I am about to head home again for a week of British autumn and, as I pack my suitcase full of thermal undies and attempt to zip it closed (having first removed the dozing cat from within), I am reminded of the last time I packed my bags for a flight – back home in Canterbury after a long, glorious summer in England.
The summer of 2013 was filled with family, friends, sunshine, good food and, perhaps most memorably, some really fabulous walks. There was the wonderful Kent coastal walk I went on with my friend, Jeannine, from Reculver castle to Whitstable, on the hottest day of the year. We had a picnic on a remote bit of beach beneath a strange rocky outcrop and felt like Enid Blyton characters. We flagged down a passing ice-cream vendor on a tricycle to buy bottles of cold water, and ended the day with a blissfully cool sunset paddle and a well-earned pint of locally brewed beer at the Whitstable brewery.
I walked with my brother from Wye to Chilham through the beautiful Kent countryside, along the Stour Valley and up and down the Downs, on another day of booming blue skies and summer sun. The fields were golden with ripe wheat and barley, rippling slightly with the barely-breathing breeze. There were butterflies everywhere – Peacocks, Painted Ladies, Marbled Whites, Chalkhill Blues and many I didn’t recognise from my garden childhood of Red Admirals and Cabbage Whites: I’m told this summer was a particularly good one for the butterflies. There were dazzling patches of wild flowers at the edges and corners of fields – nature at its most free and colourful at the height of the summer – an impressionist blur of purples, reds and yellows. The walk took us through cool, shaded, badgery woodland and along the green banks of the river Stour, on its way to Canterbury.
Grove Ferry and Stodmarsh near Canterbury are favourite haunts of my family, largely for the birdlife, the fresh air and the tranquillity of the reed-beds. I walked here many times this year – more than I ever did when actually I lived in the UK I expect – with my parents and my brothers. Water rails screech from the reeds, ducks do crazy flapping take-offs from the water, flocks of geese honk by and a lone marsh harrier drifts high above, watching and waiting.
I wandered around the grounds of Sissinghurst Castle with my parents and my aunt, admiring the magical Rapunzel towers and the lovely, endless gardens arranged in different coloured ‘rooms’. I explored Batsford Arboretum with my dear friend Kate and her two tiny tots. I roamed the beautiful rolling hills of the Cotswolds with my friends Jo and Simon and their gorgeous little Pappy-Jack pups, ending our walk with chips and a pint of beer in a pub garden with stunning views of the surrounding countryside.
I scaled the rugged heights of Pen Y Fan and Corn Du in the Brecon Beacons with my brother, on a perfect day of fleeting fluffy-white clouds, taking great cleansing lungfuls of the cool, clear air as we climbed. We discovered the highest wheelbarrow in Wales, posed for pictures on cliff edges (well, he did – I was a bit scared) and ate our sandwiches at the summit, looking out towards the dramatically named Black Mountains.
I pottered through the cobbled streets of Canterbury: through the pretty Westgate Gardens with my friend Lou and her baby, Tom; over the bridge, past the wild flower meadow, to the Greyfriars chapel with my friend Stacy and her son, Milo; to the secret riverside butterfly garden with my mum and Aunty Ange; up St Margaret’s Street in the summer rain to meet my friend Kate for afternoon tea at Tiny Tim’s Tearoom.
I walked along the stripy-deck-chaired beachfront at Westgate with my friend Nicki and her two tiny girls; along the Thames and through Greenwich Park with my sister-in-law, Caroline; down a steep, narrow lane to paddle on a perfect Devon beach with my friends Kate and Jonney and their little boy, Finbar. I walked around a Kentish vineyard in the bright morning sunshine before sampling a dangerously diverse selection of their fine wines (I’m ashamed to say the sun was absolutely nowhere near the yard arm). I wandered around Brighton with my mum and my godmother, popping into jewellery shops and stopping at the Lanes for tea and cake.
Many people enjoy walking alone, but for me a pleasant walk is as much about good company as it is about beautiful surroundings. There’s something about talking whilst walking which is uniquely therapeutic. I think it’s to do with the healthy physical activity, the proximity to nature, the fresh air and the ever-changing landscape which stimulates and enriches the conversation. Even if there are other walkers around, a conversation while walking always feel private, and the necessary lack of eye-contact (in order to avoid rabbit holes, puddles or cow pats) somehow allows delicate subjects to be addressed or confidences to be shared in an easy, gentle way. On returning home as an expat, there are so many lovely people I am desperate to see. Going for walks with them is, in my mind, the best possible way to catch up whilst recharging with the healing essence of home.
I’ll be going for another walk tomorrow – along several miles of airport travelators: just a tad less picturesque than the Cotswolds or the Brecon Beacons perhaps, but it’s the way home.
We have moved ten miles up the road and it feels as if we’ve moved to a different country entirely. Al Barsha, our haunt for the last three years, has many good points: it is fairly central, close to the Metro and a big mall, and it is the home of Shawarmaji – purveyors of the finest chicken shawarmas in the country (in my humble opinion… Oh! The roasty, pickley, garlicky goodness!). But it never really felt like home. It never really felt like anywhere if I’m honest. The problem I had with Barsha is, I think, the same problem some people have with Dubai in general: it doesn’t feel finished. Less buzzing suburb, more building site, in Barsha one is never far from the pneumatic drills, dust, trucks, cranes, scaffolding and incessant hammering.
