I’ve never been to Dubai, and have always suspected that it bears more than a little resemblance to the Mos Eisley Cantina in Star Wars, albeit glitzier and more hypocritical.  Over the last few years I’ve been noticing the increasing number of job ads for various editorial positions over there and, during my darker moments, have wondered whether I should just cut and run, with half an eye on the potential for tanning, as well as the tax free salary.

But then I remember my own expat experiences.  And my own expat behaviours.  And certain western woman travel experiences in certain countries.  And I think, no, maybe not.

I wrote about it in Cleaning Up.  When I went to work in Turkey, I left my car behind and lo! I could drink as much as I wanted.  And I did.  My consumption rocketed.  En masse we used to take over a local bar, very much male domains over there, and drink cheap beer.  The women were tolerated because we were always accompanied by several loud, drunken blokes, and we spent a lot of money.  (I mean the expat women of course – our Turkish female colleagues would barely set foot in such a place).  

Out in the street, sober or not, I had horrible standoffs with men, who always had to try and grab themselves a piece, and got very ugly if you didn’t want to be groped by them.  I wonder what the men in Dubai are like, once you’ve strayed from the gleaming corporate byways. 

Going back a few more years, I lived in Paris, and also fell into drinking huge amounts.  We used to meet at La Palette, among other places, and get totally honkered.  We were usually too drunk for decent sex (see also Turkey), but plenty went on, I think.

I remember some Frenchman declaring, not concerned whether I understood him or not, that ‘Les Anglais ne peuvent s’amuser sans boire.’ (‘The English can’t have a good time without drinking’.) [Actually I really ought to delete the funny forrin bit just there, because English people think you're pretentious if you know any other languages, unless it's Dutch drug slang.]  Well, he was right, and here I am. 

Anyway, a sober person, what would I do abroad?  Join the Hash House Harriers?  The Lions?  And what would I do at sundown, the drinking hour, as the heavy scent of jasmine rises up around me, and the lights go on? Actually, in Dubai, it would be the heavy scent of traffic fumes, most likely, before I descended into some over-airconditioned champagne bar, and sat there shivering until I was twatted enough not to notice any more.

I think Michelle’s probably better off back home.

And, finally! A picture from the set taken in January, with me in a pink suit. I thought those shots must have disappeared.

I have to give the interviewer a hug for saying I am a ‘successful novelist’. But a ‘socialite’ who grew up in ‘comfort’?

Other than noticing the above, however, I must admit that I haven’t dared read this properly yet. Friends say it’s fine, though. Good, even.