How I nearly lost my inner Pollyanna for good....

They say what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger; certainly three months of quaffing a bottle of Shiraz each night may well have toughened up my liver in the same way the past three months have tested my Pollyanna-like optimism and belief that things will always turn out OK in the end.

The symbiotic and simultaneous pan-continental misery and despair that has characterised mine and DH's lives during this time -- certainly our run of bad luck seemed to be overextended  -- left us at times wondering if we were the unfortunate recipients of a hex of some sort.

In isolation of course most of these situations could have been rationalised, but when heaped on top of each other they became unmanageable and I spent several weeks bemoaning the turn my life was taking, convinced in my darkest moments that I would never see DH again and was sentenced to a life as a single mother of five.  It of course all started with-

• the house of horrors which was hovel-house; 
• DH not being paid for THREE months; 
• the angry man with the massive dog who moved in next door to hovel-house and who's wife and three children spent the entire day inside the house with the blinds down and who felt obliged to pay me irate visits requesting we keep the noise down (I must admit to allowing my imagination to run away with this one and was convinced his wife spent her days in a cupboard under the stairs, only allowed out occasionally to limp out as far as the gate before disappearing inside again); 
• the ex-con at the end of the street who spent thirty minutes knocking on my front door at 2 in the morning, leaving me to conclude that it was in fact the woman next door knocking from her basement prison -- it wasn't until I ventured downstairs, mobile phone in hand (not much of a weapon) that I realised the knocking was in fact coming from the front door by which time I was so freaked out I phoned the police for the first time in my life although must admit to having to pause for a moment: 'what's the number again? 911?, no goddamnit, too many cop shows, it's 999!!'.
•  DH not being paid for THREE months!!

But things turned out very well in the end: I'm back in my lovely house with the pink front door; DH is back home in the bosom of his family; a generous offer of a job in the southern hemisphere has been issued and more importantly, it's Ramadan and I'm not in a Muslim country. Yay!

I really don't think I could have survived a fourth year of it without being arrested.

DH arrived home last week after a very stressful time at work, a time which culminated in his employers eventually being named and shamed in The National, the most popular English-language newspaper in the UAE (I can't imagine how they got hold of the story, some disgruntled wife no doubt...).

Having spent weeks in anticipation of a visit (impossible until pay day) it was with great excitement that myself and the children headed out from our little village in the West of Ireland, stretching and yawning, early one morning last week to make the journey to Dublin airport. I had spent many moments during those very bleak days mulling over the airport re-union; I was pretty sure it would go something like this:-

Assembled directly in front of the Arrivals exit, DH would spot us immediately as he came through, exhausted and a little demoralised from his ordeal, but overjoyed to see his beautiful and immaculately turned out children as they rushed to him en masse, clambouring and clutching him into a touching group hug.

Stoic as ever, I would stand back and allow him this sentimental kodak-moment with his children, confident that it was I that he craved most during our time apart.

Eventually he would untangle himself from the clutch of the children, his gaze falling hungrily upon me before we collapsed into each others arms, laughing and sobbing simultaneously while furiously whispering promises to never again be apart.

Well, it's always nice to daydream.

I had bought bright white tops for the boys to wear to the airport.  I had also bought Ribena drinks for the journey -- I think it's safe to say these two items are without doubt mutually exclusive -- particularly when children are involved.

We got to the airport with time to spare and the children emerged from the car Ribena-stained and squabbling. Having ascertained that his plane had indeed landed, we quickly found the arrivals hall where the children positioned themselves at the barrier and waited.  And waited. And waited.

There must be a problem. Having witnessed at least three flight arrivals as they proceeded through arrivals exit, I started to panic.'Oh my god, the UAE won't let him leave, they know he has a car fine, they know I blasphemed online, he's rotting in a Dubai jail right now, what will I do? I'm going to spend the rest of my life alone while he is fed nothing but an orange a week while being kicked by cruel and embittered prison guards!'

I tried to phone him, no answer 'No, they would probably take his mobile off of him when they arrested him' I reasoned.

Panicking I rushed to the arrivals screen to check I hadn't misread it.  No, it's definitely landed.  Yep, landed at Terminal 1.  Well, there's only one arrivals hall for the whole airport isn't there??...


Turns out there is a second arrivals hall, the one which we SHOULD have been waiting in. Typical!

Racing from Terminal two to Terminal one, we made it in about ten minutes.  Piling into the lift we panted as it whisked us downwards before spitting us out into the other Arrivals hall.  Dashing out into the throng of people as they breezed through I suddenly spotted DH looking lost and confused:

Is it him? I recognise the T-shirt -- is that REALLY him?  He looks like hell.  And definitely shorter than I remember. I thought DH was taller than that.... 


I suffered the same confusion on our second date: I knew he was the one for me; my future husband, a father for my unborn children, my soul-mate -- problem was I just couldn't remember what he looked like.  Galvanised by a gaggle of friends I showed up to O'Malley's bar in Westport to meet him hoping to hell he'd recognise me.  Looking around nervously, I ordered a drink and waited; he appeared from around a corner within seconds. 'I knew when I saw the barman pour a whiskey that you were here' he told me (our first date had coincided with a whiskey promotion which awarded me several Paddy's T-shirts by the end of the night).

So I didn't trust my instincts as I stared at sad,crumpled, and slightly shorter than I remembered, DH.

I felt shy -- I hadn't seen him in three months and felt suddenly self-conscious.  I could read the same disappointment and confusion in his face as he surveyed me: ten pounds heavier, lank ponytail with grey struggling through, face ashen from stress and weeping, and my nose sporting an attractive and stubborn cold sore.

But he's here now, we've dispensed with the hagiographical fantasies we had created of each other during that time apart and have reaquainted ourselves with each others foibles and peccadillo's.

And we both look older.  Definitely older.

Being back in our house after three years away is a strange experience: it looks smaller, things seem out of place, my much loved belongings seem shabby and faded, and yesterday we pulled down all the boxes we'd shoved into the attic before leaving for Abu Dhabi and with much joy poured over the many photographs, toys, winter clothes and even my wedding dress (yes, it still fits!) that we willingly and thoughtlessly packed up without a care.

It made me realise that next time I move away I will certainly be bringing many of these things with me.  I have friends who have lived in several countries but insist on carting old family heirlooms around with them.  I couldn't understand why they did this at the time, why not travel light and spend your relocation allowance in Ikea?  I've changed my mind about that now.

Being an expat can be a lonely and rootless experience if you don't make an absolute effort to create a sense of permanency and continuity in your home.  Our time in the UAE saw two months in an Abu Dhabi hotel followed by one year in a villa in Al Ain, one year in a townhouse in RAK, and 8 months in a duplex in RAK. By the time we'd moved into that last house I'd all but given up putting up pictures and curtains, leaving them to languish in boxes awaiting the next move.

I can't believe I'm saying this but, I'm ready to settle down somewhere for several years.  This nomadic lifestyle, while initially exciting, ends up feeling pretty empty and more of a box-ticking pretense at real life rather than the actual thing.

Bring on Australia, I'm told you actually get paid over there.