So DH and I are at our local retail centre having a breakfast date when my phone rings. It’s the receptionist at a dental clinic in Healthcare City.

“You have appointment,” she says in a sing-song voice. “Wednesda-ay, 9.30 in the morn-ing.”

“That’s right,” I reply. “You phoned yesterday to confirm,” I add, a little confused because it was a fait accompli as far as I was concerned. I wonder if she’s about to tell me the slot’s cancelled and I need to reschedule.

There’s a pause. “Yes, Ma’am,” she says. “I’ll phone you again on Tuesday to remind you.”

“You could just text me if you like,” I suggest. “I’ve written it down.”

I’d have thought nothing more of it, but 10 minutes later, we encounter another circular conversation that suggests we left our brains at passport control.

DH and I go into the supermarket to buy our helper Catherine some lunch from the deli section. They sell Filipino food and we often bring it home for her.

“Sir, you prefer pizza, yes!”

“What’s that?” DH asks, pointing at a vegetable dish.

“You won’t like,” says the man behind the counter, shaking his head.

DH tries again. “But can you tell me what it is?”

“It’s Filipino food.”

“Could I have some please?” attempts DH.

“You no like,” he repeats, adamant.

“If you want, you must try first,” he then adds, helpfully. So DH does the taste test and smiles in approval. “Mmmm, yum.”

Still a little unconvinced, the man reluctantly spoons some of the dish into a small pot – filling it only half full.

We make it to the cash register, and I wonder if receptionists and deli counter staff are actually on a mission to save us from ourselves. You never know – customer service in Dubai can be a strange thing.

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