Let's just Face Up to Reality: Digression's are here to Stay!

Morinda Citrifolia

Noni. Photographed as I'm precariously balanced atop the garden wall  

Since I've been living here in the squat there's been a sort of fruit dropping daily from a tree over hanging the garden, just outside the kitchen patio. It looks rather alien, feels weird, smells 'orrible and before long starts to get decimated by the ants. Then yesterday afternoon Patrick, who was the number two to Clyde, my DSTV satellite installer, asked, in French, being one of the rare true Creole's who don't speak any English, if he could surmount the wall and pick a few, as they are prized for medicinal purposes, similar to Aloe Vera. And no, the ripe fruit which has dropped from the tree was no good, he needed it green, not white and mushy. Well, that got me on the trail, as there's obviously more to this chap than all that initially put's you off. So, with my Internet now connected I did a bit of exploring. First off  though I texted Jean Hugue and asked what the tree was called, and he replied that, at least in Creole, it's known as Noni. Wikepedia, and other sites, of course expand on that, so take your pick? 'What tickles your fancy' Could it be... Great Morinda, Indian Mulberry, Nunaakai, Dog Dumpling, Mengkuda, Pace, Beach Mulberry, Cheese Fruit or our very own, simply said, Noni? Whatever your desire, they are in fact a part of the Coffee Family! 

Now believe it or not, surprise surprise, Western Medicine, with it's couple of hundred year's worth of history, does not support that Noni has any medicinal value, The fact that the Polynesians have held this fruit in awe for over two thousand years is irrelevant. We are first world, we know best, and until we are at least one hundred and fifty percent certain, and still some more, just to play safe, we will sit on the fence! And just so everyone is happy and we don't remotely step on any toes we say 'Yes' to Gays having church weddings, 'Yes' to jailing Tony Martin for defending himself, 'Yes' to supporting his smack dealing attacker, in suing him, 'Yes' to George, redkneck, Bush and his sycophant, Tony Blair, in waging a war against non existent WMD, without remotely understanding the psyche of the Iraqi world, so now pulling out leaving the country a total disaster zone, 'Yeeeeeessss' to taking on the Afghans, who no one has ever been able to better, 'Yes' to teachers being able to have the shit beaten out of them by their pupils, and if they dare to raise a hand in self defense then we'll sack 'em and sue the shit out of them. 'Yes' to the Frog Platini and the corrupt Blatter for, for God only knows why, refusing that goal line technology is the future and, huff, puff, puff, huff, 'Yes' to Sarah Palin, and may she be the next President of the US of A, as then we'll really know how fucked everything has become... I'm done on this one, for the moment at least.

And on a lighter note, Sen works on building my kitchen TV plinth
 and Rajesh  fixes the pool cleaning pipe. That bein his domain

Deep breath, a long Ommmmmmmmmmm, and the Noni fruit should be preferably consumed when in a state of relaxation. So not appropriate for me just at this moment! Despite lack of recognition from Western know alls the fruit is considered by those who live with it to, amongst other things, be a great stress reliever, a strengthener of the immune system, effective in combating colds, cancer, diabetes, asthma, high blood pressure, skin infections, depression and arthritis. But then we know nothing as we're   third world gollies. 


Divali

My Sweet & Savoury Divali Gift.
 The pink & white, presumably coconut numbers, should be interesting

After being just down the coast fifteen minutes on Scooter, having a sundowner with the Silversmith and gal, I arrived back home to find Sen about to leave on his Hero Panther 50cc. 'Hoi, what are you doing here, it's a holiday and you should be with the family... Anyway, of course, he wasn't here to work, but to drop off a wee Divali package containing pakoras, and other savoury and sweet titbits, from Fina and he, for me, a new friend. Now, as I said before Divali is a sharing primarily between family and friends, and so I feel well honoured that they have gone out of their way to include me as a friend.  




