in reverse and to go up a hill (I would like to point out there are no hills in Bahrain). Can I really drive in Bahrain with only these two pieces of information? Anyway, lesson 5:

5. If you are a girl and don’t like incessant staring then I suggest you grow a side fringe, wear a hat of some kind or wear sunglasses that will block the view of him gawping at you. Trust me, he will stare…a lot.

6. If you are unmarried, pretend to be married. Buy a fake wedding ring, it may sound extreme, but when you are constantly been told that in Islam a boyfriend means nothing, maybe a husband sounds better. What would also sound better is saying ‘If you ask me one more time to meet with me ‘as friends’, I will tell my husband and he will sort you out!’ You may however be left with no instructor.

7. Try not to panic too much when you know you are supposed to do 22 hours at the very least to be confident on the road, but your instructor just casually signs them all off when in actual fact you have only done 14 hours. He then declares you are ready, books you in for your test and disappears off the face of the earth. Its okay you don’t know how to handle hills yet, continue to stall the car or get confused on roundabouts… my instructor knows when I am ready right!?

Yep, my instructor has gone missing. I have been booked in for my test with promises to make up the real hours in time for the test. But he doesn’t pick up my calls, he doesn’t return my calls, he ignores my polite text messages, if he picks up he is driving and promises to call back…but he never calls back!! I am also stressed as I hear you have your driving test with a police officer which kind of scares me, they have nice, new shiny cars and well, I have been learning in an old, rusty not so shiny car. My instructor’s car breaks down often and chokes uncontrollably, whenever I doubt my driving skills my instructor will say ‘it’s not you, it’s the car’. So where does that leave me!? A genius friend of mine recently suggested I hire a manual car and get Adi to take me to a patch of land for a practice. It was a fantastic idea, but guess what!? All of the 25 car hire companies I called in Bahrain do not have manual cars (they are all automatic) and the only one I did find was booked for months. So with about a week to go, I am car-less, instructor-less, use-less, 8 hours-less and I am doomed to fail! So all you Bahraini drivers out there…HELP ME!!! Has anyone took lessons here in Bahrain, took the test and passed? Can anyone give me a heads up on what to expect in the test? Your help would be much appreciated.

Designer Queen

I would prefer to warn you boys now; this post is one for the girls.

My boss. She is a lean, keen, damned sexy Louboutin wearing Queen. And a Chanel Queen, a Dior Queen and any other designer queen you can think of. She is honed, toned and groomed to within an inch of her life. She commands looks when she walks, people bow when she passes and if your name is not ‘Jacob’ or ‘Co’ then don’t even think about looking at her!

So my boss has given me an extremely important job recently; I am in charge of getting rid of her collection of bags. Her collection of 10 Hermes ‘Birkin’ bags. I nearly fell of my chair when she told me… 10 Hermes bags!!! It turns out she is obsessed with Hermes and this particular bag and has one in every colour. For those of you not too clued up on Hermes bags (or those of you who have not watched Sex in the City), let me relay to you the lesson I was given by my boss; So the reason they are so sought after is because there is a 2 year waiting list for these bags, unless you are well connected like my boss, you may have to resort to bribery to get your hands on one of these bad boys. The reason there is a 2 year waiting list is because they are made by hand by experienced craftsman which can take some time, this results in unpredictable delivery schedules. The bag itself is made from luxury leathers, lined with goatskin and the metallic hardware is made from precious metals. She concluded the lesson by exclaiming ‘Oh that reminds me, I need to book a ticket to the Hermes show in Paris next week!’ Nice, I thought to myself, just like that, as if she just remembered to brush her teeth!

Anyway, I am a bit clueless as how to go about selling these bags, I mean she is charging BD3000 per bag (that’s approx £5,200), does anyone in Bahrain actually have that kind of cash floating around spare!? (silly question of course they do) I did wonder since she loved her bags so much then why was she selling them, ‘Oh I am collecting exotics now’. Exotics? I just nodded and was like ‘oh yeah sure, exotics!’ and then sent an email to my friend to ask her what this meant, it means exotic skins! Crocodiles, snakeskin’s etc that kind of thing. Okay so the latest Asprey bag makes sense now. I am not a Hermes Birkin bag fan myself but I did pray that night that since she has so many she might give me one as a thank you for getting rid of her bags.

One of the perks of my jobs, if you can call it a perk, is laying my hands on some delicious designer merchandise. And if it’s not my hands, it’s certainly my eyes. I no longer have to wish I had the courage to walk into a Chanel Boutique just to have a browse as now I am able to view all Chanel merchandise on my boss; bags, shoes, clothes, jewellery…everything! And if I was ever to struggle to find out what the latest Jacob and Co watch is (I wouldn’t struggle-but you never know), then look no further; it will be on my bosses wrist. Don’t even get me started on the shoes. Okay then, let’s get started on the shoes.

My boss generally only wears Christian Louboutin shoes. If it’s not Louboutin she will settle for Stuart Weitzsman, Jimmy Choos, Fendi or even Christian Dior. She must think I have real issues with my confidence as I am always looking towards the floor, what she doesn’t realise is that I am actually looking at her shoes wondering if they really are her 150^th pair as seriously, I have never seen her wear the same pair of shoes twice. I had the privilege of trying on a pair of Louboutins myself recently since we were fortunate enough to secure a loan of 4 pairs for a photo shoot we did. They were only on loan so we had to really look after them, and guess who had the job of looking after them? Me!!! Before taking them to the shoot, the PA and I had a bit of a laugh and giggle attempting to try on these shoes. As soon as we saw that red sole, we lost all control of our emotions and squealed like toddlers, we were desperate to touch them, smell them, and marvel at the dangerously sexy 5 inch heels. We never had a £800 pair of shoes in our hands before, and here we were, with 4 pairs! We even discussed running away with them, selling them on Ebay and we would be set for a year, but we decided against it when faced with the prospect of being chucked into a Bahraini jail. So we settled on pretending we owned them and took photos as souvenirs instead. It was all quite comical, as here was I, a big foot size 8 and there was the PA, a tiny size 3, both of us wanting to be Cinderella where the shoe fits! It’s amazing what a pair of shoes can do for your confidence. As soon as I had managed to squeeze my fat feet into them, well, I just felt like a different woman. Damn, these shoes made my foot look so fine. They gave my foot this arch, my legs looked slimmer and longer, they miraculously make you feel confident, sexy and powerful…however this feeling only lasts 2 minutes as elation turns to pain and that 5 inch stiletto heel works it magic and does what it’s supposed to do; torture you. Oh well, at least I had one on my foot. And I have photos as proof! I have accepted that I will probably never own a pair of Louboutins. So I purchased the next best thing recently; a Christian Louboutin Barbie…she has 3 pairs of shoes!

It seems her clients are also partial to a designer label or two. I visited my boss’s house once for a design meeting and I felt like I was in the womenswear department of Harrods, and not the ready-to-wear department, the couture department!  Lanvin, Valentino, Givenchy and Christian Dior gowns. I did wonder for what occasions the Arab women wear such lavish dresses but felt a bit ignorant asking so just did as I was asked. It was my job to design the abayas that would be worn over these magnificent dresses and really, I can only say it was a pleasure to be in the company of such works of art. And if you think an abaya is just a plain, simple garment then think again, I was asked to design sheer abayas, abayas with cut out backs, abayas made in lace. In the end they were anything but an abaya.

