Some of my friends have been getting very excited about Camp Rock 2. My kids love this stuff. When they watch it though, I have to remind them that there aren't really people like that. In the canteen at secondary school, no-one is suddenly going to break into song; everyone does not turn up to high school dressed to kill with perfect hair and perfect teeth. Life isn't quite like that.
In the same vain, I try to remind my students that Dubai is not typical of the rest of the world; or in fact the rest of the Middle East (as a recent trip to Egypt confirmed for me). The rest of the world doesn't have malls that are cleaner than your home bathroom; for most people the highlight of the week is not getting a manicure and a pedicure at the beach club or attending the 'all you can eat and drink' brunch at the Atlantis Hotel for 70GBP. The rest of the world doesn't make 40000 aed a month and have a maid to clean up after them. Dubai is situated in a bubble - a bit like the Eden project - there is no reality here - a bit like Camp Rock. There is no freedom of the press here either - this is toytown. A good example would be the report that only 83 cars were stolen here in Dubai last year - who are they trying to kid? There are an estimated 3000 cars dumped at Dubai airport, because the outstanding finance on them is more than the value of the car - is that not stealing?
In a real world like the US, 37 million people can't afford healthcare - 37 million people who can't afford to see a doctor if they are sick. Most people in Dubai spend the equivalent of the healthcare premiums at brunch once a week, or on a hair cut.
Of course, there are places in Dubai that are like the real world: Satwa and Karama. I love them both. They are full of shops that you walk around OUTSIDE. The streets are dirty and the people, normal. They do, however, try to sell you 'genuine' fake Brietling Watches and D&G handbags which makes you wonder why people bother with the real thing from the designer boutiques in the malls.
Anyway, I can't stop to chat, I'm off to get a mani and pedi before picking up my D&G handbag, and going for brunch.
Sunday, 19 September 2010
Wednesday, 15 September 2010
Sexy Yoga
So, in keeping with my comments about getting older, I have decided that I need to keep in shape. I have never been one for those exercise classes where you jump up and down to music, race on a static bicycle or indeed do anything that requires the wearing of 'second-skin' type lycra. I have always preferred a more sedate approach: a bit of stretching and squeezing. So, the other night I attended my very first yoga class.
Now, I would consider the yoga class the domain of the 'woman-of-a-certain-age'. Women close to my mum's age, wearing tracksuits, reaching for their toes or the ceiling. I couldn't have been more wrong. Yoga is like attending a rehersal for a pornographic movie. At one point, I was sitting on my bottom with both legs in the air, hands on my ankles (for those of us who have given birth, think stirrups in the delivery room). There was lots of stick your bum in the air, lift you leg up provocatively, splay your legs etc. It was like the idiots guide to the Karma Sutra!
By the time I got home I was absolutely buzzing, serotonin levels through the roof. I asked my husband if he thought my serotonin levels would be this high every week. His reply of 'I hope so' says it all!
Now, I would consider the yoga class the domain of the 'woman-of-a-certain-age'. Women close to my mum's age, wearing tracksuits, reaching for their toes or the ceiling. I couldn't have been more wrong. Yoga is like attending a rehersal for a pornographic movie. At one point, I was sitting on my bottom with both legs in the air, hands on my ankles (for those of us who have given birth, think stirrups in the delivery room). There was lots of stick your bum in the air, lift you leg up provocatively, splay your legs etc. It was like the idiots guide to the Karma Sutra!
By the time I got home I was absolutely buzzing, serotonin levels through the roof. I asked my husband if he thought my serotonin levels would be this high every week. His reply of 'I hope so' says it all!
I think they have MRIs in hell
Today was not a good MS day. I had to go for a 45 minute MRI that took three hours. I have to have a blood test to begin with that takes twenty minutes to check. Then I have to have an allergy test, so that I can be injected with a contrast (it makes the inside of my brain light up like a Christmas tree apparently), so this takes another 20 minutes.
