Skullduggery and squat toilets

“You want a mansion in Beverly Hills
You want a wedding with all the frills
You want daddy to pay, you better tell him today
Get to the Abu Dhabi.”

Husband has gone on a work trip to Dublin. Lucky bastard. Well, to be honest, I can’t imagine anything worse than another long-haul plane flight so soon after our Charleston homecoming. But I quite fancy the idea of Dublin. It sounds quaint. Actually I know bugger all about Dublin, but the name sounds quaint.

According to my best friend Google, this is what it looks like (above).

The eldest is particular peeved she’s not accompanying him. Dublin is the home of her new favourite book series, Skullduggery Pleasant, about a skeleton detective. She’s been wording Husband up on the sights to see, including the River Liffey. (Skullduggery Wikia tells me: “When Thurid Guild was kidnapped by the Diablerie, they wanted to exchange his body for Fletcher Renn, the last Teleporter. This was chosen to happen at Liffey Bridge. Before the exchange, the bridge was shrouded with a magical shield, making all magical beings and actions invisible. Both sides then set up tents, on on each side of the bridge. When Fletcher and Guild were halfway across, Skulduggery realised that Guild had a bomb strapped to him. Skulduggery then proceeded to shoot Guild. The battle ended with the Sanctuary retrieving Guild but losing Fletcher.” Perhaps I’d have been better off not Googling that.)

Husband travelled to Dublin via Abu Dhabi – so I’ve been singing the Split Enz song (above) ad nauseum for the past 24 hours. The Sprogs are getting a bit sick of it, though the youngest thinks a place called “Abu Dhabi” sounds very exotic and funny.

Husband emailed me from Abu Dhabi airport saying: “Abu Dhabi airport is a lot like an airport, but with Arabian food being offered and women with Hennaed hands and Burqas walking past. And squat toilets. The Etihad method of boarding a plane seems to favour the mad scramble/free-for-all approach with the troubled flight attendant shouting out ‘Business! Only business! Business!’  He has stopped now, presumably trampled by the herd of economy passengers completely ignoring him.”

(The youngest is also entranced by the idea of a toilet that is just a hole with nothing to sit on. I haven’t told her about the unfortunate incident with the Chinese baby last week.)

Meanwhile I’m still recovering from the mad scramble that got him on the plane in Sydney. Being a master of the last minute, he left packing until 45 minutes before he was leaving. That sort of thing TOTALLY FREAKS ME OUT. I am more the pack-a-month-in-advance type.

As we stood at the front door to go, I asked: “Have you got your passport.”

He didn’t. My nerves! My nerves!

So I’m ferrying the Sprogs around on my own all week. Yesterday morning was a bit nightmarish. I had to have everyone out of the house by 7.20am so the eldest could get to band practice on time. I didn’t yell too much, which I regard as a small victory.

 However, I’ve decided to waive my no-wine-on-Monday-and-Tuesday rule and allow myself a glass a night to smooth my frazzle.