You are perhaps thinking that my boss has more money than sense. Well no, she has sense. She does Pilates at 9am, a facial at midday, and the gym at 3pm. Yet she still picks up her kids from school, still does private fittings with her clients and always makes sure the workshop is in smooth running order. And if she can do all this in 5 inch high heeled Louboutins, well good on her! I was slightly shocked when my boss recently confessed to shopping on UK high street favourite clothing site; ASOS (where you can pick up a dress for about BD12). This made me happy and is quite refreshing to see amongst the designer labels!

Since being exposed to the high life and my boss’s bling bling beauty I have tried in some ways to make a bit more of an effort with my appearance. But I never quite manage it. I think it’s the abaya, my boss looks all majestic and magical with this black cloak swooshing behind her as she struts, it also helps that she has a Hermes hanging off her arm. My boss has said she will make one of her Abayas for me to try; I am quite excited by this prospect but I am more inclined to think I can never pull it off and will look more like a witch rather than a Middle East Princess!

It’s fascinating to be an observer in my boss’s opulent lifestyle, but that’s all I will ever will be; an observer. In the lives of the rich and famous, money talks. Money buys you manicured nails, money buys you lusciously groomed hair, money buys your daily facials to eliminate any signs of tiredness, and that’s after you have bought Hermes, Cartier and couture. And the conclusion? I have no money. So if it is my destiny to look dishevelled, tired and scruffy, well so be it (sigh).

Gaga over Gaga

I only ever started this blog as a light hobby, something to pass the time away whilst I was looking for a job all those months ago. I didn’t think there was enough going on in Bahrain or in my life for that matter to allow the blog to remain interesting. Of course whether my blog is interesting or not is a matter of opinion, but I certainly find my experiences here varied, difficult and if anything, entertaining. Sometimes my life makes for boring reading, sometimes funny, but most of the times I simply want to inform you of the cultural differences here and how I deal with them. I like to think of myself as an observer of life here in Bahrain. And no, I don’t mean a privileged, sheltered life of a British expat. I find myself in the rather unique position of being able to observe the Bahraini way of life first hand, interact and witness them in both a business and family environment. It would be unfair to say that the people I deal with give a fair representation of the average Bahraini, maybe they do, maybe they don’t, but at least for now they have opened my eyes to some of the customs and practises of this crazy little Kingdom.

So anyway, as time goes on, I am happy to see my blog followers continue to join me in my adventures. Having become slightly obsessed with my daily statistics and reading some of the lovely messages you readers send me, I have become more and more serious about keeping my blog up to date. In doing so, I am able to see how many people view my blog per day, which posts are the most popular and what links people use to get to my blog. The most interesting aspect of this analysis is seeing what people type into the search engines to get to my blog. There are the usual key words; ‘Bahrain’, ‘living in Bahrain’, ‘life in Bahrain’. I have also had a sneaky ‘Bahrain escort girls’ search made and then a tearful ‘I am lost in life’ to which I really wanted to reply ‘Tell me about it!’

Most recently, I have had a rather funny, albeit a tad annoying daily search of ‘cartoon Christmas tree’ which for some reason leads to my blog. Now this just doesn’t generate one hit to my blog, I am getting daily hits of 15 or more from just this one search. I refuse to believe that someone is actually typing this into the search engine daily for the last 2 weeks since firstly Christmas has been and gone weeks ago, secondly, who would do that!? Perhaps someone out there has a fetish for a particular ‘cartoon Christmas tree’; if so I would love to see this invisible tree since it leads to my blog ten times daily. I don’t particularly enjoy the feeling of being stalked by a phantom Christmas tree cartoon!

So you see it can be quite fun to be musing over who is looking at my blog. It’s also really fascinating as you kind of get to peak into someone’s mind through the search they have made. However no search has been more fascinating and thought provoking as the one I received recently.  I was very excited and very intrigued when someone was led to my blog by typing this into the search engine: ‘TELEPHONE LADY GAGA FROM BAHRAIN’ Wow!!! My mind has boggled ever since and I have asked anyone who will listen why would someone type that into the search engine!? This had really brightened my day as it was clear someone really does have a colourful imagination, that persons imagination has now set off  my imagination (though not so colourful), and I have racked my brains ever since thinking of logical reasons to why someone would type this into Google. I think I may have to accept that just like Lady Gagas outfits, there is no logic. (You may also be wondering why such a search would lead to my blog, you will just to have read my post ‘First day holiday drama’)

Okay so some of the theories are:

- Someone was seriously drunk. Most likely to be a Saudi guy who under no circumstances would even be able to entertain the idea of telephoning Lady Gaga in Saudi Arabia, so during his next trip to the city of sin- Bahrain, he really did want to telephone Lady Gaga but was so drunk he didn’t know how to use his phone so therefore had to download some instructions off the internet

- Some ridiculously rich Arab wants to pay Lady Gaga to come and perform at his daughter’s birthday party a la Dubai style!

- Someone living in Bahrain is a fantasist, has a thing for Lady Gaga, and possibly has some mental health issues and voices in their head told them to ‘telephone lady Gaga from Bahrain’

- She is to be lured here and shipped off over the causeway where she will be whipped 90 times for being a bad influence on society…the youngsters here have gone crazy for Gaga style bow hair accessories made from hair and quite frankly it’s annoying. So off with her head!

- Someone meant to call/mistook a local call girl named Lady Gargle for Lady Gaga, having lost Lady Gargles number, said person meant to call Lady Gargle but inadvertently typed in Lady Gaga. Of course I am not completely sure if Lady Gargle exists here in Bahrain but it’s one theory at least

- The most likely reason somebody typed this into the search engine was because they wanted a Lady Gaga ringtone or possibly to download one of her songs, it turns out she has a song called ‘Telephone’ on her album. I guess this would be the most logical reason (and the most boring) so I am just going to go with one of the others!

For the most part, many are absolutely gobsmacked at why would someone would want to telephone Lady Gaga-from Bahrain. So everybody, over to you…any ideas?

Crocodile tears…almost!

So, I have just come back from the UK where I enjoyed a very frantic yet stressful 5 days. I had to go to the UK on very short notice for personal reasons, so apologies for the delay in my latest post!

Anyway, there was nothing more frantic than having to deal with my boss whilst I was away. Two days in and I had received 5 missed calls from our office in Bahrain, the blood drained from my face as soon as they saw them as I was already stressed with other priorities. I was not surprised to be honest; I had a hard time trying to convince them to give me the time off and they didn’t really understand the term ‘emergency’. I took it off unpaid in the end and it’s not like we are really busy at the moment, never the less my boss didn’t want to let me go. So I knew I wasn’t going to be let off the hook that easily and sure enough I wasn’t.

Now the task that I was given sounds simple enough on paper, but in practice it was a bit of a nightmare. I called my boss  back, this is the brother boss, not the designer boss and he asks me to do him a tiiiiiiiiiny favour by going to Bond Street in London and picking up a bag from Asprey. The designer boss had ordered a bag and it was much easier for it to be collected in person rather than having it delivered to Bahrain. Why the brother boss was dealing with this was beyond me since it was for his sister, but anyway.  He then wanted me to claim back the VAT on it when I went to Heathrow airport, a job that would take no longer than 2 minutes he assured me. Okay, so this sounded simple enough, except I wasn’t in London to do it but I could arrange for it be collected and at least he wasn’t asking me to do some ‘real’ work. So I arranged for my sister to collect the bag. My boss sent me an email informing the manager of the shop that I would be going to collect it. It was then I realised we were not dealing with just any old bag, we were dealing with a bag that cost £6,000 pounds according to this email. £6,000!! Yikes, I could buy a small car with that money! I immediately informed my sister to guard this bag with her life as if there was to be any damage to it, I would be sure to lose my job.