As medical tests go the MRI is the endurable, the boring but not painful one. It's scary because you basically lie inside a gigantic magnet that feels like a coffin, and you have to wear ear plugs because it's so loud. But, it's do-able. It certainly beats the lumber-puncture and the steriods by intravenous drip in my book anyway. But today's was horrible. Years ago (and I mean eons ago) I developed a small lump on the back of my head. It's nothing major, its just an extra bit of bone. But it means that if I lie down on anything hard, it hurts. So, lying down on a semi hard MRI table for over an hour today was agony. The nurses are very sympathetic, but there's not a lot they can do when you have to lie completely still for 45 minutes.
So, I left after three hours, feeling completely exhausted and fraught. When I was ill last year, I needed all of the prodding and poking with needles and other instruments of torture because that was the only way I was going to get better. But when you have to endure all of that when you feel well, it becomes stressful and well...torturous.
So, I am snuggling on the sofa tonight with a good book and trying not to think about the meeting with the neurologist on Sunday for the results.
As medical tests go the MRI is the endurable, the boring but not painful one. It's scary because you basically lie inside a gigantic magnet that feels like a coffin, and you have to wear ear plugs because it's so loud. But, it's do-able. It certainly beats the lumber-puncture and the steriods by intravenous drip in my book anyway. But today's was horrible. Years ago (and I mean eons ago) I developed a small lump on the back of my head. It's nothing major, its just an extra bit of bone. But it means that if I lie down on anything hard, it hurts. So, lying down on a semi hard MRI table for over an hour today was agony. The nurses are very sympathetic, but there's not a lot they can do when you have to lie completely still for 45 minutes.
So, I left after three hours, feeling completely exhausted and fraught. When I was ill last year, I needed all of the prodding and poking with needles and other instruments of torture because that was the only way I was going to get better. But when you have to endure all of that when you feel well, it becomes stressful and well...torturous.
So, I am snuggling on the sofa tonight with a good book and trying not to think about the meeting with the neurologist on Sunday for the results.
Monday, 13 September 2010
Life's Mysteries
I have always considered any sort of literary analysis a kind of detective work. If you are analysing a poem, the meaning is hidden and you have to 'investigate' to be able to uncover its mysteries. For me, this makes this kind of work addictive. I have done with studying for a while (until I am brave enough to actually say aloud that I want to do a Phd) but I have a mystery to solve for a conference paper: my latest detective investigation.
The mystery surrounds a woman named Beatrice Hastings. She was part of Katherine Mansfield's 'set' (which, incidentally, was pretty large by all accounts) as co-editor of The New Age, in which Mansfield's stories were published. Their 'friendship' was brief but what I am investigating is whether the relationship was a symbiotic one. Did they influence each other's work? Hastings' writing (of which not much remains, except that published in The New Age) is caustic and malicious; Mansfield's less 'politically embattled' as one critic put it. Nevertheless, there are common themes. This could be simply that they examined similar key issues of the time, but my instinct tells me there was more than that.
It isn't clear whether their relationship was a sexual one. So, in the spirit of investigative literary analysis I have ordered a pornographic novel entitled 'Beatrice' from abebooks. It is purportedly about Beatrice Hastings, and one of her biographers has suggested that she wrote it herself. Of course, I shan't enjoy reading it one bit, but one must always suffer for one's art!
Needless to say, in my capacity as literary detective, I have arranged for my salary to be paid directly to Amazon.com, in anticipation of the number of books I am going to have to buy. I will report progress of the investigation here, so watch this space.
The mystery surrounds a woman named Beatrice Hastings. She was part of Katherine Mansfield's 'set' (which, incidentally, was pretty large by all accounts) as co-editor of The New Age, in which Mansfield's stories were published. Their 'friendship' was brief but what I am investigating is whether the relationship was a symbiotic one. Did they influence each other's work? Hastings' writing (of which not much remains, except that published in The New Age) is caustic and malicious; Mansfield's less 'politically embattled' as one critic put it. Nevertheless, there are common themes. This could be simply that they examined similar key issues of the time, but my instinct tells me there was more than that.