So here we are in Satwa. Our new apartment is smaller than our last but, because the area is nearly all low-rise, there is a wonderful feeling of space and air – and so much LIGHT! In a previous post I wrote about the bizarre ‘Rear Window’ experience of looking out from our balcony straight into the living rooms of the apartments opposite… From our new bedroom balcony we have an amazing view out over the roofs of Dubai, from the scruffier satellite-dished dwellings nearby right up to the glittering lights of the Sheikh Zayed Road and the magnificent Burj Khalifa.
It’s like being treated to a free fireworks display every night; in fact, on New Year’s Eve – our balcony will be the place to be! (It will have to be a rather exclusive party I’m afraid, as you can only fit about three people on it…)
Satwa itself is a wonderful, bustling place that comes alive at night. It is filled with tailors, textile emporiums and haberdasheries, their windows glimmering with satin and sequins, and extraordinary little hardware shops that sell everything you can possibly think of – plungers, piping and boxes of nails filling every square inch of wall, floor and ceiling space. There are bakeries, their windows flung open to the cool night air as men in white aprons puff up pockets of hot bread over naked flames, and neon-lit restaurants with mouth-watering, spiced meat roasting on rotating skewers.
Revelation of revelations (particularly after my recent adventures with driving): here in Satwa we can walk to nice places. Even though it’s hot! We can walk to the beach. We can walk to a huge selection of fabulous shops and restaurants. We can walk up to the aromatic, neon craziness of Al Satwa Road. There are pavements and, what’s more, pedestrian crossings! To head into Satwa proper, one has a choice: take the main roads or short cut through the quieter, residential streets. The main road is Diyafah Street and, unlike some bits of Dubai, it has been here for quite a long time. Yesterday, a friend of mine was telling me about life in Dubai when she first lived here nearly twenty years ago: one day she was walking up Diyafah Street, when who should she see but His Highness Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum himself strolling towards her, with his smart walking cane and a discreet entourage. It’s perhaps not quite the same sort of street that it once was (I haven’t spotted any royalty yet), but it’s certainly still lively and characterful. To mark the fortieth anniversary of the unification of the Emirates, Diyafah Street was renamed after the date of National Day itself – it is now 2nd December Street.
The short cut through the quieter, residential streets has become one of my favourite things about Dubai. Sometimes I count the trees as I walk, just to wallow in the delight of being close to green things. There are old villas here, with mature, rambling gardens; gnarled tendrils of bougainvillea twist over the tops of the white-washed garden walls. There are beautiful old wooden doors and gates, the paint fading and peeling prettily in the heat. There are people chatting outside front doors, washing hanging up to dry between trees and – this one makes me shiver with delight – there are chickens wandering about in the road. Chickens! They may not be wandering for long (one suspects their existence may be somewhat short and purposeful), but while they wander they make the place feel positively rural. And that makes a displaced Maid of Kent very happy indeed. All I need to do now is find a place that does really good chicken shawarmas…
I had never driven an automatic before, or driven on the right, or driven on the crazy roads of Dubai. But we were moving house and buying furniture and transporting fish tanks and cats, and the whole thing would have been a nightmare without a car, so I grasped the proverbial nettle…
The advice I was given when first setting off in my tinny little hire car was to “go with the flow”… Alas, if you “go with the flow” too wholeheartedly on these roads, you end up breaking the speed limit, missing your turn-off and coming perilously close to mowing down a street cat, a pedestrian and a certifiably insane cyclist. Traffic here has its own natural inertia – a mighty, unstoppable forward-moving force, like a herd of stampeding wildebeest. And woe betide any unfortunate little wildebeest who needs to take the next left turning for Waitrose. It doesn’t help that most people who live here drive MASSIVE four-by-fours, so that anyone in a car of relatively normal dimensions ends up feeling like Charles Hawtrey in a particularly pumped-up and aggressive Mr Universe contest. I really do mean massive four-by-fours. Stupidly big. So big they must be impossible to park in your average parking space. I’m not talking Chelsea Tractors, I’m talking Chelsea Tanks… Chelsea Titanic Chrome Juggernauts… Some crazily rich people, however, eschew these juggernauts for flashy, low-slung sports cars with deafening engines – though they must come horribly unstuck when it comes to negotiating the vicious speed bumps of the residential streets. It’s all implausibly impractical.
Of the driving instructor’s sacred dictum – Mirror, Signal, Manoeuvre, only the one word applies here. Manoeuvre. Manoeuvre here, there and effing everywhere – as swiftly and unpredictably as possible. The extraordinary manoeuvres one witnesses in this part of the world are enough to make your brain short-fuse. People appear as if from nowhere in your wing mirror, swerve in front of you, narrowly grazing your bumper, slam the brakes on and then swerve back again for no apparent reason; people beep at red lights and then mount the kerb and drive cross-country over the pavement, sand and rubble to avoid the traffic altogether; people miss their turning on the high-speed highway and so stop and try to reverse through the fast-moving traffic; people drive the wrong way down one way roads and then beep at you to get out of their way. There’s a lot of beeping.