I left the task in my sister’s capable hands and had forgotten all about it until I received a text from her informing me that she had it. She also informed me that the £6k we had seen in the email was in fact only part payment and the bag actually costs £11,000!!! She likened the experience of carrying this bag down Bond Street to carrying the crown jewels themselves! I was then quite excited to see this £11k bag and was looking forward to having it in my hands.

I returned to London that same day and was greeted with a plush purple velvet bag containing the prized treasure. I opened the velvet bag carefully and was greeted with a garish sandy brown coloured handle. I yanked the bag out and was a little disappointed with what I saw. Is this what she paid £11k for!? I can only describe the bag as a bit of a Hermes Kelly copy (or maybe Hermes copied Asprey), it was a yucky sick colour and the leather was shiny and textured with what looked like a crocodile skin effect. It was fairly big, certainly looked glamorous, but to be honest did not look like £11k well spent. Also who or what is Asprey!? I am familiar with the quintessentially English brand, but I didn’t realise they sold bags that cost as much as a car! It was a bit granified and was in no way hip and happening! I checked the receipt and sure enough it was £11k. Anyway, regardless of whether I liked the bag or not I still had to treat like a small child; watch it at all times! I was now responsible for some serious money here.

I made my way to Heathrow the next morning with the bag practically super glued to my arm; I had to take a taxi, I was paranoid that someone might have x-ray vision and see through the Asda carrier bag I had put it in and snatch it from me! I also had to forgo any of my personal hand baggage allowance for this ridiculous bag, which meant I exceeded my checked in allowance meaning I had to fork out 30 quid! Still baffled by the £11k price tag, I went through security and made my way to customs to have the VAT for this bag refunded. I felt slightly sheepish handing over the receipt, I wanted to tell the woman behind the desk that this was not my bag and I would never spend £11k on a bag. And as if she read my mind, the woman behind the desk screeched ‘£11,000 for a bag!?’ in a loud, cockney accent. I rolled my eyes in my head, why did she have to shout!? This certainly got people’s attention as everybody in the queue behind me stretched their necks to get a good look. The women then asked to see the bag, I am fairly certain everyone behind me also wanted to see this bag. I got it out and she examined it thoroughly, she didn’t really know what to make of it, but her face said it all; how stupid is this girl!!? I dared not turn around to see the expressions on the other peoples face, but I chanced it anyway. It seemed that everybody in the queue were slaves to fashion with handfuls of Prada, Louis Vuitton and Hermes, all wanting VAT refunds. I wasn’t a slave to fashion but since everyone else was, maybe I should have acted as if the bag was mine after all! It was very clear that someone had more money than sense and I wanted to tell her that that person wasn’t me…I had sense!  If I had £11k I would buy myself something useful!

I could have told them that the bag wasn’t mine, but I had to pretend it was since this is the only way I can claim back the VAT, at this point I felt like my job depended on the success of this mission. She started to place the bag inside the velvet bag when she stopped and said ‘Is this crocodile skin?’ To be honest I didn’t know if it was crocodile skin or not and tried not to look too surprised by her comment. And so what if it was? She then asked me whether I had a certificate for the bag, ‘errrrmmmm….’ I started to panic as firstly I had a plane to catch, secondly I didn’t actually know if there was a certificate for the  bag and thirdly there was no way I could return to Bahrain without the bag as I would be returned to England without my head! The customs lady then delved deep into the velvet bag and found what was supposed to be a certificate, except it was a photocopy of the original certificate. She eyed me suspiciously saying that she needed to make some phone calls, ‘sure’ I choked as I heard everyone behind me start tutting, ‘why?’ I asked, ‘because some skins are ILLEGAL and you don’t have an original certificate!’ I could have fainted on the spot as images of me in Brixton prison started flashing through my head. ‘Okay’ I gulped and went to sit down. It then dawned on me that this wasn’t really a nice position to be in. I cursed my boss for putting through this and then cursed myself for not checking the bag. Anyway, it was highly unlikely that a British luxury brand was going to produce a bag made from illegal skin, but I find it quite vulgar that someone can spend £11k on a bag for the purposes of vanity, because really, what else can it be for? I have never given it much thought really, but sitting there being questioned over this silly bag puts it all into perspective. It really is pointless to kill an animal for its skin for the purpose of fashion, especially a skin that is obviously sought after and rare, many of the fashionistas out there would argue that’s its tasteful, glamorous and a status symbol, I would say it’s vulgar, tasteless and laughable. I vowed to join PETA when this was all over (such moments of enlightenment never last however) This was some crocodile!

After 20 minutes, the woman came back with a man and I knew I was in for a bumpy ride. The man asked me to follow him, seized the bag and escorted me to a room. The people in the queue were looking at me, clearly excited by this little drama. I was then interrogated for about 20 minutes; ‘For what reason did you buy the bag?’, ‘Where do you live?’, ‘Who is the bag for?’, ‘Can you prove you live in Bahrain?’, ‘What do you do in Bahrain?’, ‘Can you give me a contact from whom you bought the bag?  I answered the questions calmly and truthfully and thank god I had my business cards with me. It turns out that the skin on the bag was acceptable and they would let me take it through. They were however suspicious of the fact that I had a British passport and were reluctant to believe I lived in Bahrain (I know, I can’t quite believe it myself I wanted to say) even after showing them my Bahrain working visa they still needed more ID, I was able to prove this with my business cards at least. It was all because of the VAT refund, it was after all £1,600. They processed the refund and let me go. Phew!! I was shaken up for quite a while afterwards, it was nothing serious I suppose, but not a nice position to be in.

I came into the office this morning and showed everybody the bag. They couldn’t believe the price until I showed them the receipt. They all did what I did, looked at the bag and said ‘oh’. They started tapping into their calculators working out £11k into the currency of their countries; they all marvelled as they stated ‘I could buy a car’, ‘I could buy a house!’, ‘I could buy a wife!’ I took some quick photos as souvenirs as I am sure I will never hold £11k again. My boss came in this morning and I handed him the bag. I told him of my little trauma at Heathrow in a tone that said ‘you said it would only take 2 minutes!’ he just laughed and walked away, no thanks, no gratitude that I risked my freedom for his crocodile! I didn’t even have the chance to tell him how much I had spent transporting the beast and that he needed to pay me back.

Oh well. Such are the lives of the rich and famous (that’s him not me!)

He who stares

Work is going well. I am settling in the best I can, and have been able to be very hands on so far with regards to what I am doing; designing, organising our fashion show and photo shoots, model castings, and writing press releases. This is more than I can ask for to be honest and am pleasantly surprised and very happy to be given the responsibility. However, I have witnessed a few telltale scenes here and there and have noticed some differences in the way I am being treated compared to the Indian and Filipino employees. For example, there appears to be a completely different set of vocabulary used for me compared to the set used for the others. The words ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ are frequently used when addressing me, but not once I have I heard them used for the others. Polite enquiries of ‘How was your weekend?’ are asked on Sunday mornings and pleasant ‘How are you?’s exchanged, but then the PA is completely ignored even though she is in the same room as me. It’s not unusual for me to be greeted with a warm handshake from the chairman, yet the only handshake the others get to see is the one with a wagging finger on the end usually accompanied with ‘do this, do that, come here, go there’. And when summoned to my bosses office, I will receive a polite phone call where as my colleagues will often get a hammering on the wall from the office next to ours which is their signal to ‘come’. I suppose that these are things I will have to get used to, but I have not got used to them yet, and I am wondering whether I will ever get used to them.

