Deluge in the desert
Outside my window - a shining lake surrounded by palm trees and desert flowers. All thanks to the wrath of the Heavens that hurled rain, wind and lightning at us for a violent hour earlier this evening.
As we left the building the first few raindrops began to splatter down on the dusty ground. One minute later arriving at at Jebel Ali Working Men's Club the sheets of rain and wind kept us prisoners in the car.
We waited twenty minutes. Despite being parked closely between two other sheltering vehicles, the Silver Shadow rocked violently about, battered by the desert tempest.
Hunger won over in the end, and we braved the outside. Unfortunately, despite repeated assurances that oil-rich sheikhs would not be plentiful on the ground in Jebel Ali Club, spinster schoolmarm Margery was done up like a dog's dinner, if not a camel's feast. But the second we stepped out of the car we were drenched. Hair soaking, clothes wet through as though we had just jumped in a swimming pool (wetter even than stepping under a shower, due to the force of the wind blowing solid sheets of water from every angle).
Margery managed to make her dramatic entrance - but rather as a bedraggled entrant to the Gulf's first wet t-shirt contest than a glamorous femme fatale. Nonetheless adding to the grotty-1980s-midland theme of the Club.
As we left the building the first few raindrops began to splatter down on the dusty ground. One minute later arriving at at Jebel Ali Working Men's Club the sheets of rain and wind kept us prisoners in the car.
We waited twenty minutes. Despite being parked closely between two other sheltering vehicles, the Silver Shadow rocked violently about, battered by the desert tempest.
Hunger won over in the end, and we braved the outside. Unfortunately, despite repeated assurances that oil-rich sheikhs would not be plentiful on the ground in Jebel Ali Club, spinster schoolmarm Margery was done up like a dog's dinner, if not a camel's feast. But the second we stepped out of the car we were drenched. Hair soaking, clothes wet through as though we had just jumped in a swimming pool (wetter even than stepping under a shower, due to the force of the wind blowing solid sheets of water from every angle).
Margery managed to make her dramatic entrance - but rather as a bedraggled entrant to the Gulf's first wet t-shirt contest than a glamorous femme fatale. Nonetheless adding to the grotty-1980s-midland theme of the Club.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home