In the UK, beeping is generally for emergencies or alerting other road users of danger – and perhaps occasionally a cheery double-pip to say cheerio to people you know. Here the incessant beeping, hooting, honking and parping of car horns is used to communicate everything from “The light turned green one millionth of a second ago you blind moron – MOVE!” or, “I’m about to overtake you at 97 MPH – don’t change lanes for the love of God or WE’LL ALL DIE,” to, “I am sitting in my vehicle outside your shop and I can’t be arsed to get out. Please bring me some fags.”
There is a feverish impatience on the roads that is incongruous with the relaxed pace with which most other things happen over here – from the painfully slow progress of supermarket queues or bureaucratic processes to the local families wandering sleepily around the shopping malls. One wonders why everyone is dashing around the roads so dangerously, as they never seem to be in a hurry once they actually get there… The other day, the driver behind me was so impatient, he couldn’t wait the five seconds it would take me to turn left into our car park. I indicated left, slowed down and stopped briefly to let an oncoming car pass. Just as I started to turn left (still indicating, mind you), I had to slam on the brakes as the nitwit behind me had decided I was in his way and he was going to overtake me – while I was turning left (UK drivers may need to reverse the sides of the road to appreciate the full impact of this idiocy).
There is in fact so much idiocy on the roads here that some people advise “turning one’s brain off” to drive successfully. The theory is that there is no benefit in attempting to consider or anticipate other drivers’ moves: simply drive on your raw instinct. A bit like Al Pacino’s blind-man-in-a-Ferrari scene in Scent of a Woman, perhaps… I found it impossible to turn my brain off though, so I ended up attempting to anticipate the moves of every other impulsive, distracted, chatting / texting driver I was surrounded by, and, as people here overtake from both sides and rarely indicate, it was all rather exhausting.
Traffic here abhors a vacuum. If you leave a reasonably safe gap between your own car and the car in front, other drivers will see that gap and, perhaps assuming your lane must be moving slightly more quickly than their lane, will immediately swerve straight into it, often swerving back again when they realise it’s not actually moving any faster or they’re about to miss their turning. All of this without indicating of course. I think indicating actually sometimes causes problems as it can confuse people. The other day I indicated before safely and appropriately changing lanes and a driver two lanes across braked and honked at me. Having spotted my flashing light he had obviously panicked and thought I must be up to something much more drastic and characteristic of the driving out here, such as an impromptu U-turn or a spontaneous desire to park in the middle of the motorway.
Another frustration is that the road system is totally counter-intuitive: you have to set off in completely the wrong direction, take four U-turns, sit at five sets of traffic lights and navigate three spiralling spaghetti junctions just to get to the supermarket that you can actually see from your own front door. There aren’t many roundabouts here, and when you do come across one you soon understand why this is. With the erratic driving one sees out here every day, roundabouts are absolutely lethal. People barge onto them in front of oncoming traffic; they sit on the inside and then weave across every lane to take the first exit. I saw one expat driver actually driving the wrong way around a roundabout the other day as he sought to join the main road in his tinny little hire car. Heaven help his tinny little hire car. Heaven help us all.
That said, I suppose it hasn’t been quite as bad as I anticipated. The nice thing about driving, rather than getting taxis, is that you are in charge. Honestly, the amount of times my right foot has pressed into the passenger foot-well of a taxi in futile search of the brake… And it felt like a considerable achievement when I handed the keys back to the hire car man and received my full deposit back. “No speeding fines?” he said incredulously, “No parking fines? No bumps?”
“Nope,” I replied. “I told you, I’m a good driver.”
“The trouble is,” he said, shaking his head sadly, “everyone here thinks that.” And he hung the keys of my tinny little hire car on a peg behind the desk, ready for the next driver.
Sunday Times writer, Matt Rudd, has quite selflessly spent the last couple of years loitering around grubby motorway service stations, dodgy B&Bs and East Anglian dogging hotspots in order to write this splendid book (at least that was his excuse…). Just like Homesick and Heatstruck and many of my lovely readers, Rudd was living as an expat somewhere hot and exotic (Australia in his case, as opposed to the Middle East, but still, considerably more hot and exotic than, say, Bracknell) when he felt the plaintive call of his distant grey and green homeland.
Structured as a journey through those places that define us as a species – The Kitchen, The Garden, The Commuter Train, The Sports Field, The Bedroom – The English whips zippily through the findings of actual research, using personal experiences, experiments and informal case studies to add warmth, humour and humanity to his pseudo-scientific explorations. The result is a playful anthropological investigation of those diverse and mysterious creatures that graze our green and pleasant land (the people, I mean. English people. Not sheep).
Unlike most noble quests, which inevitably begin at Bag End, The Shire, Rudd’s journey starts in discount furniture store, DFS, in Carcroft, South Yorkshire. What follows is a moving eulogy for an Englishman’s best friend – his sofa. Rudd’s portrayal of the life of an average ‘Englisher’ (his chosen appellation) is indeed distinctly average. He positively wallows in the mire of modern Middle England, eschewing those old-fashioned English clichés of tea and cake, a foaming pint of ale, or cricket on the village green, focusing instead on the grimmer, every day realities of motorways, industrial parks and Tesco. And he has a jolly good time while he’s at it. Except when he’s in Blackpool, and who can blame him for that.
