|Sand. Lots and lots of it. Everywhere.|
Mission Impossible was undoubtedly a triumph of a film. The only bit I had small issues with was the sandstorm. It loomed on the horizon like a strange alien and took over the city to a point where visibility was down to about one inch of Tom Cruise’s stacked heels. “Ha” we scoffed. “Sandstorms are nothing like that here! What a load of Hollywood nonsense!” And then a giant sandstorm hit Dubai.
I realized something wasn’t quite right when I woke up to HOWLING winds around my apartment. I’m on the 28th floor, so this isn’t entirely unusual, even on a normal day.
Then I opened the curtains and saw the palm trees going utterly beserk on the Boulevard.
Then I attempted to open the balcony doors and realized I didn’t want sandcastles in the lounge.
Then I went outside and was blown across the street to a taxi.
Then we fought our way up and down Beach Road, getting blown this way and that.
Then I washed half a kilo of sand from my hair, ears and lipgloss.
Then they cancelled the polo brunch.
Then we sought refuge inside the Rivington Grill after the terrace was proved too wet and windy (fountain spray).
You’re getting the picture, yes?! One other weird side-effect of the sand-storm was that it became freakishly hot for the time of year. At a barbeque later that night it was a balmy 28 degrees - still relatively cold in our book but much, much warmer than it would normally be. There was a bit of panic as to whether this meant Winter was over, but thankfully the storm passed and temperatures are back down in the low twenties.
Which means walking to work, shooting the breeze on the balcony and delicious sundowners at the weekends. Long may it continue…