Nowhere can be Perfect

Even my 'not quite peaking' egg white's at six in the morning
can be a worry 

Of course nowhere's going to be a perfect Paradise. Well, not on this planet anyway. And now I'm beginning to see some of the less attractive sides of Mauritius, and as an easy starter for ten we'll begin with a dilemma that is rife in most, primarily, third world countries. And yes, it's litter. The other day I watched a lady walk out of her shop front and purposely drop the wrappings, presumably from her lunch time stuffed paratta, on to the pavement, before returning indoors. Obviously there's no rubbish bin under the desk, but if you have to deposit your shit outside then where is the concept of popping it in to one of the many bins up and down the road. Her shop actually had an official street bin right to the side of it. And then, of course, wherever you drive or walk there is litter lying to one degree or another. Be it the wrappings dropped beside a path, the mounting pile of plastic bottles or the two sacks of unwanted mangoes leaning against a wall. Now I'm just beginning my voyage in to the Island's mentality that has only the beginnings of the concept or concern regarding litter, but have experienced it in rather more depth over my years in the Emirates. And I'm more than likely completely wrong but my explanation is as follows...

Improvisation & no problem in finding a use
 for a good solid retired engine block

Fifty, sixty years ago the few folk populating the 'Pirate Coast/Empty Quarter' ("Yes, and for your next exotic holiday location why not experience being plundered while visiting a destination which offers little else than inhospitable weather and pretty well bugger all else to see than sand, sand and more sand!) were fishermen, trader's in the ports of Rhas Al Khaimah and Dubai or nomad's roaming the desert for months at a time, often surviving on little else than camel milk warm from the teat.They were very tribal and incredibly hard people, and they will, presumably, have had very little, and what they did have, would have, presumably, been re-used and re-repaired time and time again, until whatever it was, was just utterly exhausted and used up. Then it would have been chucked over the wall and forgotten. But then there would also have been such a comparatively minimal amount of refuse, that what there was would have been within the control of time and the elements, and so happily absorbed into the greater picture. But then hey presto, with the discovery of Black Gold, the eyes of the corporate world turned to this desolate corner and thought "Well, what's in this for me"?  And so, like always with a migration, along with the cowboys came all that was needed to support them, which before long meant McD's, whose kitchen motto 'CAYG' is their only positive point in my eyes, Kentucky, Pizza Hut, Starbucks and hundreds more from all over the world converging to sell there consumables. And from the fast food outlets, ok, they've got a bit better recently, but are still hugely abusive, every take away included three spoons, four or five sachets of ketchup, a bundle of paper napkin and, along with everything else, more than likely, a variety of plastic Ninja Turtle which will have successfully motivated young Ben to throw screaming and shouting fits day after day until his mother has relented enough times that he's got the complete collection of American sewer dwellers! But then of course it doesn't stop there, as no sooner does mother wipe her arm across her brow and take a sigh of relief that it's supposedly all over, than Batman's here and the tie in between whoever and which ever production company, warrants a new range of merchandise. So guess what, even Ben, aged five, can note the hoardings around town showing that with each shitty take away he gets another two inch high piece of plastic which will keep him occupied for around two minutes. But the marketing machine has won and so mother has to go through another period of trying to balance a rounded diet with moments of peace. Ad Infinitum. 

The local folk, having gone from nothing to everything on tap, just lap it all up, and not only does obesity rule and small children's teeth rot (no concept of cleaning after half a dozen chocolate bars. and "You are dentist, so fix it") but they do not see how ugly the country looks with all the plastic floating about. And the sixty plus percentage of Asians have no concept either and are not kept to heel. 