Rudd’s adventures encompass such exotic locations as the motel at Newport Pagnell motorway services, as he seeks to recapture the excitement of childhood holidays – that feeling of freedom, disorientation and dizzy anticipation that can only come from ‘stretching the legs’, using the loos and eating a deep-fried snack en route to a camping holiday somewhere in the Peak District. I know exactly what he means. Oh the joy of it when, after a bizarrely named ‘Tenderfoot Breakfast’, Little Chef would gladly swap my empty plate for their lollipop… More recently, my husband and I spent the second night of our marriage in the Travelodge at Podimore. We were on our way down to Coverack in Cornwall for our honeymoon and, still riding the crazy, heady high of pledging the rest of our lives to each other, we checked in as Mr and Mrs Trevor Lodge. The receptionist didn’t flinch.
One of my favourite parts of the book is Rudd’s investigation of queuing. Rather than popping into Wimbledon for the lawn-tennis-and-strawberries-and-cream side of Englishness, Rudd chooses a drier, more ironic approach, staying outside to observe the more subtle sport of queuing. It’s an endurance sport. John and his daughter Charlotte queue for forty three hours to get Centre Court tickets. There’s something soothing about a proper English queue – the calm, shuffling, pleasant order of it; the polite, shoulder-tapping ‘Excuse me, that counter’s free now’ – that’s balm to the poor expat soul who has suffered the angry humiliation of attempting to stick to ‘the rules’ of queuing when nobody else bloody bothers. I nearly flattened someone at the vegetable weighing counter of Lulu Hypermarket today…
The chapter on commuting also strikes close to home. Rudd lists the recorded announcement of stops on the Charing Cross line to Ramsgate: “Ashford. Wye. Chilham. Chartham. Canterbury West. Sturry. Minster. Ramsgate…” It’s a much-loved route I’ve travelled many, many times. Less often in recent years perhaps, due to the jazzy new hyper-quick-rocket-powered-leopard-train from Canterbury to London St Pancras (and the fact that I live on a different continent, of course). But while the list of these stations is nostalgic music to my ears, the announcement of the slow route gives my husband horrible flashbacks to his shell-shocked days of commuting from Canterbury to London every weekday for an entire year when we were newly married. For twelve long months he spent nearly six hours a day on trains. Six hours. The mere suggestion of ‘changing at Ashford for Marshlink services to Brighton’ or ‘moving to the front four carriages as this station has a short platform’ is so traumatic for him he just shakes his head, muttering, “You weren’t there, man. You weren’t there…”
But I digress. The English is witty, original and clever, with a few lovely running jokes, such as the Birmingham retail industry’s unhealthy obsession with ladies’ underwear, and delightful recurring characters such as Mehmet, the ‘Coffee Guy on Platform 1’. Rudd inclines towards positive portrayals whilst resisting the urge to make too many sweeping generalisations. It’s a satisfying and entertaining book and, speaking personally, essential reading for homesick English expatriates who might fall for more sentimental representations of cultural identity, and need reassurance that all is much as it was when we left and we’re not missing out on anything particularly wonderful.
One rather pleasant surprise is that we come across as a much more cheerful bunch that I might have anticipated. A randomly chosen commuter ranks his happiness rating as nine out of ten, whilst standing on a railway platform at 5:32am on a drizzly English morning. NINE out of ten?! Cheerful indeed. Or just barking bloody mad… But I have to say that certain chapters work as really rather effective homesickness aversion therapy, reminding us of those less pleasant aspects of home – the reasons we left the country in the first place: the bit about binge drinking and exploding bladders perhaps, noise-polluting neighbours, or the horrendous phantom traffic jams on the M25… Well, it’s exactly one month until I’m back in England for the summer, and I have to stave off the homesickness a little longer; I might just have to read that bit about Blackpool again…
The English: A Field Guide by Matt Rudd has just been published by Harper Collins and is available online and in shops now.
Brace yourselves. This is going to be a highly controversial post in which I risk alienating myself from my more fashionable readers (that’s you. No, really…). Here it is: I don’t really get designer handbags.
The marvellous Caitlin Moran wrote about designer handbags in her book How to be a Woman. Like me, she couldn’t really see the appeal and, even when she set out on a special shopping mission to find one to buy for herself as a treat, she just didn’t find anything as nice (or indeed as fun) as your average offering in Topshop. The problem of being expected to like and appreciate designer handbags is, I think, worse in Dubai than anywhere else in the world (Probably. Except maybe Manhattan. Or Knightsbridge. Or Chelmsford). The malls are crammed with thin, glamorous women teetering about in their designer heels with several thousand pounds worth of leather dangling off their shoulders. And I just don’t get it. It’s not even as if many of them are that pretty (the bags, I mean, not the women of course – who are groomed to within an inch of their lives) – most of them have got weird spikes or annoying dangly bits, or brash, gold branding all over them (again, I’m talking about the bags here, obviously). Or they are so plain and understated you might as well have bought one in M&S in the first place for all the attention it’ll get you. Perhaps what I really dislike is the unspoken, vicious competition they suggest is going on around us all the time – the ruthless one-up-woman-ship; the exclusive coded club of mine’s-better-than-yours showy-offy-ness that, some might say, undermines both genuine individuality and female solidarity at the same time.