The one thing that I have to get used to is the staring I receive or feels like I am receiving from the new office boy. It’s worth noting that staring in Bahrain is a national sport, with everyone wanting to take part; my instructor, my boss, the men, even the women! It’s not something I can compete in myself. On attempting a stare out on several occasions with a challenger, I will always look away after 3 seconds, they win, and there is nothing I can do but to accept defeat.

So back to the office boy. Here in Bahrain, the term office boy usually refers to someone who makes tea/coffee and does general housekeeping for the office. So we have a new office boy, except he isn’t a boy, more like a man, a man of about 40 years old. He is from Bangladesh, doesn’t speak English and seems like a decent kind of guy. I do however have one problem, he stares…a lot. Not at me so much, but at what I am doing. My first experience of this happened when I was doing my catwalk research one day; I felt a presence behind me, as if someone was staring. I turned around and sure enough I saw this man staring through the clear bit of the glass that separates the office from the corridor, and all I could see was the top of his head from the eyes and upwards. I jumped out of my skin as firstly it was a shock; secondly I hadn’t a clue who this guy was! The fact I had almost suffered a heart attack didn’t seem to affect him at all as he just continued to stare, I couldn’t make out if he was staring at me or the hot ladies walking the catwalk on my computer screen. Anyway it turns out he was the new office boy.

Then followed the occasions when I try to make my own coffee. I rush to the kitchen to put the kettle on but then he will come rushing after me saying ‘no, no!’ and then we have a bit of a tug of war with my mug with both of us insisting we make my coffee. He always wins as I can’t stand to upset him as it seems he is desperate to make the coffee. However, the daily competitions of who will make my coffee have since ceased, he has now memorised my schedule for the 8 daily slots for coffee and sneaks off to make it and brings it to me himself. But this can be an ordeal in itself; he will present the coffee and usually wait for my reaction, I will always be overly enthusiastic which should be his signal then to leave me alone, but no, he will continue to stare for about 5 minutes whilst I sip my coffee just to make sure I am not lying. These 5 minutes are usually very uncomfortable; no amount of pretending to be busy gives him the hint to go and my squirming in my seat goes unnoticed. It is started to be less frequent recently, so we may be making progress.

I have tried on the odd occasion to break our uncomfortable silences. There was the time when he was just staring at my computer screen whilst I was typing up a word document. I couldn’t for the life of me work out what could be so fascinating about my word document so I decided to attempt a conversation. ‘Good weekend?’ I said breezily. ‘Errrrr, ermmmm, weekend?’ I then proceeded to try and explain what a weekend was, but then it all became confusing as everything I said was thrown back to me as a question, ‘weekend?’, ‘Friday?’, ‘holiday?’ And the more I tried to explain the more flustered I become, he would just stare at me like I was an alien, I then gave up and said ‘forget it’ to which he replied ‘forget?’ I tried to demonstrate ‘forget’ by shaking my head and waving my hands, but this confused him and he just copied my gestures waving back to me. Okay, so it was clear I would have to leave in order to make him forget, so I pointed to the toilet to indicate that I was going to the toilet, ‘toilet?’ he inquired, yes the toilet I thought to myself, this is exhausting and I need to go and rest in the toilet!! I then proceeded to go to the bathroom but I could hear him following me, I got to the toilet and sure enough he was right behind me. It was okay though, he didn’t follow me in. But he was still there when I came out.

Bit by bit his English has improved, but it’s still fair to say that when trying to explain things, it has all become a bit like a game of charades. One that he finds amusing and just giggles at, I may even have earned myself the title of office clown as I continue to make failed attempts to act out ‘please let me get my own water’ with my silly gestures of me drinking a glass of water and shaking my head saying ‘no water, no water’. Inevitably, he will bring me a glass of water. Everyone laughs, I just want to cry!  He also calls me ‘mam’ and kind of bows when he speaks to me, I hate this and have tried to tell him to call me by my name, I thought we had made some progress and he understood what was been said as he was nodding saying ‘yes, yes’, but when the conversation ended and I said ‘understand?’, he simply replied ‘yes, mam’. Oh well, I tried.

Recently, the secretary and I have been giving him simple lessons in English by teaching him how to ask questions. So now his staring has turned into talking which is great as he is practising his English. It turns out he likes politics and geography and in broken English he reels off all the presidents of the world and the geographic sizes of all the countries in the world. He once asked us about the geographic sizes of our respective countries-England and the Philippines. It was our turn to be confused, we just looked at him like he was the alien ‘errrmmmmmm….’ was the answer to that particular question. He just giggled and walked off. We have a created a monster it seems, but a nice monster at least.

An afternoon at the Mosque

I had meant to list this post in my year of 2009 since the incident happened last year, however as always I have been a bit short of time, so this one is a bit late coming. I wanted to share it with you as a means of detoxing and ridding myself of all the embarrassing encounters I seemed to be having in the month of December. This year promises to be great, and I plan not to be so stupid or at the very least try not to get myself into any tricky situations!

So, December saw me red-faced at the French school when I was caught out by some very tiny white lies. I was also humiliated in front of my entire building at 2 in the morning when I inadvertently triggered the fire alarm and then just to end December off nicely, I was humiliated in front of half the population here in Bahrain at the Grand Mosque Al Fateh! Oh yes, God has been kind to me lately.

The following incident took place a few Fridays ago. Fridays here in the Middle East are holy days, they can be likened to Sundays in Christianity which traditionally sees it as the day of rest, or more precisely the day of God where they will go to early morning mass.  Here in Bahrain, Muslims tend to take their Fridays very seriously, usually any good Muslim will pray daily, and this is even more the case on Friday with all Muslims attending the mosque. We have one such mosque here called the Al Fateh Mosque; it’s very beautiful and extremely regal looking. It was this mosque that Adis friends wanted to visit a few Fridays ago. They were quite adamant that they should go and visit during prayer time (which would have been midday), just so they could get the full experience.  Now I was keen to see the Mosque as much as them but I did protest slightly, I felt that we shouldn’t go during prayer time, I don’t know, I just felt as non-Muslims it was a bit intrusive to go and stare whilst the true believers were praying, it was after all a Friday, their true holy day. But what do I know, apparently this was okay so my protestations fell on deaf ears and off we went.

I had stressed about what I should wear as to be honest I had nothing that was below the knee. It would also seem that everything I own is tight and in Adis opinion ‘a bit low-cut’ (though I would have to disagree). After been told by Adi that full length leggings do not translate to full length skirt, we settled on an ‘interesting’ combination. In the end I looked like a pregnant woman with a tunic top usually reserved for my cleaning days and bobbly, baggy jersey trousers I usually wear for bed. I was also forced to wear socks with pumps as I couldn’t show my ankles and my headscarf was to be my only pashmina of electric blue which clearly clashed with my already hideous colour combination of brown, grey marl and navy. There was no way anyone I knew could see me like this (although admittedly this is unlikely since I know nobody!) so I put on my sunglasses. Adis visiting French friends humoured me by saying I looked great, but the tone of their voices (almost giggling) suggested otherwise. Easy for them to say in their sensible chinos!

