Scissorhands wishes he had a bag like mine

Thursday night kicked off with a rather extravagant dinner and several whiskeys with the folks at Mina a’Salaam hotel overlooking the Burj al Arab. Colonial-style. In the nick of time I managed to identify the camel’s milk crème brulée and give it a sufficient wide berth.

On the way home we had a spur-of-the-moment tour of the Palm Jumeirah, the man-made island in the shape of a palm tree, extending 8km into the sea. We kicked around on the ‘trunk’ (the ‘fronds’ of the palm are nearing completion), pretending to understand the Hindlish commentary spewing forth from our cab driver, and stared at the uninhabited apartment blocks, illuminated, shiny and beautiful. Rather eerie.

On Friday my brother and dad played golf with a hungover Liverpudlian and I, for no real reason, watched Edward Scissorhands. It was my first time. I felt really bad for the guy for a while, and then went to get a Starbucks. There must be over a billion American movies about bullying.

In the evening my little boet came out with my friends for Aussie-Aussie-Aussie-OY-OY-OY’s birthday. I was aghast at the speed at which the six-pack of Fosters we brought for him were dented at Peggy’s house. The poor guy had to endure vulgar accounts - largely untrue - of his sister’s lunging career. Later we joined several genuine cabin crew members for a jovial meal at the Meat Company. At this stage, Korn’s eyeballs were swimming after the heavy-handed tumbler of whisky he had poured himself at Peggy’s. He was as silent as a Vietnamese sniper throughout the remainder of the evening. We successfully managed to smuggle Heddles Jnr, a man who can handle his liquor, several double brandies (the legal drinking age here is 21) to have with his cokes.

Unfortunately the 19-year old got bounced from Bar Zar thereafter, despite some quick calculations and telling the doorwoman/bus that he was born in ’85. And yet Korn made it in. Why is life like that.

On Saturday we watched the Springbok B team get crushed by the All Blacks (you expect a win without Schalk?) and then headed out to Al Karama for some bargaaaaiiining. The keyword to remember: Haggle. Don’t back down. Be a demanding, haughty expat and you’ll get a fake Prada bag for 200 ZARs. Damnation it’s a hot bag. I now have two of the beasts: a black one and a white one. My girls. And, thanks to my bulldozerish price-slashing ways, my brother now looks like a souped up little indie punk. Love it!