93. Real Fake

A shopping trip with the girls wouldn’t have in the past been my idea of a great day out but when the trip was to Dubai and was sure to include a posh nosh lunch and the chance to swan around the glitzy Dubai shopping malls I couldn’t resist.

One of the pearls in the crown of Abu Dhabi is that it is just over a one hour drive to Dubai, which makes the glamour and opulence of Dubai a possible experience for a weekend or even a day.   Offering any bored expat wife the required respite from sleepy suburban life in Abu Dhabi.    Being a Dubai virgin, I happily trailed on the coat-tails of my shopping pals, who seemed to know exactly where to go for the bargains.

“Karamah” was the order to the taxi driver.  I presumed Karamah was an outlet or department store but instead was surprised to see that the name referred to an area which had streets and streets of single storey shops.  Dotted here and there with indoor areas, made indoor, by the use of large sheets of Perspex laid loose across the roofs the temporary shop structures.   Overdressed and underwhelmed I disembarked the cab and walked gingerly behind my pals who were fast becoming like hounds who had smelt blood, their steps quickened, their eyes flashed  and the temperature of 52°c along with sickening humidity was making this shopping trip more of a mission than a mosey.

My shins pierced by the mid morning sun and entering the first shop through the hard plastic streamers was heaven.  The cool A/C  calmed my scorched skin and although the water cooler looked a little worse for wear it stood in the back of the shop like a mirage in the desert.  It would be impossible not to be moved by the beautiful handbags within, the Bangladeshi shop assistant hovered around us, calling, “Mulberry, Jimmy Choo, Chanel, Gucci, Marc Jacobs, what you like, I help you”,   I was just getting acquainted with a classy little Chloe number and while the price was favourable the quality was a little dubious, it looked perfect but felt plastic, I pawed and fingered the clutch before finally expressing my concern about the quality.   “I understand ma’am, I can see now, you want real copy, this I have, please follow me”  Leaving my pals downstairs, I followed him into the back section of the shop,  just as I wondered how we were going to get upstairs, he pulled back a large red Balenciaga shopper to reveal a door handle, inside was a simple wooden ladder, you first he said, aware of my bubbling cellulite but eager not to compromise the sale, I took to the ladder and felt Mr. Bangladeshi’s breath on the backs of my legs as we both climbed up to what was a claustrophobic loft with a stifling smell of leather.   Had I been blindfolded the atmosphere would have indicated that I was in some sort of torture/pleasure like chamber with leather trimmings and, having the use of the eyes I could see that, that’s exactly where I was. 

The sex appeal of the beautifully finished handbags, exact copies made with the highest quality leather,  along with the torture of having to decide which one would be mine, spiraled into a crazy climax, a frenzy, I thought not possible through shopping.    Touching, smelling, feeling each one before nailing it down to a final three.   Greed and wont made it impossible to have just one, ironically the very reason I’m  immigrated to the Middle East to support a portfolio of unrentable property in Ireland.  We began to talk money.   My pleasure passed the ugly side of the transaction ensued, we haggled to a fro for almost twenty minutes about money, which cheapened the earlier enjoyment, however, I knew there had to be something in it for him.    Taking my threesome he left me down the ladder alone, more interested in counting the cash than seeing me out.    

The day continued in this vein leaving me tired and spent, lunch didn’t transpire, but on the way home we stopped off at the Golden Arches for a Big Mac and Fries.    All of us happy with our purchases and I was extra happy  because I knew their bags were fake fake and mine was a real fake.

http://thereluctantemigrant.wordpress.com

Happy Mother’s Day

Appreciation was always a foregone conclusion where my Mother was concerned, it accelerated on my eighth month of pregnancy when my ankles swelled to the size of watermelons and the knowledge that my uterus was soon to follow suit.  The appreciation rose to unprecedented heights on the day my son was delivered, when visitors swooned on the handsome newborn and seemed to cast me aside like a two-bit chariot that had just delivered Jesus Christ; however the appreciation truly climaxed at 4.30 a.m. on 4^th April, 2011 when I realised that the Saviour in question, had chronic colic.

Clutching onto the side of the Bugaboo travel system, trying in vain to rock my junior Jesus to sleep whilst attempting to text my friend to say that once again, I wouldn’t be able to make our coffee appointment in the morning as my baby was awake all night suffering from colic and teething.   Fingers clenched and teeth whitened I turned hopefully to my Mum for answers. I decided it was best that I refresh her mind on a few things, firstly babies shouldn’t be given any treatment containing alcohol, preservatives, colourings  or additives, and be usage of any paraphernalia  containing BPA.   Secondly there shall be no use of soothers. Thirdly the water shall be bottled, boiled, cooled and re-bottled in a Dr. Brown before being mixed with nothing other than the organic produce in the tin.    My mother nodded like a newbie and took the baby with all the compose of a veteran to the child industry,  whilst I was happy that she seemed to listen to my advice  I had hoped she’d offer some in return.    “Why don’t you go and lie down”, she said,  I barely made out the words over my squealing baby,  “ok” I mouthed back but “make sure you try the Fennel Tea, the water in the other kettle is boiled and cooling”.   Before my sentence was finished the bedroom door was closed  and I was left standing, holding a towel and a pair of dark circled eyes from lack of sleep.

It was four hours later when I woke with a start, panic stricken that the baby wouldn’t have lasted and maybe I right, after all, all was quiet.  The smell of chops drew me to the kitchen, where my mum was cooking dinner ( I didn’t think this was possible with a baby) and baby boy slept soundly in his moses basket after a spoon of Gripe Water and a rub of brandy on his pregnant gums and his cousins dummy.  It was then that appreciation grew into respect, only your mother would listen carefully and feign wonderment at every new baby fad, despite knowing better herself.

Now the colic is gone, the teeth are up and I’m in the Middle East, 3,500 miles from my mother. Apart from the sound advice, I miss the cups of tea, opinions on clothes and the general unconditional top notch babysitting service.   So you can imagine my delight when my eleven year old daughter let it slip that as my mother’s day present, Granny was coming to visit.   Brilliant!.  Note: Add gold star on hubbies chart on the fridge for thoughtfulness.

Immediately, I started the preparations, I needed to top up on my tan, get my eyelashes tinted and a good pedicure,  she was always thrilled when I looked well.   Yesterday morning, my husband left bright and early for the airport to collect his “colleague”, my surprise.  The house wasn’t in great shape but Mum would sort all that out when she arrived on her holidays. I looked down at my biscuit  colour legs and creasing down my new top I waited.  The car pulled up outside and to keep my end of the surprise when the doorbell rang, I did the whole, “Who’s visiting us at this hour?” kind of thing and opening the door, there was my surprise, my mother-in-law, THE WRONG GRANNY. 

“You’ve a great colour, nice that you’re enjoying the sunshine”, she said as she traced her Ferrari red fingernail across the dust on the hall table.  She was the only one I knew that could give a compliment and take it back in the same sentence.  Attention turned to her beloved grandson who was just about visible behind the large pot of petit filous he had smattered all over this face, “everyone is feeding them those things these days, aren’t they ideal, I don’t how I managed to raise 7 children without them”.  I turned to the fridge and removed the gold star. Happy Mother’s Day, it’s sure to be a good one!

denisehession@gmail.com