Sultan Qaboos bin Said al Said,
the main man in Oman

Bordering the UAE you have Oman as one neighbour, Saudi Arabia being the other, and when you drive over the border in to Oman, quite likely, one of the first things you notice is there is virtually no litter. Oman never had a 'Boom' and have just evolved as an Arab nation at a steady, tick tocking pace. The British had, surprise, surprise, been an influence in the country since the middle, latter part of the nineteenth century and despite what other's might think, many ex British colonies, to a greater degree, respect the legacy they left. This tended to be an infra structure encompassing roads, railways, governmental systems, postal services and more. Sultan Qaboos bin Said al Said spent his final school years in England and then joined the British army after attending Sandhurst. He then went on to study local government in England before touring the world and returning home to Salalah, where he studied Islam and the history of Oman. Now this seems like a fairly broad foundation for a ruler to build on I reckon. Although it wasn't all a jolly romp in the park as he spent six years under virtual house arrest, had to put down a couple of rebellions and even live up to the accusations of patricide! But in nineteen seventy Sultan Qaboos acceded the throne and created a system of absolute monarchy, which sounds very dictator like, and is, I guess, but in this case it seems as though the dictator has been an ok guy. And so over the last forty years Oman has developed a reputation for good public order, reasonable prosperity and, certainly by the neighbours standards, a relatively permissive society. Besides forming his own one hundred and twenty piece orchestra, with all the musicians being Omani, the main man has also put a considerable amount of the countries resources into infra structure, such as housing, tourism, healthcare and education. And it must surely have been somewhere under this umbrella called education that the populous came to realise that a rubbish free environment is pretty neat really! It might have taken a couple of generations, but go to Oman today and you'll see that in this regards, though many others as well, they are unique in the Arab world.     

 ht here is the treatment of animals, dogs mainly, as there are not so many mammals on the island. People are always upping sticks and moving back to wherever, and so they'll pack up, ship out and leave their pet four legged friends of the last so many years, on the roadway outside the closed up property. I think the locals are pretty good at feeding the waifs but they just end up going from bad to worse and a significant amount fall foul of the Mauritian Highway Code, There are a variety of codes one can follow. You can take the 'with the wife and child straddling the back of the 50 cc Mobilette I can't go more than twenty kilometres an hour down the middle of the lane' code. Or you have the 'It's a very narrow road but I'm driving a BMW 4 wheel drive, and not only have I got to get by that mobilette, but the tractor with the cart over ladened with sugar cane, and then their's the three buses that stop every four hundred yards to disgorge and refill' code. And if you happen to drive a bus or truck then you can follow the 'I'm the king of the road and I'm overtaking another bus and that's just a fact of life, so pull over on to the hard shoulder if you want to get through this' code. Consequently the dogs suffer major. Seven the other morning and a dog walked by me favouring one side of his head. As he past I saw that a five inch diameter area of skin, including his ear had been ripped completely off revealing bone, sinew, whatever, to no doubt cause him a long, slow, painful death. And what did I do about it? I was too shocked and in the short time it took me to recover, he'd disappeared. I hope I'm never again so slow to react. But then again, as the Dalai Llama agrees, you can only do so much and so don't go getting down about all that you can't put right.  

Hmm. Bus goes too fast, brakes lock,
 decades old welding and rivet's give,
 Back axle, springs and wheels say byebye!

And then the other detrimental side to island life I've come across, many more to come to light I'm sure, is the erratic madness on the roads, Compounded by, I should imagine, a tenfold increase in traffic over the last twenty years moving on the one dual carriageway and, otherwise, the twisting, pot holed, one and a half laners. And compounding the dilemma you have the different codes of road use and you have the vehicles which would give a first world MOT inspector death throes on the spot. And lots more I haven't yet taken on board, no doubt.       

Even more Digressions

Ennio Marchetto

Ennio Marchetto

A couple of days after arriving out here I bought a copy of L’Express, which seems like one of the most popular of the local journals. It’s mainly in French, though periodically has segments in English. I haven’t yet worked out the whys and when’s concerning the English bits, but it’s nice to have a break from the  slow, laborious, translation struggle. Like kayaking through choppy seas against the current, around the Musendan Peninsula, into the Persian Gulf, and coming round a headland and suddenly entering a calm, balmy, khor (fjord). Ok, that’s a fairly excessive comparison, but it was the first one that came to mind. Anyway, as I was struggling through French L’Express, sort of understanding that there’s a bit of an uproar regarding the proposed construction of a new power plant and that two brothers had been let out of jail by mistake, I saw an advert for an upcoming show, Ennio Marchetto. Now he is one of my hero’s, one of those legend alternative performers who have spent decades developing a one off, specialized act. He is one of those whose uniqueness and style as a performer I once longed to emulate, but was never able to reach those lofty heights, as I can never persevere along one track for long enough without boredom setting in. That’s why my show was more the work of a flibbertigibbet, jumping from a spot of technical juggling to a Tommy Cooperesque “Bottle, glass, glass, bottle”, and over to fire eating, then back to doing something with a ballon; be it a three foot long modeling one or a six foot diameter giant number! Yes, for fifteen or so years I have longed to see Signor Marchetto perform, but have never been in the right place at the right time. And here he was, two days after my arrival on the island, being advertised as an upcoming event in li’l ol’ Mauritius, in between performing in Helsinki and St Petersburg. I have since learnt that, understandably, due to the size of the island and backgrounds of the populous we are fairly starved of professional, international, entertainment! Again, without being boring, there’s got to be a hidden message here, and it can only be a positive one?