We arrived at about 11.50am and we were one of many running to the Mosques entrance. I had prepared myself in order to cover up when needed with my headscarf at the ready. The boys were excited, but I have to say I was nervous. This was mainly because I was in the presence of so many men, actually all men, it turns out the women have to pray in a separate part of the mosque. It was these men who were giving me inquisitive, unsure looks. Their looks made me very uncomfortable, not because they were looking at me inappropriately (which they weren’t), but simply because I felt like a bit of a fraud and an imposter. I was hoping that they could not see us for what we really were-tourists, but of course they could, here was 2 French guys dressed in chinos with jumpers hanging from their necks and sunglasses on top of their heads, then there was Adi who was wearing trousers with a tailored shirt who looked like he was dressed for a business meeting. Then there was me who just looked like a rabbit caught in headlights; startled and unsure about why I was there let alone what I should do there. Let’s just say we really stuck out amongst the sea of white Thawbs.

We were greeted with row upon row of sandals and slippers and we had to take ours off also. I did wonder how long it takes each person to find their shoes since they all look the same. But for me it would be easy, mine were the only red pair! Once we had entered it was time for us to part ways as I had to go to the women’s section. I started to panic as it became clear I would have to walk across the courtyard in full view of all these men-without Adi! But Adi just walked off as his friends had already gone into the men’s section. Okay, so take a deep breath. I turned and started to walk across the courtyard, I was exceptionally nervous; I became conscious of how I was walking, I felt clumsy in my socks, my hands felt awkward as they twitched involuntary. God, how I wish I was wearing an Abaya now! I could feel the men following me with their stares. I could see the door to the women’s section and I was almost there and started to prepare the headscarf. Then as if out of nowhere, these 2 security guys came up to me and asked me very gruffly ‘Are you Muslim?’ Oh dear….’errrrmmmm….no?’. I had thought about lying and saying that I was but it seemed inappropriate to lie in a house of god. ‘Out!’ was the answer to that. Blood instantly flushed to my cheeks and I felt like I might die from the embarrassment I felt in front of all these men looking at me! These 2 men then proceeded to make these ‘shooing’ gestures with their hands as if I was a sheep been herded into a pen. And shoo me out they did! I was trying to protest but all I came out with was ‘b, b, b, but….’But what!? What could I say; I was hardly clued up on mosque etiquette. So I did as they requested and turned around to walk out. Now I know why the term ‘walk of shame’ exists, because that’s exactly how it feels, I felt like a criminal being paraded in front of the jury. And the men, they were just staring, they didn’t look so curious anymore, they had more of ‘that will teach you look’ about them. Deciding that I was perhaps not humiliated enough, the 2 security guards escorted me all the way to the mosque door, made sure I put on my shoes (or maybe to make sure I didn’t steal any shoes!) and pointed to the door ‘out!’ So out I went where I remained for 20 minutes before I was joined by the boys.

My cheeks didn’t return to their normal colour for about 10 minutes. I felt silly and was slightly annoyed with the boys for putting through this. And where were they anyway? Surly if I was kicked out for not being Muslim then they would also. I waited outside for about 20 minutes where I sat and observed the many people running to the mosques, all oblivious to my trauma! I have to say that it was a strange experience and to be observing from outside the mosque was oddly therapeutic and fascinating. Despite the earlier trauma, I didn’t let it affect me; I was having a pleasant enough time outside. I enjoyed seeing the hustle and bustle eventually gave way to silence where one could hear the Imam preaching and I only wished I knew what he was saying. I am not a religious person, but I am happy to admit that it is sometimes nice to be witness to the practises of someone else’s religion.

The boys eventually came galloping out all bouncy and jolly! I told them that I had been chucked out; they were disappointed on my behalf for about a second before proceeding to relay their own experiences inside. It sounded like they had a great time! They had been welcomed inside and encouraged to pray, with some fellow worshippers showing them the correct positions for prayer. They said that inside was very beautiful and decorative and I should have seen it…hmmm, yes I would if I had been allowed.

So why wasn’t I welcomed in like the boys!? Did they look more believable as Muslims than me? I guess I will never know the answer. I feel slightly miffed and am baffled as to why I wasn’t allowed into the mosque. I can in some respects understand why I may have been asked to leave, but then on the other hand I thought the house of god was open to everybody, or maybe it was just tourists it wasn’t open to, I was after all in there with a massive camera in my hand! Or maybe it was due to one of the following:

-          I was badly dressed- they got scared, unsure of who or what I was

-          I look Chinese

-          I am a woman

-          I was carrying a huge camera

-          My nervous body language

-          I am not a Muslim

What do you think? I think I will never attempt to enter a mosque again.

New Year, new life

Oh how 2009 has been a funny year for me, full of ups and downs but I am still undecided whether I have had more downs than ups. This year has seen me make a life changing decision; saying goodbye to everyone and everything I love in the UK and moving to the Middle East. To my friends, family, and those observing, it would seem that I have had a very busy year indeed. Yet strangely enough I feel that this year has been slow, at least from a personal progression point of view, actually I feel I have made no progress at all this year. So I am going to call 2009 a year of transition.

Here is a summary of my year.

Highlights of 2009:

Hmmmm, now there must be some…oh yeah, here they are!

-          Being re-united with my boyfriend after a long 2 months when he came to Bahrain ahead of me

-          Being without my boyfriend for 2 months….paaaaarty!

-          Travelling to Hong Kong, Barcelona and Paris for shopping trips as part of my job in London

-          Moving to Bahrain

-          Creating my blog as a means of sharing my experiences here in Bahrain and enjoying a dedicated group of followers

-          Seeing my sisters pursue their dreams

-          Being proven wrong and finding that there is a fashion industry here in Bahrain and managing to find myself a job as a designer

-          Eating gorgeous food here in Bahrain (admittedly International cuisine not local)

-          The humbling experience of meeting an autistic girl called Sally here in Bahrain (more to come on Sally soon) who never fails to me laugh and cheer me up

-          The realisation that driving seems possible as I have survived on the highway

-          Another year with my amazing boyfriend who continues to support me in all aspects of my life

-          Visiting the beautiful country Oman not once, not twice, but 3 times!

Lowlights of 2009:

-          Realising that I really am getting older as everyone is growing up and doing ‘adult’ things like getting married or having babies!

-          My boyfriend losing his job in London and being unemployed for 7 months

-          Not being accepted to do my MA in London

-          Reading my goodbye cards

-          Realising I am very much in a ‘man’s world’ here in Bahrain

-          Getting to the point where I have been so bored I would just cry and cry and cry

-          Having absolutely awful people as tenants in my house in the UK who continue to give me a headache from a far

-          My younger sister not joining us for Christmas

-          Getting a bit wobbly and dimply around the stomach and thigh area

-          Being witness to awful treatment of some of the people here in Bahrain

New Year’s resolutions:

-          Yes you have all heard this from me before, but I really am going to make more of an effort with my appearance and brush  my hair in the morning, wear heels to work and generally just look more groomed rather than looking like I just fell out of bed every day

-          Get my 8 hours of sleep each night….and my 2 litres of water, oh and my 5 pieces of fruit and veg

-          Set up my own business

-          Finish my driving lessons

-          Be more confident, stand up for myself and if I blush who cares!

-         Say no whenever the biscuits, sweets and cakes call out my name at work…especially at times when I am bored

-          Get into that gym and work it!

-          Don’t procrastinate- why do tomorrow what you can do today-or something like that

-          To remain focused and dedicated in everything I do and not be distracted by food, internet, sleep

Things to look forward to in 2010:

-          Being a bridesmaid

-          Owning a Sulphur crested cockatoo- Adi doesn’t know it yet and I know he thinks I am joking when I mention I want a cockatoo, but I am not, and we really will have a bird called Zho Zho.

