Like sands through the hourglass …

The word ‘Dubai’ should come with the tagline: Sand, sand everywhere.

As Dubai residents we live in an urban development, a burgeoning concrete jungle. Yet like most desert locations, it is not without its sand.

Every day I park in it. I must jostle with another 2,999 irritable, teeth-gnashing staff members for a spot in a litter-strewn, street cat-infested powder-pit. I normally pull in around 06:42 am. Most days I get to squeeze in right up close to the rubbish skip overlooking the mosque. If I arrive at 06:44 I’m screwed. 20 minutes of wild zigzagging, some creative maneuvering and a 12 minute walk (minimum) will ensue.

Walking through sand can be image-damaging. My pointy black shoes are permanently white-tipped. It irks me. Footwear must be removed and pockets of residual particles tipped out.

Look, no place is perfect. In Tooting, London, the pavements were a minefield of chav vomit, Staffordshire terrier coils and crisp packets.

David Banda, my black car, needs a wash twice a week to avoid looking like he’s wearing a cashmere jersey. He’s a lucky bastard if gets one. I know people that have let their cars gather layer upon layer of dust until it is too late to do anything about it. The Paki once had a team of Philippino car washers refuse to even have a go at hosing down his vehicle, it was that dirty.

Sand does have its uses.
• Sand-blasting.
• Manufacturing glass.
• Burying people.
• Building obscenely expensive islands.

It does hold some aesthetic appeal; making the place appear exotic (I’m trying). Airborne sand makes for bizarre sunsets of muted tones – the Jarhead Effect, which I quite enjoy.