And with Kate & Leonardo

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Getting dressed to go out and buy an early morning croissant and I find that I’ve got no freshly ironed underpants in the closet! I know it’s been the weekend, but still, it doesn’t feel quite right to be putting on washed, but creased, jocks. In future I’m just going to have to get Fina to come in at some inconvenient hour over the weekends, to remedy this dilemma. (Eeek! I must be turning into one of those ghastly expat types I hold in such distain. Quick; a cold shower and self flagellation is in order, to banish these aspirations of grandeur.)
So a month on, this last Friday, six of us head up to Moka, the Mahatma Gandhi Institute, and wallow in an hour’s worth of mesmerizing costume changes, as this is the gist of the show. The whole show is timed to music changes, and so the stage will be blacked out and the British National Anthem will play, and then as the lights brighten Ennio will come out in a cartoon style paper outfit depicting the Queen, in one of her classic Queenie hats, frumpy dresses and holding a handbag, while waving, limp wristedly, at the minions.  His face, with heavy red lips and eye liner, is peering through, and throughout the show his ever changing expressions, after twenty plus years of redefining and repetition, come exactly on cue. After maybe forty five seconds of HRH the music pauses for a few beats and then it’s ‘I Want to Break Free’ and with a flip the Queen’s bonnet is transformed into peaked cap and the teeth and moustache of Freddie Mercury. The frumpy dress disappears and instead he’s wearing tight white trousers and a black, torso hugging vest. The icing on the cake with this skit is when he removes everything except the teeth and moustache, and with his own Number 1 cropped balding hair and leotard, he looks even more like Freddie. Other skits portray Madonna transforming into Eminem, a troupe of Greek dancers, Russian Babushka dolls decreasing in size as each is produced, Edith Piaf changing into the Titanic, where Leonardo and Kate straddle the bow, wind in their hair, before being chucked overboard, exactly on cue to the splash as they hit the water. And so it goes on and on and on. Brilliant stuff.

Most of the thirty three horse field, ready for the off

The East Coast
After the show and a couple of sharpeners with Forbes and his lovely gal Sonara, Jess, Pancho and myself headed forty five minutes across the island to the East Coast where we were playing a two day competition at the Anahita and La Touessrok Golf courses. The only blemish on the journey was when I was randomly pulled over on Scooter by two coppers. But after surreptitiously popping an extra strong mint in my mouth, the act passed off under the guise of a much needed cough, and presenting my licence, I was waved on. Thank you Forbes for giving me the three mints during the show. From now on they’ll be a permanent fixture. After spending the night in the cheap, but perfectly adequate, serviced villa I’d found the previous week in Trou d’Eau Douce we headed up the fifteen minutes to the Anahita, with plenty of time to soak up the vibes and take a few practice shots. The course is so beautiful, set along the coast, and the fairways give plenty of opportunity to escape the consequences of a wayward slice. Although Mauritian Vishal, insisting on hammering every tee shot with the Big Dog, reaped the consequences, and Swiss Richard, I think must have been doing it on purpose, as without fail, pretty well all his shots sped off at a forty plus degree angle to the intended flight path! I dread to think how many balls he went through over the two days! If there was a hazard to be sucked in to then Richard took a running jump every time. 