-          Visiting Algeria for the first time to visit my boyfriends extended family in the summer

-          Visiting Indonesia to see my youngest sister

-          Visiting Petra in Jordan with one of my best friends and my boyfriend

-          Visiting Hong Kong  to see my dad’s new flat

Things not to look forward to in 2010:

Convincing my boss to give me all the time off to visit all the places I am looking forward to.

Film of 2009:

Okay this is not a cinema film, but a friend of mine made me watch this movie called Zeitgeist. It’s on the Internet only and has more of a documentary feel rather than a cinema feel, I will not discuss it too much, but check it out, I guarantee it will blow your mind and question everything that you believe in.

Song of 2009:

‘I gotta feeling’ by the Black-eyed Peas. Actually the whole album-‘The end’ has pretty much kept me going here in Bahrain, and I am particularly fond of ‘I gotta feeling’ as when I was going through my boredom stage I would constantly change the lyrics, ‘I gotta feeling…I am going to get to 5 minutes on this running machine’ or ‘I gotta feeling…I’m gonna shoot myself in the head if I don’t get a job real soon’. Right now it’s ‘I gotta feeling…that 2010 is gonna be a great year’.

Book of 2009:

I suppose I will have to say the Twilight books

Fashion Designer of 2009:

Christopher Kane and Davina Hawthorne

My most lusted after item of clothing of 2009:

Black rat leggings by Sass and Bide (but I am not skinny enough to wear them, sigh)

Best purchase of 2009:

A lush Mulberry year planner diary- it really is the small things that make me happy! Oh and the Christian Louboutin limited edition Barbie.

Best gift of 2009:

There are 3:

-          Diamond studs

-          My leaving present of a digital photo album from a good friend of mine documenting all of our fun times together

-          A photo album from another good friend of mine with hideous photos of me from our university days

Restaurant of 2009:

Suchard on Tooley Street in London

Monsoon in Adiliya here in Bahrain

Most embarrassing moment of 2009

It really is a toss between almost being lynched by my neighbours (see ‘Wheres the fire?’ post) or being chucked out of the Grand Mosque here in Bahrain (read about this in my next post)

Realisation of 2009                                                             

You gotta network network network and life really does surprise you

The things I thought I would never-ever-say, 2009:

‘I live in the Middle East’ and ‘I design Abayas’

Shock of 2009:

Michael Jackson’s death

So that’s my 2009, and I am hoping 2010 is going to be brilliant. It will just be Adi and I ringing in the New Year this time, we are going to go to this party called ‘ICON’ at some swish complex overlooking the sea. I am quite looking forward to it, simply because I am not sure what to expect!

So I am ready for 2010, 2010 better be ready for me!!

Merry Christmas

So here I am, it’s Christmas Eve and I am stuck at work. Although admittedly, being the workaholic I am, I have always been stuck at work on Christmas Eve. However there is a big difference this year as I stuck at work in the Middle East! As I am sure you are aware, Bahrain is a Muslim country therefore there is no Christmas to be celebrated here (except within the expat community). So it’s business as usual but luckily Christmas day falls on a weekend here so I get to spend it with Adi and my sister.

Christmas has been a strange affair for me this year; mostly because it really has just crept up on me as there are no constant reminders of the impending festivities. There’s no snow just bright sunshine, no office Christmas parties, no girls nights out dressed as sexy Santa’s, and the saddest thing of all, no mince pies! (I am hoping good old Marks and Sparks will sort that out for me when I go tonight!)

For me, the first whiff of Christmas here was actually six days ago when Adi, myself and his two visiting French friends all went to eat at the Ritz Carlton hotel here for dinner. No, we didn’t eat turkey, nor did we drink mulled wine, we in fact stared at the gorgeous waitresses dressed in Santa inspired dresses. They were a bit Jessica Rabbit; red, figure hugging velvet with side slits slashed literally to the knickers revealing legs that really did command your attention! They had cute Santa hats perched on their long haired pretty heads and every time they spoke to you they batted there long eyelashes and simpered Merry Christmas in a tone that should only be reserved for young girls! And here’s me thinking we were in the Middle East! Some would say that this was tacky, the boys (excluding Adi – well that’s what I tell myself) begged to eat at the same restaurant every night from then on.

Since the sexy Santa’s at the Ritz Carlton, I have spotted the odd bit of tinsel dotted around here and there, and some of the shops in the Malls have made an effort to cater for their expat customers with Christmassy displays and merchandise. This is not without a price however, for example trying to select Christmas Cards for my friends in the UK was no easy feat, I had spent one hour painstakingly choosing Christmas cards for them all as I wanted the card to reflect the person whom I was sending it to. After deciding on 11 gorgeous cards, I got to the checkout only to find that each card was averaging out at 3.50BD (that’s about 6 British pounds to me and you!). Now I wouldn’t  mind paying this if it was made from 24kt gold or even some eco friendly, paper made by hand card, but these were fairly basic, run of the mill cards. I promptly put them back on the shelves and went to Carrefour instead where I found myself a box of cheap cards-cheap in price, cheap in quality. So apologies to everyone that you have all received the same, grannie-fied, flimsy cards!

I am not a religious person and I would prefer to say that I don’t really celebrate Christmas (which would be a lie since I give presents and very happily receive presents!). I live in a mixed household where Adi is a Muslim and I actually grew up as a Jehovah’s Witness being a believer up until the age of 16. Therefore, this means from then on going forward any of the religious notions of Christmas have been completely lost on me (since Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t believe in Christmas) But, then I went to university, had boyfriends and realised that actually Christmas is a great time to get drunk and party if anything else. So I have come to enjoy the festive season simply because of the social side of it, being able to cook for all of my friends and generally feeling all warm and cuddly inside. If anything, Christmas forces you to make that little extra effort with your friends and family, where the excuse of being too busy is just not acceptable.

I would also like to spare a thought for all of those here in Bahrain who take Christmas seriously and will not be able to spend Christmas with their families. Usually it will be the housemaids sending money to their children back home, the secretaries and shop boys, or just those who are tied into contacts that won’t allow them the time off. I can’t complain really as I have people I love close to me, when your cleaner tells you she isn’t allowed time off for 2 years and that she doesn’t earn enough money to send presents to her daughters, you realise that you actually are the lucky one.  Or when an acquaintance of mine relays his experiences of his 15 Christmases here in Bahrain where he has been promised Christmas day off to spend with his brother only to be at the beck and call of his boss who insists sending him to the company office to find his pen, or at 11-o-clock in the night sent to locate a business card of a friend which just couldn’t wait until the next morning or even worse, to tell him to come and park his car (because for reasons unknown he couldn’t do it himself!) Really, what do I have to complain about, my life is cushy in comparison. The only thing I will be at the beck and call to will be the Christmas tree which delivers another present after present after present!

So Christmas for us has now officially started, we have finished decorating our make shift tree (basically a house plant), all presents are wrapped, cards are written and we just managed to locate mince pies from a supermarket importing foreign foods. My sister is with me (but not both unfortunately), Adi is with me, and we will now settle down and watch the movie ‘Elf’. So I would just like to finish off by saying MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR!!! Here’s wishing you a great 2010, I know mine will be.

Where’s the fire?

I need to share with you this rather mortifying experience I had last night.

Following one of our usual, fiery arguments, I had abandoned Adi and his friends and stormed off home last night from the Souq in Manama. Please don’t ask me what we were arguing about as I can’t remember and undoubtedly it would have all been my fault and over something silly. It’s always the same, it seems like the biggest deal ever at the time of arguing but then you wake up the next morning realising it was all very silly. Well I felt more than silly this morning when I woke up as it seems I am accountable for the following drama which took place last night.

