At 6.45am this morning, I peered outside our bedroom window to see the everyday familiar sights of our street draped in a silky mist; the villas, carports and road hidden from view by a dense, semolina-souper, surely the worst fog of the season so far.
By 7.30am, we’d ventured into the whitened haze, on our way to school. Cars loomed into view at the last second, like images from some half-forgotten dream. Son2 was on the edge of his seat with excitement, loving the inclement weather (beats the continual blues skies in his opinion) and rolled down his window hoping the swirling vapour would enter the car.
“Are we driving in the clouds?” he asked, as I almost closed my eyes with anxiety (I wasn’t at the wheel!). You could just about see the white line marking the lane, but the upcoming roundabout, roadworks and drivers who incredibly had forgotten to put their headlights on were totally obscured by the thick fog. We were driving blind, literally.
“It’s Dubai’s Achilles’ heel,” remarked DH, because when the fog is this bad, the delays at the airport ricochet all around the world for hours afterwards, affecting tens of thousands of passengers (hopefully the problem will be alleviated this summer, after work is carried out on the runway to upgrade the lighting).
Later on, as the fog lifted, it felt like we were in a blue movie as the sunshine filtered through the wispy mist, burning it off to nothing. I breathed easily again – both children were safely in school and we had a busy day ahead, ending with the Eric Clapton concert tonight.
Then DH’s phone rings. It’s scheduling. He’s not meant to go to work until tomorrow, but due to the fog and all the delays, he has a car coming to pick him up in 45 minutes. My best-laid plans scuppered by my DH being sent to the end of the world (New Zealand).
Still, the lucky recipient is my Dad! My parents are staying, and he’s agreed to come with me to the concert. Rock on, Dad!