Ascending & Descending by M.C. Escher

On no, it's a Public Holiday, so I had to make my own bed! Felt quite faint after the work load and needed a little lie down to build my strength back up, consequently necessitating remaking the bed again, which led to another rest before yet again reremaking the bed, leading on to another... I must have ME, Mauk Escher Syndrome, as this is developing in to a never ending spiral!
That evening I headed down to the Green Island Bar and Restaurant having been recommended that this would be my best possibility for catching the Blackburn Chelsea match. Trou d'Eau Douce is a quiet little back water until the tourists arrive at the end of the month, so at six I had the place to myself. It was only after seven that the hordes of locals arrived to watch the final of the Currie Cup, Sharks versus Western Province. The three of them settled down, muttering amongst themselves and to the manager. I knew exactly what was going on, having had the same scenario play out time and again back in the Ferret in Ras Al Khaimah. 'We want to watch the Rugby, so how come this tourist has the telly on the English Premiership. This is our local and we always get what we want'. Actually I fully appreciated, as this final is a big annual event for South Africans, despite the fact that Western Province didn't stand a chance. All I was waiting for was for one of them to ask me if we could change the channel, instead of whinging to anyone but me! Finally the young buck came up to me and couldn't exactly ask me straight out but circumvented the topic, so I let him stew in it for a while before saying that of course he could turn over and that I understood where he was coming from. But as it was there was still half an hour to go so we all got what we wanted!

Par 3 over the water, at La Touessrok

The second day of golf was at La Touessrok, set on an island, which is hugely more difficult with narrow fairways and plenty of dog legs, but I was really chuffed with my play. I don't reckon I've ever thought so much during a game of golf as you need to seriously adhere to course management, rather than just blattering the ball. Consequently Swiss Richard spent most of his time trudging around the Out of Bounds in search of his lost balls. Compounding to the difficulty was the fact that, despite distances to the centre of the green being written on the sprinkler heads, there were so many other times when you needed to know the distance, say, to the trees ahead, prior to a sharp bend in the fairway. Was it a hundred and ninety metres or a hundred and fifty? Consequently, with nothing to guide you, though afterwards I heard that they sold course guides in the shop, not very well advertised, especially as the uninitiated don't appreciate how vital they could be, if you were one club over then bye bye ball. Still it was a lovely course and very different. Inevitably the competition was won by the renowned local bandit who racked up, I think it was, seventy six points over the two days.

My local Winner's Supermarket on a busy Public Holiday.
 Not that this photo does justice on the 'busy' front

Now I don't exactly work hard now, but for the previous two years I worked six days a week at the Golf Club, and I would generally be in by eight and away around five, except Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays when, leaving the golf club at around one, I would do the two hundred and fifty kilometre round trip to Media City in Dubai, to do my bit for the company I've come here with. On these days I would generally tend to get home between five and six. Sunday was my day off and all I wanted to do then was be on my own, and even if I had wanted to party, everyone else was working, Sunday being the beginning of the working week in most Arab countries. As it was, after a bit of house cleaning, shopping, laundry and cooking up a batch to freeze in individual portions (professional bachelor touch here), there wasn't much time left over for anything else besides the ritual siesta on the sofa. Hey presto and it was dark and time for Sunday footie. Then it was Monday and six days to go... But this weekend had been a two day weekend, and despite my working situation, I was with others enjoying the Saturday and Sunday off. Consequently it reminded me of how important two days off is, as you need both in order to do the necessaries, unwind, as well as have the time to get out and have an adventure of some sort. So I say 'No' to six day working weeks. Ok, I now basically have seven day weekends, but I've done my bit in the past!

