A very-Dubai problem: Jetlag

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Grumpy Old Raver is on a well-deserved holiday (even grumps need downtime), and so this week her protege Grumpy Young Raver talks about the highs and lows of flying home for the weekend while living in Dubai.

Is that the time? Don’t ask me, as right now I’m suffering from a common complaint for us Dubai folk. Jetlag.

Yes, J, E… er, what was I saying? Sorry, my mind’s gone blank… Oh, yes… jetlag. My head is currently swimming with ‘is it night or is it day’ questions, thanks to a quick trip away last weekend.

Now, this isn’t me boasting about some kind of lavish, jet-setting lifestyle. I wish. If it were, I’d be filling you full of tales of how I flew to the Maldives in a private jet. No, far from it. I was crammed into cattle class for eight hours on a flight to the UK.

A trip that saw me a few rows behind a baby that was crying for around four hours. While for the other four, it was screaming and shouting. I don’t know if you could call that lavish, but it certainly made it difficult to concentrate on the old episodes of Friends I was watching.

 

*MORE: Grumpy Young Raver on the joys (not) of going to the cinema in Dubai*

Adding insult to injury, my mum, brother and sister were all sat upstairs. Far away from any crying babies – and all three of them had two seats each to themselves.

It wasn’t much of a holiday, if I’m honest. Not that I didn’t have fun. It’s just that I wasn’t there long – I was only back for two nights, so by the time I started to get used to being in a different time zone, I was already packing up my suitcase and heading for the airport again. And even that wasn’t without its perils – as I was only back for a short time, I decided to borrow a tiny case that belonged to my little sister. Which was bright pink. Still, it could have been worse – I could have been stuck with her One Direction case.

It’s easy to forget what England’s like after being in Dubai for a long time; everything feels like such a novelty. The narrow, winding roads that make driving even more terrifying than venturing on to Sheikh Zayed Road for the first time. The weather, with its sub-zero icy grip, which made me want to cry, but, at the same, not, in case my tears turned to ice. I mean, who doesn’t love being cold all the time? My word! How I’d forgotten about the wind and the rain, especially when they join forces.

In Dubai, if it rains, everyone panics; people hide indoors, waiting for it to go away. In England it rains every single day (ish). People are used to it. Everyone carries on with their lives, huddled under umbrellas and whatnot, complaining (it’s an Englishman’s right) about the weather.

*MORE: Grumpy Old Raver on the epidemic that is ‘that Dubai pose’*

There wasn’t much time to rest while I was back. Not much time to slump in front of the TV and watch Homes Under The Hammer or Come Dine With Me marathons (yes, I know both shows are available here, but still). There were things to do, places to go, people to see. I needed to catch up with all the family I hadn’t seen for months, show off my tan, staying up into the small hours, chatting with family and friends over endless cups of tea (another right). And when I did try going to sleep, my mind was convinced I was still in Dubai, and decided I should get up really early. It didn’t seem to care that it was pitch black outside and the wind was howling.

And before I knew it, it was time to fly back – the flight took off at 3am, and I was asleep before the plane was barely in the sky, waking up just before we landed. Which was around morning/afternoon/evening/ish. Wasn’t it?

(Grumpy Old Raver is somewhere in the Australian bush at the moment and will be back in a few weeks – that’s if she doesn’t get lost or eaten by a crocodile.)

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Photos: Supplied/Bridesmaids movie.