So it's Ramadan, I get it, wonderful. However, I fail to understand what that has to do with my morning take-out cappuccino from Coffee planet in my local ADNOC petrol station. I knew what was coming before the poor guy broke the news to me -- I could sense the bad news which hung in the air as he and his colleague shuffled around me silently debating who would deliver the crushing words 'sorry maam, but the machine is not working, it is Ramadan' as I jostled with the stacked cups and the 'cappuccino' button.
Now, I realise that at this special time in the Islamic calendar Muslims all over the world are fasting, praying and generally being at one with God, but I'm afraid that at 8am this was irrelevant to me as I spluttered 'we're not ALL Muslim you know!!'. The poor guy was very apologetic but what could he say?
I realise this doesn't signal armageddon, or even rain, but I do LIKE my morning take-out cappuccino on the way to work. It makes me feel grown up, like a hip, streetwise New Yorker, Sarah Jessica Parker-esque as I skip lightly across the busy streets, take-out cup in hand. It says 'I'm too busy to be fannying about with teaspoons and mugs, I have places to be, things to do, I outsource my coffee making!'.
I realise this analogy crumbles as I reach work, emerge from my car, wearing not a wool coat and cosy scarf to fend off the bitter New York winter morning, but a light summer dress in searing heat. And as I cross the road, red-faced and sweating, take-out cup in hand, I feel momentarily foolish -- nay pretentious! -- for carrying a boiling hot drink when I should be drinking iced tea. And besides, the Indian guy standing on the corner watching me has never even heard of Carrie Bradshaw.
But it's a comfort thing. A bit of home. A bit like buying the Sunday Times every week to read A.A. Gills TV review of shows I've not watched, or one of India Knight rants. Still, it makes me feel like I'm still part of something, that I'm not missing out on anything, like tuning in online to listen to RTE's Joe Duffy or Morning Ireland. There's something bizarrely comforting about living in the Middle Eastern desert while listening to the news that a lorry has overturned in Castleblaney.
But really, I'm not complaining about Ramadan, it's all part of the adventure after all and I'm planning to make it to one of those ubiquitous tents dotted so charmingly around the place, hosting Iftar parties.
But all this is on hold until we're certain DH doesn't have swine flue. Personally I think he's fine, my hypochondria is reserved entirely for myself (for example, a pain in my jaw at present can only flag the beginnings of a very rare jaw cancer), and he probably could do with an entire nights sleep without the constant comings and goings of various children throughout the night.
This isn't to overestimate the situation, we even have a makeshift bed made up on our bedroom floor to accommodate them when they wander in, but inevitably I wake up surrounded by four naked men most mornings. That sounds far more exciting than it actually is.
In addition, due to our new 'nightly tippleless' regime, sleeping without the sedative of a couple of glasses of wine is the sleep of the damned and leaves you feeling as if you slept for 25 minutes max.
Now, I realise that at this special time in the Islamic calendar Muslims all over the world are fasting, praying and generally being at one with God, but I'm afraid that at 8am this was irrelevant to me as I spluttered 'we're not ALL Muslim you know!!'. The poor guy was very apologetic but what could he say?
I realise this doesn't signal armageddon, or even rain, but I do LIKE my morning take-out cappuccino on the way to work. It makes me feel grown up, like a hip, streetwise New Yorker, Sarah Jessica Parker-esque as I skip lightly across the busy streets, take-out cup in hand. It says 'I'm too busy to be fannying about with teaspoons and mugs, I have places to be, things to do, I outsource my coffee making!'.
I realise this analogy crumbles as I reach work, emerge from my car, wearing not a wool coat and cosy scarf to fend off the bitter New York winter morning, but a light summer dress in searing heat. And as I cross the road, red-faced and sweating, take-out cup in hand, I feel momentarily foolish -- nay pretentious! -- for carrying a boiling hot drink when I should be drinking iced tea. And besides, the Indian guy standing on the corner watching me has never even heard of Carrie Bradshaw.
But it's a comfort thing. A bit of home. A bit like buying the Sunday Times every week to read A.A. Gills TV review of shows I've not watched, or one of India Knight rants. Still, it makes me feel like I'm still part of something, that I'm not missing out on anything, like tuning in online to listen to RTE's Joe Duffy or Morning Ireland. There's something bizarrely comforting about living in the Middle Eastern desert while listening to the news that a lorry has overturned in Castleblaney.
But really, I'm not complaining about Ramadan, it's all part of the adventure after all and I'm planning to make it to one of those ubiquitous tents dotted so charmingly around the place, hosting Iftar parties.
But all this is on hold until we're certain DH doesn't have swine flue. Personally I think he's fine, my hypochondria is reserved entirely for myself (for example, a pain in my jaw at present can only flag the beginnings of a very rare jaw cancer), and he probably could do with an entire nights sleep without the constant comings and goings of various children throughout the night.
This isn't to overestimate the situation, we even have a makeshift bed made up on our bedroom floor to accommodate them when they wander in, but inevitably I wake up surrounded by four naked men most mornings. That sounds far more exciting than it actually is.
In addition, due to our new 'nightly tippleless' regime, sleeping without the sedative of a couple of glasses of wine is the sleep of the damned and leaves you feeling as if you slept for 25 minutes max.
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