Don’t get me wrong, if you can easily afford such things, knock yourself out (who knows, maybe I’m just a little bit jealous, and perhaps everyone buying expensive handbags will give the Italian economy a boost…). I just feel it’s important to buy and wear things we genuinely like, rather than things retailers or advertisers tell us we should like, or things that we think will supposedly impress other people. It’s this disingenuous, brainwashing nature of high fashion propaganda that irritates me – all young girls must feel free to say “NO! I know that bag is fabulously expensive and that Cara Delevingne (or whoever) has got one, but, dammit, I think it’s ugly! And it hasn’t got enough POCKETS.”
In this respect, posh handbags remind me a bit of expensive, Sex-and-the-City-style high heels. They are an icon of glamour. We are supposed to like them… Now, if the more expensive high heeled shoes were dramatically more comfortable than cheaper ones (as confirmed by a pal of mine the other day when she treated herself to some beautiful Jimmy Choo wedges), that would actually justify the price tag a bit, but that can’t possibly apply to handbags, can it?…”This Chanel bag just sits much better on the shoulder…”; “The new Givenchy Lucrezia really is better at carrying several things at once than cheaper bags…”
I’m going to contradict myself a bit here. Last Christmas, my husband bought me a gorgeous little Kate Spade evening bag – and I love it dearly. It is the first posh handbag I have ever owned and it is perfect for the occasional night out. It does not have any silly spikey or dangly bits and it is a bright, sunshiney yellow colour, which is cheerful and (surprisingly) goes well with just about any other bright colours I happen to be wearing (I recall Caitlin Moran having a similar revelation about yellow shoes. Guard these fashion secrets with your lives, dear readers – they don’t exactly tend to come thick and fast on this website…). But it is not really practical or capacious enough for my daily use. Let’s face it, few bags are…
This is the main reason I can’t be doing with silk-lined designer handbags: I need a handbag to be like a good haggis – substantial and robustly stitched. Like a true Englishwoman abroad (or indeed, a particularly enthusiastic boy scout) – I am always prepared. ALWAYS. For just about ANYTHING (except perhaps an alien invasion. Or an event that required people to be carrying very small handbags…). I take after my mother in this respect. If you ever need anything – you know, the sorts of things people need when they’re out and about – tissues, plasters, a pen, a hardback copy of The Ornithologist’s Guide to Common UK Migrants etc. – just ask my mother. You will not be disappointed.
So, this weekend I decided to do a handbag audit… I have categorized the items within for ease of reference. Are you ready?
Keys (I put these first but, in real terms, they should come last, as they tend to hide in the miscellaneous rubble at the bottom of my bag for at least seven minutes whilst I rummage helplessly outside the front door); phone; travel cards and security cards; tissues; Tic Tacs; an unfeasibly heavy purse (I always carry both UAE and UK currency – largely in the form of loose change, for some reason); more tissues; a plaster; some makeup; a travel-pack of baby wipes; anti-bacterial hand gel; a biro.
Vital in a hot country:
Sunglasses; SPF 15 lip salve; a bottle of water; a fan; Evian water spray; a mini bottle of SPF 30 sun cream; a cotton sunhat.
Miscellaneous rubble (also vital):
Nineteen random receipts from the last two or three years; some old electricity bills; body spray; a memory stick (Lord knows what’s on it); some paper clips; an old pack of chewing gum; two four-colour pens; a propelling pencil; some post-it notes; a small tupperware box of Earl Grey teabags; a mini map of Dubai; two old shopping lists; an unfinished crossword torn out of The Lady magazine; a sandy pair of swimming goggles; a pair of sports socks (washed, but slightly sandy); some shells from the beach (sandy, unsurprisingly); three random business cards… And a packet of oaty biscuits (pummelled into a packet of oaty crumbs from the pestle-and-mortar effect of my unfeasibly heavy purse banging about in the bottom of the bag).
If I’m travelling anywhere on public transport I will also have a book, and, often, a banana, for hunger emergencies. Sometimes I forget about the banana for a few days and only remember it’s in there when my money and tissues start to smell of overly ripe, squashed banana. My husband sometimes refers to my handbag as The Fruit Necropolis – where pieces of fruit go to die: “I think you left The Fruit Necropolis on the sofa.” Or, “Have you put my keys in The Fruit Necropolis again?”
The only expensive designer bags I have ever fallen in love with in a posh shop here in Dubai are made by the Italian company Braccialini. The bags are totally gorgeous and utterly bonkers – just have a look at their page… There are handbags that look like ducks and owls and elephants and cottages and violins and accordions and telephones and clocks and mushrooms and washing machines and snails and rocking horses (I say, here’s fun – why not play a game and try to find all those bags on their page right now?!). They are truly amazing bits of leathery craftsmanship. But even with these works of art, I’d struggle to justify actually buying one. With what would I wear it? (dear Liza, dear Liza…) And wouldn’t a large, beautifully crafted, colourful leather accordion hanging off my shoulder rather upstage the rest of me?