Having returned home last night and leaving Adi in the souq with his two friends, I decided to sleep off the thunderous mood I was in. It was after all 10 o clock so I took this opportunity to have an early night and get some decent sleep. I decided to switch off my phone wanting to have an undisturbed sleep; I knew Adi was going to go out with his friends for the evening so I was not expecting any phone calls from him. Since I was home alone I locked the front door and also my bedroom door. At around 2.15pm I was woken up by some very loud banging on the bedroom door, it was Adi. Dazed and confused I was greeted by a very angry looking boyfriend who seemed to be equally confused as me. ‘What’s going on!?’ he shouted, ‘I have had to break down the front door!’. I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about but it was then I began to realise that the fire alarms were ringing in the building and on realising this I started to panic. At this point Adi still hadn’t explained to me what was going on, but I assumed the worst, that there was a fire in the building and I had been potentially trapped inside and Adi had come to my rescue. As I was frantically trying to put on some clothes I was making a mental note of the things I should save from the fire, I had visions of me having to jump from our balcony because of this raging fire that had triggered the alarm bells. I rushed out of the apartment seeing that Adi had indeed smashed down the front door (wow, he is strong!) His two friends were analysing this door giving me a look that could only be interpretated as ‘stupid cow’. I wondered why these guys were not rushing for their lives and told them to get in the lift as there was a ‘fire, fire!’ They looked at me dumbfounded but did not budge an inch! Adi proceeded to drag me into the lift without his friends.

I was still half asleep; I was confused, I was cold, and worst of all I had no underwear on! (Such things are unimportant when your life is at risk!) On the way down, some guy on the fifth floor got in and asked us about the idiot who smashed down his front door because his girlfriend was so stupid to leave the keys in the latch thus making it impossible to get into the apartment, thus the door being smashed down, thus the alarms being set off! ‘That was me’ said Adi brazingly, ‘Oh’ said the man. Oh no!!! Then the truth dawned on me…there was no fire, the alarms were set off because Adi had broken into our apartment, and the reason he broken into the apartment was because his girlfriend didn’t hear the buzzer ring, his girlfriend had for some stupid reason switched off her phone, his girlfriend is type 1 diabetic and he had panicked that she had suffered a hypoglycaemic attack rendering her unconscious thus making it necessary for my partner to smash down the door and check that I was okay. As this was being relayed to me my head started spinning and the blood rushed to my face, it also dawned on me that we were drawing nearer to the ground floor, and if there was no fire then where the hell were we going! The lift doors opened and I was astonished to see the whole of my apartment block in the lobby, they all looked tired, they were all in pyjamas, but worst of all they all looked extremely annoyed…at me! They were all looking at me, and there was absolutely no where for me to hide, I couldn’t even hide behind Adi as he made sure to walk away from me, and even worse, I felt so vulnerable without my underwear! How had everyone got to hear about this anyway I wondered. I suppose it was not hard since our neighbours were frequent spectators in our dramas (although I might add we are equally spectators in theirs!)

I made my way through the crowd making sure I was looking at the ground and only the ground, if there was one thing I wanted the most in the whole world it was for the floor to swallow me up right now! The crowd’s body language said everything, arms crossed, long, impatient signs, the odd tut here and there not forgetting the silent disapproving stares. They thought I was stupid, and they were right, but really it was a mistake, I thought about explaining myself but I didn’t fancy getting lynched by this mob. I just wanted to cry and it took a lot of effort to control the quivering of my bottom lip as tears threatened to gush. I didn’t even have Adi to protect me, he was angry with me and he was feeding me to the lions to teach me a lesson. Adi was trying to explain to our porter what had happened. The porter hadn’t a clue what Adi was saying, one because of Adis French accent, two because the porter himself was half asleep. They were trying to work out how to switch the alarms off which they eventually managed after 5 minutes. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief and they all clambered into the lifts…to gossip about me I am sure. We proceeded to squash into one of the lifts but an English man pointed out the fairly obvious fact that I was stupid and how he didn’t appreciate being woken up at 2 in the morning. This was the wrong thing to say Adi who was already fuming and having his patience tested to the limits. He retaliated by saying that the man would have done the same thing in his position if worried about his diabetic girlfriend, ‘no, I wouldn’t’ replied the man, but the argument ended there as the lift doors closed on us.

We went back upstairs where I was preparing myself for the inevitable argument. His friends were still analysing the damage on the door and I didn’t have the bottle to look them in the eye as I approached. Still bewildered by what had just happened, I asked them for their version of events. They told me what I already knew, that they had tried for 10 minutes to get in but since I switched off my phone they had assumed the worst had happened. ‘But Adi has a key to get in’ I offered weakly, ‘But you left your key in so his won’t work…everybody knows this!’ There was not much I could say to that; it was now clearly evident that I am indeed an imbecile! To add to this Adis friends had been witness to my earlier tantrum in the Souq and probably thought I was doing this on purpose to annoy Adi, if they didn’t already think I was a high maintenance, emotionally unstable drama queen, they sure did now! I went to my bedroom where I sought the comfort of being hidden under my duvet, it really was just a mistake, but it was not going to be that easy, the argument with Adi finished at 5.30 this morning.

I woke up this morning with a banging head and puffy eyes. I escaped the bedroom quietly thankful for the pending distraction of work. However as I made my way downstairs in the lift, it stopped…twice. Some of my neighbours got in and it was all eyes on me. The 15 second journey down felt like 15 minutes and my now seriously flushed cheeks were practically begging for the fresh air outside. But it seemed today was not going to be my lucky day as blocking the exit was the porter for the building, he was with another guy and they were discussing how to work the fire alarm, the one that I had inadvertently set off. On seeing me approaching both men moved to let me pass, not before the porter had something to his friend in his language and then both greeted me with shifty looks and fake smiles. I was thankful to see my driver but even he looked like he knew about last night, he is after all the porters friend. I pretended to sleep the whole way to work.

So here I am now, at work, finding the whole thing slightly comical but embarrassing more than anything else. I feel ashamed at my apparent stupidity and I think I am going to hibernate for the rest of the year. To top it off the porter has told Adi he will be faced with a hefty bill of 500BD to replace the door. So it looks like I am going to have to be a dutiful wife from now on as some way of making it up to him, I endeavour to cook, wash his clothes and allow him to watch as much TV as he wants. Me, on the other hand will never ever switch off my phone, I will avoid my neighbours at all costs and think twice next time I want to storm off at the Souq!

Driving update

So, it’s time to give you a bit of an update on my driving lessons. In the fifteen days that I have now been taking lessons I have had eight so far. During these eight lessons I have seen my driving instructor express himself in an impressive range of personalities; from excitable puppy to love struck teenager, from tantrum throwing toddler to sulking hubby and the creepiest of all would have to be borderline stalker.

My first driving lesson was definitely a sign of things to come and by my fourth lesson I had been forced to draft in Adi. It was really only to make sure that the driving instructor understood that I did have a boyfriend and that I was not making it up as he seemed to think. His behaviour carried on the way it had started with his silly attempts to flirt with me asking if he could call me sometimes just as ‘friends only’. Often I have felt a bit like a trophy as every time he has taken me to the driving school he has stopped at an instructor friend of his and introduced me as the ‘beautiful English’ girl (which is not quite true as I am half Chinese too). He will then proceed to say something in Arabic to his friend with both then giving me a good look up and down, then nodding their heads in a manner I am not quite sure how to interpret; confirmation, approval, I don’t know!