Public Holidays
Looking at www.gov.mu, the official governmental portal for the Republic, the blend of nationalities is summed up perfectly by the island's mix of Public Holidays, of which there are numerous. For example, on the fourteenth of February we have 'Chinese Spring Festival', on the fifteenth of August we have the 'Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary' and on the tenth of September 'Eid-Ul-Fitr'. Then on this coming Friday, the fifth of November, we have the Hindu celebration of 'Divali', the Festival of Lights, which involves the lighting of small clay lamps, filled with oil, to signify the triumph of good over evil. It is actually a five day celebration, and for many the most important festival in the Hindu calendar, and is celebrated by the sharing of sweets and snacks amongst family and friends. 
Today, the second, we have a special day off to celebrate 'Arrival of Indentured Labourers'... Presuming one or two people have persevered this far with my ramblings, maybe my mother for example, out of support for her self obsessed son, I believe I can hear one or two 'Well what in the world does that mean?' Over four hundred and fifty thousand Indentured Labourers were ferried from India, many from Bihar who were known as 'Hill Coolies', between eighteen forty nine and nineteen twenty four, to work on the sugar cane plantations. Being 'indentured' they were not slaves, but were employed, on, generally, a five year contract, with wages, housing and return tickets. Of course this was abundantly abused and a fair proportion were treated poorly, with their right's ignored. But many remained here and now their descendant's make up over fifty percent of the populous. Consequently Government is monopolized by Indian Mauritians, as they have the majority vote! But fair's fair as the Chinese dominate commerce, the Frogs are the landowners and the African's have poverty... The day is officially celebrated at the Aapravasi Ghats in Port Louis, where the labourer's took their first steps on to Mauritian soil.


   

Digressions

Staff, Delegation & Petit Dejeauner

Needs a photo here, so we'll give Brownie
a re-run as "You're not forgotten Old Dog,
I'm coming to find you"

So here I am, in my new home, and I reckon I’ve settled in very swiftly and nicely, thank you very much. I have never remotely lived in such a place, since flying the coupe, that is. As I’ve said before, the house is fully furnished, and yes, there are one or two things I will change in time, but overall the furnishings and ambience are great. What I found out today was it’s Fina, my right hand, her husband Sen being the left, who is the artiste who has positioned all the décor just so. My tooth brush and paste don’t just remain haphazardly thrown on the side, as I leave them, but are positioned at the appropriate angle to each other, complimenting the razor, foam, tube of unopened Zovirax, waiting for that alien in the lip to start pulsating, prior to eruption, etc! Yep, for all you Herpes sufferers, plan ahead. Don’t be ashamed as you didn’t, more likely than not, only you know, get the virus from anal sex (nothing necessarily wrong there of course), or sitting on an unbecoming loo seat. No, more than likely Aunty Ethel gave you a big ol’ Auntie Ethel kiss when you were a mere wee one, dooming you to a lifetime of coldslaws! In my case it was New Year’s Eve, Hogmany, back in the Bistro days in Forres, when, as the clock struck midnight in the toun square, a complete stranger, who afterwards became a very special friend despite what she donated me for a lifetime present, gave me a big smacker. Within twenty four hours the inside of my mouth was covered with ulcers and my lips were aaagh! Anyway it’s never been remotely as bad since, but the point is that a massive percentage of people have coldsaws, a virus that’s with you for life, lurking and waiting for a downer/depression, when it will spring to life. But, by keeping the ointment at hand and applying it the moment you feel the lip throbbing you can kill it off, avoiding the otherwise standard ten days depressing infection. True? And that was a minor, not very pleasant, but informative, digression, I know. But after twenty five years as a sufferer I feel the advice is warranted. Though that is for you to decide.

The said fresh decor

Oh, just noticed, there are fresh flowers in the vase on the table? Nothing ostentatious, just three whatever they are. How nice. Must keep abreast of such subtleties in future, as these touches are now ‘the meaning of life’ in my existance.

Anyway, here I am with Sen controlling the garden, Rajesh looking after the pool and otherwise aiding Sen, and the mighty Fina in control of the interior. Fina the decorateur and I, have, I believe, quickly developed a rapport, whereby  I’ll say “Fina, can you show me how to properly prepare a mango and then place it on that platter there, next to the plate with the grapes, and the other two with banana and strawberries on them?” To which she replies “I’m sure you’re right but how about putting all the fruit on the serving dish with the four partitions…” She’s correct of course, as this would be far more aesthetically pleasing. I had actually seen it there in the bottom cupboard, but it was under a load of other dishes, and with my hips the way they are I hadn’t been arsed to get down on my knees and maneuver it out. But then she’s here and that’s what those that do do! And this is the point, as besides Analize, who came in about once every six weeks to do a heavy duty dust back in RAK, I’ve never had a posse of staff before and I feel really embarrassed. Well I did for about five minutes until I accepted that this is a working relationship. She’s getting dosh and I can live the life of Reilly! And, as the icing on the cake, we can all have fun getting on well together while each benefitting in their own way. And I’m still a third under budget!!!