It isn't clear whether their relationship was a sexual one. So, in the spirit of investigative literary analysis I have ordered a pornographic novel entitled 'Beatrice' from abebooks. It is purportedly about Beatrice Hastings, and one of her biographers has suggested that she wrote it herself. Of course, I shan't enjoy reading it one bit, but one must always suffer for one's art!
Needless to say, in my capacity as literary detective, I have arranged for my salary to be paid directly to Amazon.com, in anticipation of the number of books I am going to have to buy. I will report progress of the investigation here, so watch this space.
Sunday, 12 September 2010
Getting Older but not necessarily wiser
As some of you may be aware, I'm going to be 40 next month. And, in view of the previous discussion of not remembering Terry's surname, I thought a bit of meditation on the art of growing older was called for.
Leon Trotsky said, 'Old age is the most unexpected of all things that happen to a man'. I can't decide whether he means to include women in this, in a 'man' represents 'mankind' sort of way, or whether I should ask myself if old age ever comes unexpectedly to a woman? Whether it comes expectedly or not we have no reason to worry. The likes of L'Oreal, Tena Lady, the Wonderbra and Olay have it covered. The answer to everything lies in creams and treatments, some of which cost more than your first car. We will be forever youthful if we just follow a simple regime: we must wax, colour, inject, spread cream upon, pluck and squeeze. So, where you used to get up every morning and just wash your face and go to work, you now have two and a half hours of your regime to take care of before leaving the house.
Someone once said: 'The past is another country - they do things differently there' - they certainly do. In the past I could touch my toes, sit cross legged for more than 10 minutes and still get up again, I could jump on the trampoline without niagra falls in my underwear, facial hair was what men had and I wasn't even remotely interested in programmes entitled '10 years younger'.
So, despite the wonders of the modern age I am sticking with the ladies of the 19th Century as explained by the lovely Oscar Wilde:
'Thirty-five is a very attractive age. London society is full of women of the very highest birth who have, of their own free choice, remained thirty five for years.'
Leon Trotsky said, 'Old age is the most unexpected of all things that happen to a man'. I can't decide whether he means to include women in this, in a 'man' represents 'mankind' sort of way, or whether I should ask myself if old age ever comes unexpectedly to a woman? Whether it comes expectedly or not we have no reason to worry. The likes of L'Oreal, Tena Lady, the Wonderbra and Olay have it covered. The answer to everything lies in creams and treatments, some of which cost more than your first car. We will be forever youthful if we just follow a simple regime: we must wax, colour, inject, spread cream upon, pluck and squeeze. So, where you used to get up every morning and just wash your face and go to work, you now have two and a half hours of your regime to take care of before leaving the house.
Someone once said: 'The past is another country - they do things differently there' - they certainly do. In the past I could touch my toes, sit cross legged for more than 10 minutes and still get up again, I could jump on the trampoline without niagra falls in my underwear, facial hair was what men had and I wasn't even remotely interested in programmes entitled '10 years younger'.
So, despite the wonders of the modern age I am sticking with the ladies of the 19th Century as explained by the lovely Oscar Wilde:
'Thirty-five is a very attractive age. London society is full of women of the very highest birth who have, of their own free choice, remained thirty five for years.'
Thursday, 9 September 2010
Morons
In Dubai, certain professions require that you take the 'Moron Test'. This is a test to determine how much of a Moron you are. The higher you score, the more likely you are to get the job. These professions include, but are not restricted to (and I am adding professions to it daily): Taxi Drivers (this requires a very, very high score), shop assistants, Maids, drivers of those small white buses, gardeners, etc.