Nope, I think I’m destined to a life of practical and affordable baggage. I shall fashion myself into an icon of scruffy pragmatism. My handbag is always going to be less of a Louis Vuitton and more of a cross between the TARDIS and Mary Poppins’ magical carpet bag… Come to think of it, I wonder how many squashed bananas Mary Poppins must have had at the bottom of her bag? Thousands, I imagine. I bet she takes even longer to find her keys than I do…
MISS PRISM: Lady Bracknell, I admit with shame that I do not know. I only wish I did. The plain facts of the case are these. On the morning of the day you mention, a day that is for ever branded on my memory, I prepared as usual to take the baby out in its perambulator. I had also with me a somewhat old, but capacious handbag, in which I had intended to place the manuscript of a work of fiction that I had written during my few unoccupied hours. In a moment of mental abstraction, for which I never can forgive myself, I deposited the manuscript in the basinette, and placed the baby in the handbag…
The perils of a capacious handbag, as depicted by Oscar Wilde in The Importance of Being Earnest, 1895
Do tell… What does your miscellaneous handbag rubble include?
Many an expat blog discusses the foodstuffs, home comforts and edible luxuries unavailable to them in their overseas posting. Sometimes I imagine them all – thousands of variously dispersed blogging Brits – soaking up the sun somewhere suitably exotic, and longingly salivating for a decent pickled onion or a packet of Scampi Fries. In Dubai we are lucky enough to have a wide variety of shops representing the equally wide variety of nationalities living here; we English folk frequently hug ourselves with glee when we remember that Dubai has branches of both Waitrose and Marks & Spencer in which to find comfort and familiarity (or is that just me with the gleeful self-hugging? Oh. I see… Do have a look at my post, The Worldwide Waitrose Web, for a cheery discussion on the perks of aggressive globalisation). The dry foods and frozen stuff stocked in Waitrose are pretty much as they would be at home (with less choice and no alcoholic or pork-based ingredients of course – Christ, it was murder finding a proper Christmas pudding…), but many fresh or perishable goods are locally sourced or imported from countries nearby. This, along with UAE legislation, means that, try as we might, certain items are simply unavailable out here…
The first of these elusive indulgences is a pack of good old-fashioned wine gums. My husband has an actual addiction to wine gums (please see this photographic evidence of his shameful private stash. It’s a sorry situation, isn’t it. And made so much worse by the fact that he stores them in a KFC Binge Bucket). You can’t get wine gums here in Dubai, though there are plenty of ludicrous sugar emporiums in which you can buy just about every other sweetmeat and confectionary on the planet. There can’t be a porky issue here as wine gums are made with bovine gelatine, so we have therefore concluded that the absence of wine gums can only be because UAE customs officials have been foxed by the word wine. Wine gums do not, of course, contain a single drop of alcohol (although, if they did, it might at least go some way towards explaining my husband’s obsession). To complicate this legal quirk further, wine gums are, bizarrely, very popular in Kuwait – a totally ‘dry’ country. Wine gums were invented by Mr Maynard, Junior, in the early years of the 20th Century and were called Wine Gums to make them sound like a more ‘grown up’ sweet for an older target market – the connoisseurs’ candy, if you will. Although it may have been that Mr Maynard, Junior, was just trying to wind up his father, Mr Maynard, Senior, who was a devout Methodist of the teetotal, temperance variety. The red and black ones are his favourites (my husband’s, not Mr Maynard’s) – I think they are called Port and Claret. Thinking about it now, I wonder if wine gums are actually meant to appeal to children who want to play at mimicking sophisticated adult vices… Like those candy cigarillos… or Babyccino ‘coffees’… Whatever next? Champagne Chupa Chups? Caviar Dip Dabs?
