Mahmoud row the dhow ashore

Dinner with the Second Highest sees every last conspiracy theory gleaned from the latest round of coffeehouse intelligence dismissed, debunked and destroyed. The succession was drawn up water-tight in Geneva, no coups are on the agenda, and the two Mos "get on like a house on fire."

Arab mothers fret and whinge about their children becoming westernised. What would their complaints be - drugs, drink, prostitution?

No. Rather, saying "hi" instead of "Salam-o-Alaikum", eating fast food, not bothering to mention Allah before and after eating, wearing a cap the wrong way round, having US marine-style hair-cuts, and sitting on a chair the wrong way round.

Apparently Arab youths tragically no longer shake hands to greet each one other, instead "clapping or snapping fingers." Is this what western children do? Surely the only clapping and snapping of fingers by pale-faced youngsters occurs round a Bible campfire singing Kum-by-yah accompanied by a weedy young reverend on a cheap orange guitar.

Tackling the high life

Assuming the sour and disinterested countenance required of the corporate box spectator, a colleague and I brave one of the nadirs of the Dubai expat calendar: the Rugby Sevens. Lovely food, ghastly people, topped off with crucifyingly dire "commentary" from the various low-paid ex Brummie wedding emcees who attempt to pass themselves off as local radio DJs.

The ordeal melted away during a lovely evening at the Royal Madge, catching up on the latest sheikhly gossip with a senior source from Abu Dhabi. Such things as cannot be imagined go on behind the high palace walls and blackened windows.

Wild thrills of a carnivorous feast

After a six month hiatus, it is time to catch up on village gossip again with Abu Dhabi's second highest British expat. Off to Retro, Mina Siyahi.

To avoid a thunderbolt from the Great Expat God in the Sky, I am obeying the latest hadith of the Expat Cult, the Atkins diet. Despite thousands of desperate palefaces fleeing carbs in every direction, the majority are still look tired, fat and sad. Never mind.

Courses one and two are easy - chicken and steak. The refusal of pudding causes a sharp pang, as does rejecting the freshly baked foccaccia (refined flour) and balsamic vinegar (sugar). Dipping a finger into a small dish of olive oil is less than appealing.

The 2nd Highest is suffering a dilemma: his daughter is increasingly devoted to an unsuitably fundamentalist Levantine gentleman. Next week the 2nd must fly to meet this man's parents. We devise a number of schemes. I suggest he arrives with a small Gideon bible, placing it quietly on the dinner table before the meal. A puritan collar and large crucifix around his wife. Followed by a lengthy and noticeable show of Christian devotion before raising fork.

As we leave, abandoning the five home made truffles is frankly a bereavement. We donate them to Jumeirah friends dining on an adjacent table.

The pain of rain

Aboriginal Australians believe rain is the Sky God making love to Mother Earth but to my mind it is the Almighty pissing on us. Even after eighteen months of near-total dessication the chilly drops are still very unwelcome, loathesomely reminiscent of the expat Homeland, wherever it may be.

Drove through the splattering drops to Dubai's nicest hotel, Emirates Towers, to meet Abu Dhabi's second highest British expat (after the Ambassador, as he modestly points out). 2HBE is on excellent form, and I head back to Little Bombay fully fed and fully briefed on the latest gossip from Abu Dhabi village.

Tomorrow is a special day taken off work to make the annual pilgrimage to Dubai's most sacred place: the Shopping Festival. Or more precisely the Global Village, where I am keen to visit the Iraqi pavilion for posters of Saddam which I intend to flog on ebay.