Morning four and I’ve got the team from work coming for breakfast. Jess and Pancho are off playing golf, but that’s cool as they checked out the pad the other night. As I tend to be these days I was up around half five, and after a brief plunge and douse down under the outdoor shower (please note AB, if you ever read this), I doodled around and then started getting the petit dejeuner together. After whipping out the tomatoes and mushrooms in garlic butter, to rest in the oven under a low heat, I got the ribs on. They took half an hour or so and then it was the time for the Spanish sausages, what’s their name, and local variety of black pudding. None of the other’s tried the latter, except Cesar, tentatively, but it was actually my favourite of all. Scrambled eggs were whisked and pending for the last moment, so I got on with laying out the Greek olives, cucumber slices and selection of cheeses. I passed on the planned Charcuteries, leaving them for another day, feeling that to include them was getting a bit excessive, and having, once upon a time, been a restaurateur, I hate waste. Of course by this time, nine, Fina was ensconced, and you know about the fruit scenario. Although being mildly pedantic, I will correct myself, to note that the platter actually had six partitions and so included the cucumber and olives!

Fine, but various adjustments to be made when my stuff arrives
sometime over the next couple of days

I had phoned Brenda and asked her to pick up some bread from the Boulangerie on her way and she had said that they were all leaving at eight thirty to tentatively get here for nine, be it a fifteen minute journey. As it was, sure enough, pretty well on the dot, Sen, doing a brief morning shift, I don’t know why, though maybe to make sure all is in order with my noble guests arriving, informed me that there were intruder’s hoving in. Brenda, having been here before led the way with the firey Dragon breathing down her neck, then Karen and Cesar. I was pretty well there, especially with Fina tidying up the loose ends, so, after an in depth snoop, they settled outside on the front patio with the sun sneaking down through the trees, while I finished off. Then it was out to the ‘early morning dining area’, nicely laid up by Fina, with all the crockery, cutlery and condiments in place. But where was Irish? The others had seen her leave prior to them, presuming she was on her way? But na, no phone call , nothing. Seems like a ‘I’ve just arrived from Dubai and so far to important and busy to make a polite call saying I’m so sorry I can’t make it, as am looking at potential homes’ type, more than acceptable, explanation . Well, is it worth my asking her to my Pendre la Cremaillere? Hmmm. To be mulled over? But, dare I say it; I believe the others had a very fine time.

Something I’ve been Mulling Over

For Fucking Years…

Again, A great start but to be improved

Expat scenarios the world over, but personified,from my experience, by the Emirates, especially the big Chitty of Dubai, attract, like flies are attracted to a newly laid turd, folk who come from nowhere and within thirty seconds think they’re God’s gift. When I spent my first four years in the Emirate, (here comes the “I remember” boring old fart spot), back , way beyond, in eighty one to eighty four, there was no such expression as ‘Jumeirah Jane’. In those days the people out in such postings were semi adventurers. Ok, Dubai was certainly not a hardship posting, as you pretty well had all the mod cons, and in fact, for most of us, a finer lifestyle than we’d had before. But I think we were aware of this and appreciated it. Yes, there were plenty of aspirers, as there have always been throughout time, in the worlds of the Expat. Such as with the Brits out in India, back in the days of the Raj (see Kipling or E. M. Forrester, I think it is). But, possibly because Dubai was a newish expat playground back in the early Eighties, the aspiring snobbery orientated ones were more of a joke to the majority, rather than an imposition. But when I returned ten years later the ‘Jumairah Jane’ was prolific. They’d come out from their semi detached, government housing scheme flats, the parent’s spare room, wherever, and within a blink of an eye considered themselves an HRH. I guess that likeminded places attract likeminded people. And with an unspoken mantra of Dubai being  ‘Come. Go get it, regardless of who you stomp over along the way’, then such types take up the challenge, spreading the word to their likeminded friends, and so it goes on, snowballing… This is of course a gross generalization, but the attitude is present in way enough of a degree to warrant stating this point. Anyway, enough on that pet hate for now (but be assured I'll be back to it one day, when some incident trips my switch)!