For those amongst us who suffer from nasty headaches or backache, it can be tough getting hold of good painkillers out here, as UAE law prohibits the sale of any medicine containing codeine. There are days when I miss Syndol like I miss the company of an old friend (if I had any old friends who were particularly efficacious analgesics, that is). Syndol is an over-the-counter painkiller, marketed in the UK for ‘tension headaches’, as it not only contains paracetamol and codeine, but also a rather jolly muscle relaxant. The result is a couple of hours of pleasant, floppy, pain-free fuzziness. You feel as if you are hiding in a dark, warm cupboard at the back of your own brain. If you’ve never tried it, I can assure you that a weekday afternoon spent curled up on the sofa with a couple of Syndol, a cup of tea, a bar of Fruit & Nut, and a double-bill of Murder, She Wrote is a very special kind of bliss. Maybe it’s just as well you can’t get hold of it in this part of the world, come to think of it – I’d never get anything done…
A somewhat healthier craving I harbour is for fresh, organic veg. When we lived in Canterbury, we would often potter down to the farmers’ market, The Goods Shed, on a Sunday morning, and stock up on local seasonal vegetables for our roast dinner (do have a look at of their website: http://thegoodsshed.co.uk or check out my fellow WordPress blogger’s reviews of some of their amazing foodstuffs on her site A Canterbury Food Love Story. Most supermarket fruit and vegetables here are imported and many are chemically treated and hermetically sealed in cling film – I’ve purchased many sad bananas, tragic avocados and melancholy mangos that go straight from rock hard to rotten without ever being truly ripe. Here in this perpetual summer it’s also hard to keep a sense of what is actually seasonal. I often think about how lovely it was to choose from piles of fresh vegetables just plucked from the earth, the leaves glistening with that morning’s dew. You can’t beat a rummage through a pile of muddy carrots and grubby parsnips. The word ‘organic’ is often horribly misused over here, meaning anything from ‘Vegetarian’ or ‘Containing fresh ingredients’ through to ‘Vaguely healthy. Probably. We haven’t actually checked or anything…’ There are, however, some pioneers of organic farming starting to make a real impact in this part of the world. Heaven knows how they actually manage it in a desert, but if you’re interested in finding out, have a look at the website of these admirable and very groovy people: http://www.greenheartuae.com/
For all those non-perishable items that are legal but still maddeningly unattainable there are some rather wonderful companies who will put together parcels of goodies for you or your expat loved ones. There are quite a few great British websites doing this, and my current favourites are Home Comforts Goods and British Corner Shop. Wowsers – they actually stock wine gums too! For heaven’s sake, nobody tell the husband…
I found it hard to write about being back home while I was actually there. Like a painter sitting too close to my subject, I lacked perspective and context. Much of my writing about England is, of course, idealised, romanticised nonsense, and it’s very difficult to romanticise something when it’s right there in front of you; it’s frankly a bit awkward, too – like gibbering about a person’s ethereal beauty while they look you steadily in the eye. The part of my brain responsible for hopeless sentimentality (the Hallmark Greetings Card Lobe, perhaps?) obviously needs a bit of space to airbrush the flaws and add the requisite imaginative detail.
My visits home are primarily about spending time with much-missed family and friends, but they are also steeped in a selective and entirely self-indulgent nostalgia. And on this trip, not without a hint of self-irony, my chosen reading was Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited. I’m my own worst enemy, I know… Just like the time when I actually ate a box of chocolates whilst watching Forrest Gump, I’m afraid it all got a bit ‘meta’… The decision I appeared to have made was to fill my thoughts with nostalgia both as an intellectual concept and literary theme whilst simultaneously wallowing in my own actual, personal nostalgia: it was a sort of experimental double-whammy, just to see if I could make my own brain implode.
Brideshead Revisited recounts the emotional entanglements between Waugh’s narrator, Charles Ryder, and the various members of the aristocratic Flyte family, starting in the golden, hazy summer days of the early 1920s. In his 1959 preface to Brideshead Revisited, Waugh all but apologises for his sumptuous, romantic prose and blames the darkness and uncertainty of the Second World War in which the novel was written:
It was a bleak period of present privation and threatening disaster – the period of soya beans and basic English – and in consequence the book is infused with a kind of gluttony, for food and wine, for the splendours of the recent past, and for rhetorical and ornamental language, which now with a full stomach I find distasteful. (Waugh, 1959)
The opulence of both content and style is at its height in Waugh’s depictions of Charles and Sebastian (and Aloysius, the teddy bear) at Oxford, drinking champagne in the morning, picnicking, getting drunk at luncheon, and dining on plovers’ eggs; or their long, dreamy, drunken summer at Brideshead, tasting wine from the cellars and painting lavish pastoral scenes on the Rococo panels of the colonnade office. One can understand why, writing from such a distant and different time, the blithe freedoms and indulgences of the past would burn so much brighter. When writing about things lost to us, we become magpies – picking out the glittering and jewelled fragments of memory.
Nostalgia and homesickness can, I think, be seen as siblings – one is temporal, the other geographical – but there are significant areas of overlap and both can make the heart ache. So I would like, if I may, to dwell on Waugh’s words of self-criticism and use them in my own defence… I’m not saying that living in Dubai is in any way like living through the Second World War (though it is, for some reason, rather tricky to get hold of a decent bunch of bananas out here), nor am I attempting to compare my own bewildered witterings with Waugh’s magnificent prose; it’s the concepts I’m interested in – the magnetic retrospective, the plaintive echo of ‘how things used to be…’, the similarity between time and place when they exist purely abstractly: “The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.” (L. P. Hartley, The Go-Between). It’s all about contrast, separation and wanting what you can’t have. It’s about the grass being greener – whether that remembered greenness exists twenty years in the past or twenty thousand air-miles away. It may not necessarily make my occasionally saccharin prose any more palatable, but it does, I hope, make it more forgivable – the linguistic equivalent of hot, tinned chocolate pudding with custard on a lonely winter’s night, maybe.
But Waugh’s novel is much more than a languid yearning for the heady irresponsibility of youth or an elegiac Paradise Lost for the old regime. It is about profound and lasting change – and we all struggle with that at times. The themes of Brideshead Revisited are complex and, frequently, antithetical: youth and middle age; war and peace; sin and innocence; faith and agnosticism; darkness and light; drunkenness and sobriety…
Perhaps writing indulgently about the things we long for is a bit like a sort of mild, pleasant drunkenness – removing oneself ever so slightly from the here and now, blurring time a little, a romantic softening of the edges of things, simultaneously numbing and warming…
And we would leave the golden candlelight of the dining room for the starlight outside and sit on the edge of the fountain, cooling our hands in the water and listening drunkenly to its splash and gurgle over the rocks.