I can’t help but feel a bit freaked out by my instructors behaviour, he is particularly good at unnerving me whilst driving on the highway ; he has stopped his in your face distraction techniques opting instead to disturb me by staring at me…silently. I can see him from the corner of my eye just watching me, I had hoped that I had perhaps got it wrong and he was staring at something through the window on my side, but a few times now I have turned my head to check exactly what he is looking at and caught him just staring at me, startled by this I will blush furiously nearly crashing into oncoming traffic! It makes me uncomfortable so much so I can’t control my steering as I start twitching nervously and the car proceeds to swerve from side to side and he then has the cheek to question my control of the car! I think I preferred him to be loud and unbearable which is at least entertaining…the staring is just damned creepy! I have since tried to ignore this keeping my eyes firmly peeled on the road but in doing so he had resorted to letting out long, exaggerated sighs. The other day he accompanied one of these sighs with a cringe worthy admission saying ‘I love this girl, I give her all the driving lesson she wants but she doesn’t love me back…what can I do?’ I ignore such comments pretending I don’t hear them and change the subject by discussing the weather instead.

Unfortunately for my poor stomach, it has got to the point where I seriously start to dread these lessons; I feel nauseous hours in advance, become overly anxious and constantly eat chocolate to calm my nerves. As every lesson approaches, I practically beg Adi to let me cancel. Of course Adi is not happy about my instructors behaviour, there was really no way of me not telling him as he can read my emotions like a book. And of course being the hot-headed maniac he is, he was furious and demanded to speak to him. My instructor may be pleased to know that he is inadvertently disrupted our lives (in a minor way of course) causing frequent arguments between Adi and myself. Adi would like to have a polite word (which means knock him out) and I don’t want him to cause any scene or even worse a fight and subsequently leave me without an instructor. We settled on Adi showing his face at the end of my fourth lesson. It was to be a very casual meeting, as if he caught us on the off chance taking out the rubbish or something. So we put our well orchestrated plan into action at the next agreed opportunity. Sure enough, as I pulled up, Adi strolled by very casually with a black sack of rubbish in his hand, ‘Oh hi…didn’t see you there’ he said, not so casually I might add. I introduced him to my instructor and they had a conversation debating whether I was a good driver or not. The exchange was brief and perhaps a tad awkward but at least my instructor knew I had a real boyfriend now. Adi left us so my instructor could fill out the details for my log book. ‘So who is this man?’ asked my instructor, ‘I just told you…my boyfriend!’. ‘Aaahhhh…a friend who is a boy?’ ‘No….BOYFRIEND!’, ‘Ahhhh…but not your husband!’ and laughed as if he just told the funniest joke in the world. I left the car with him telling me that in Islam a boyfriend means nothing!

Five lessons in and I decided I needed a few days break from my instructor. So I told him I would be busy for the next few days and would call him to arrange my next lesson. With slight protestation he accepted this and gladly the nauseous feeling in my stomach subsided. However, he obviously didn’t except it as the very next day I had received 3 missed calls from him. Not feeling quite in the mood to deal with him, I switched off my phone for the entire weekend (a long weekend of 3 days) and was blissfully happy until I decided to switch it on for god knows what reason. As soon as I switched on, my phone bleeped I had a message, it was from him and in big, stern letters it simply said ‘CALL ME’. The nauseous feeling returned as it seemed he thought it was okay to start invading my personal space with text messages which I didn’t appreciate. I switched off immediately and pondered the remaining days whether I should try to change instructor or not. I decided not (I know you are thinking I should but really it would be the biggest mission ever!)and nervously called him the next morning to arrange a lesson.

He came for me at the arranged time and instead of being greeted with the usual ‘hello, how are you pretty!’ I got a rather angry ‘where have you been for the last 3 days!!?’ It turns out he had been calling me every day about 10 times a day, I didn’t like his tone and I really didn’t like the angry look in his eyes so I lied I had been ill. What a mistake! ‘Oh, what’s wrong!?’ he cooed, ‘Do you want me to look after you? Do you want me to get you some medicine?’ I told him I wanted to drive and managed to divert the conversation to something he seemed to enjoy talking about; Islam. It turns out that my instructor is very religious and goes to Mecca in Saudi Arabia to perform the Hajj every year. This surprised me since his sleazy behaviour would suggest the contrary, and as if he read my mind, he announced that he did however have one weakness; women! You’re kidding I thought to myself! In Islam, according to him, any one man is allowed four wives, he will have his first wife as his lifelong partner and the other three he can make arrangements with to whether they be married for two, three years or whatever. Women are apparently like fruits he told me, you may enjoy an apple every day (ie the lifelong wife) but there will be occasions when you may fancy a banana, an orange or even a pear. Right now, he fancied an orange, a nice-juicy- orange, and then he looked at me and asked me if I understood, ‘errrrmmm…yeah, I guess’. I was scared by the twinkle in his eye, was he really envisioning me as the orange? I did wonder whether this practice still takes place or it was just wishful thinking on his part. I asked Adi about this later on and he told me that it is not very common for a man in Islam to have four wives and it is now considered an out dated practise.

Things have come to a head recently which has resulted in a bit of an argument between my instructor and me. He seems to have a real problem with me cancelling lessons with him and acts like a little boy whenever I do so. Again this weekend, I fancied a break from him as I didn’t want the butterflies in my stomach to put a downer on my only day off. So I cancelled by text apologising that I was busy and I would call to rearrange. I switched off my phone and enjoyed a pleasant Saturday. I called him the next morning and was greeted with a very huffy ‘yes?’ I was my usual, polite self and asked him if he could give me a lesson today ‘No chance! I am busy’ he exclaimed in a tone that made him sound like an evil child. Okay…‘Tomorrow?’, ‘No chance! I am busy’ Okay, so I wasn’t going to humour this adolescent and lose my temper with him, I opted instead to remain calm and asked him politely if he could call me when he next had some time. Two days later and he still hadn’t called, I didn’t want to call but I didn’t want to lose my instructor so now I was the one chasing him! I called him and between gritted teeth asked him when I could have my next lesson ‘I don’t know, I am busy like you!’ he said. Ahhhh, so he was angry with me for cancelling and now he is sulking. Fine…’do I need to change my instructor?’ I asked him. He was not expecting this response and promptly started to protest with no, no, no! He came to pick me up an hour later where it was very obvious he was sulking; he was just sat there with his arms crossed against his chest. The atmosphere between us was awkward and he was very frosty with me when giving instructions. After 10 minutes of a long, uncomfortable silence on the highway, I asked him in a roundabout way what was wrong. ‘Why you want to change your instructor?’ he asked me. Now I had to backtrack and told him that I didn’t but thought I should ask just in case he was too busy to teach me, ‘But you don’t like me anymore’ he simpered, it almost looked like he was going to cry! He looked so crestfallen that I started to feel sorry for him, how did this happen!? I reassured him that of course I liked him trying to be diplomatic by stressing that I liked him teaching me and not him himself. After 5 minutes of me trying to convince him that I was telling the truth, he seemed to except this and we moved on. The lesson came to an end, he signed my book, and I thought we had actually made it to the next level when he didn’t stress how much he was going to miss me. I walked away feeling calmer and less nervous. I got into the lift and was startled when my phone started to ring…it was him, I answered cautiously, ‘Oh I just had to hear your voice one more time!’ exclaimed my instructor. Great, we were back to square one.

And so I am waiting for my ninth lesson after cancelling on him three days ago due to work commitments. He wasn’t happy but duty calls. I have been calling him daily since, every day he says he will call me back, but everyday he doesn’t. It remains to be seen whether I will ever have this promised lesson, I will let you know.