Yesterday we encountered some very high scoring applicants at Pan Emirates. I bought a curtain pole two days ago. On the box it said that it is extendable to 3 metres. It was not. Now, because I bought it in the sale, the shop assitant had stamped my receipt with 'no refund/no exchanges'. Fair enough if it's in the sale, but not if the item is faulty. So, we spent the best part of an hour in the shop arguing with the morons to get a refund. We had to, in fact, work our way through the hierachy of morons, each one clearly having a higher score then the last one, until we reached the ultimate in Moron qualified staff: the retail store Manager. These are a special breed of Moron requiring a very special version of the test. The inability to aplogise to disgruntled customers being one of the key attributes.
So, we got our refund but beware of this phenomenon, ladies and gentlemen, and watch out for them when you are shopping.
Number of days since last episode: 422
Yesterday we encountered some very high scoring applicants at Pan Emirates. I bought a curtain pole two days ago. On the box it said that it is extendable to 3 metres. It was not. Now, because I bought it in the sale, the shop assitant had stamped my receipt with 'no refund/no exchanges'. Fair enough if it's in the sale, but not if the item is faulty. So, we spent the best part of an hour in the shop arguing with the morons to get a refund. We had to, in fact, work our way through the hierachy of morons, each one clearly having a higher score then the last one, until we reached the ultimate in Moron qualified staff: the retail store Manager. These are a special breed of Moron requiring a very special version of the test. The inability to aplogise to disgruntled customers being one of the key attributes.
So, we got our refund but beware of this phenomenon, ladies and gentlemen, and watch out for them when you are shopping.
Number of days since last episode: 422
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
365 Days of MS
I have decided to change the title of the blog. Let's face it, this blog is about my MS. I want to record when the shadow, that walks behind me, becomes my enemy and shows itself.
I have to go for an MRI next week. The neurologist (we'll affectionately refer to him as Dr Death from now on) asked me if I have had any problems in the year since I saw him last. I said 'no'. The trouble with MS is that you are never really sure what consitutes a 'problem'. If my arm aches for half a day, is that because I lay on it funny, or because of the MS? If I can't remember someone's name for 10 minutes, is this me getting old or the MS?
The memory thing may be an issue. Last night I couldn't remember a poet's name and this morning I couldn't remember Terry Wogan's surname - I could remember that his name was Terry, but where the hell had the Wogan gone??? You may laugh, but am I losing my mind?
I have just finished writing my MA dissertation and what is ironic is that I chose to write it about a French philosopher named Henri Bergson, whose primary focus was...you guessed it...memory! Bergson states that memory is required to guide any present action: we think before we leap. Memory, he says, is an active not a passive process. We interpret our world through our perceptions, we then recall those memory images from our past which will help us to engage with those perceptions and guide our path of current actions. So memory is the process of moving from the present to the past, and not the other way around. So, if I lose my memory, what will happen then?
No of days since last MS episode: 421
I have to go for an MRI next week. The neurologist (we'll affectionately refer to him as Dr Death from now on) asked me if I have had any problems in the year since I saw him last. I said 'no'. The trouble with MS is that you are never really sure what consitutes a 'problem'. If my arm aches for half a day, is that because I lay on it funny, or because of the MS? If I can't remember someone's name for 10 minutes, is this me getting old or the MS?
The memory thing may be an issue. Last night I couldn't remember a poet's name and this morning I couldn't remember Terry Wogan's surname - I could remember that his name was Terry, but where the hell had the Wogan gone??? You may laugh, but am I losing my mind?
I have just finished writing my MA dissertation and what is ironic is that I chose to write it about a French philosopher named Henri Bergson, whose primary focus was...you guessed it...memory! Bergson states that memory is required to guide any present action: we think before we leap. Memory, he says, is an active not a passive process. We interpret our world through our perceptions, we then recall those memory images from our past which will help us to engage with those perceptions and guide our path of current actions. So memory is the process of moving from the present to the past, and not the other way around. So, if I lose my memory, what will happen then?
No of days since last MS episode: 421
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