‘Ought we to be drunk every night?’ Sebastian asked one morning.
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘I think so too.’
Brideshead Revisited, Evelyn Waugh (1945)
The Rose-Tinted Glasses
Top Ten Nostalgic Puddings
So, for all my homesick yearnings and complaining about how mercilessly hot it is out here, it seems I have acclimatized after all. After three years, my internal thermostat must have recalibrated to Middle Eastern settings, because I was totally, profoundly shocked by how cold it was back home in England.
I don’t mean just “Brrrr – that’s a bit chilly;” I mean literally not caring about what I looked like so long as I was warm enough – frequently resorting to wearing all my clothes at once. Never before have I angrily ransacked my own suitcase, thinking to myself, What’s wrong with me? WHY don’t I own a balaclava? At times I had to improvise by pulling my bobble hat right down to my eyes and nestling my chin into several layers of thick jumpers. My feet were encased in so many pairs of socks that they resembled woolly trotters. Even so, my skin responded to the cold by cracking and peeling off, while my husband’s lungs went into shock and he developed some sort of wheezy, sub-zero-induced asthma. What had happened to us?
In my mind (and idealistic, highly selective memory), British spring days are brisk and blowy – showery perhaps – with brightly changeable weather and fresh, crisp air which promises warmth soon. Spring is a time of optimism: “Though April showers may come your way, they bring the flowers which bloom in May”; a season that is so energetic and cheerful it inspires (allegedly) the urge to spring clean (mercifully, I have never experienced this terrifying phenomenon).
Motivated by this entirely theoretical optimism, on one bleak, sleety morning in Rye, my husband and I set off for a walk in the beautiful Sussex countryside. It really was very cold. VERY cold. Bitter. We cut across the salt-marsh towards the sea and walked past a herd of sheep and their tiny lambs, shivering beside the ancient ruins of Camber Castle. After a few miles it started to rain and we stumbled numbly across a pub in which we sought refuge from the unseasonal weather. We sat beside the fire and sipped hot chocolate, watching the wind whip freezing rain against the window. We decided to walk home via the coast (I don’t know why we decided this. The cold must have dulled our powers of reason) and our spring stroll in the country somehow turned into a grey, eight-mile trudge, leaning into a frozen coastal headwind. Our hot chocolate-fuelled warmth and good humour soon faded. A grim silence fell between us as we both considered the possibility that we actually might die on the snowy wastes of Winchelsea. Like many Arctic explorers before us, we knew that there was nothing to do but keep walking. If only we’d thought to bring a team of trained huskies. We saw no one on our walk apart from one small cluster of hikers who had apparently made the same terrible mistake as us. As we passed them, we raised our eyes and looked into the blizzard, meeting the narrowed, terrified eyes that peered out from beneath their waterproof hoods.
We didn’t die. We caught a bus home. Back in the safety of our hotel room we turned the radiators up to full blast. I decided I needed a hot shower and was startled (not for the first time on this trip) by how brutally cold the water from the cold tap was; in Dubai the tap water never gets any colder than tepid. In the summer months, when the pipes are heated under the baking ground, you don’t even need to turn on the hot water to have a shower, it pours out of the ‘cold’ tap piping hot. This is of course a problem when you are desperate for cool refreshment. Last year I once resorted to putting ice cubes in the wash-basin. Sometimes I think my life has become bizarrely polarized. Back in Rye, I used the hairdryer to warm the bed up and snuggled beneath the piles of extra blankets I had asked for, at last deliciously, luxuriously warm… Until I woke in the middle of the night needing a glass of water. My husband deserves a medal for getting up and launching into the icy air for this selfless quest. He wrapped a thick dressing gown around himself and groped blindly through the frozen darkness, muttering the fatalistic words of Captain Oates – “I am just going outside and may be some time…”
One of the benefits of this unexpectedly cold weather was that it gave us an excuse to do little more with the rest of our holiday than sit in lovely pubs and tea rooms and eat delicious food and toast ourselves in front of roaring log fires. If I were to make a list of the things I miss most about home (other than friends or family of course), a log fire on a wintery afternoon would definitely be in my top ten. We gazed at the hypnotic miracle of the dancing orange flames. We sat in comfy chairs and dozed and did crosswords for hours at a time, sleepily absorbing the luxurious, crackling heat. We became experts at when it was time to ‘put a couple more logs on’. I think one pub landlord thought we had moved in, we made ourselves so much at home.
But the weather did change. One beautiful blue-skied Saturday, back home in Kent with my family, spring finally arrived. I went for a glorious walk with my brother for which neither balaclavas nor bobble hats were required (nor a team of huskies for that matter). There were the beginnings of buds and blossom on the trees. Spring flowers which had been frozen closed in a strange stasis finally decided to risk opening their petals. And high in the blue sky above us, a tiny dot of a skylark sang his little heart out with such zeal that it was as if he himself had banished the winter with his song of unalloyed joy. It seems spring is a time of optimism after all.
Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest,
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest…
from Ode to a Skylark by Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1820