Reggae reggae, it’s so nice you say it twice.

By April, I was well and truly settled into life in Doha. I had met an amazing group of people and the lifestyle and weather was so different from Scotland that I had had the opportunities to do things I had never done before.
Male colleagues from school had started to play basketball in an organised league. When they had a game we would go and watch them play, not because we had a particularly large interest in basketball but because we, sorry I, ( as the other ladies were all marrieds and quite obviously don’t need to look) liked to check out the talent.
We began to become familiar with the basketball faces and we often bumped into players when we went out.

On the night of the Reggae Reggae beach party we bumped into one of the players. He joined us for drinks and stayed for most of the night, obviously enjoying our dynamite moves and killer wit or maybe it was our makeshift scarf limboing and shoulder rides. Whatever the reason we seemed to have a connection and I went home with him to see his villa.
His villa was very impressive. He led me outside we took off our shoes and sat by the pool, the cool water washing away the sand from the beach party as we swished our feet back and fourth.
I remember gazing at a tree whose branches swept into the pool. It was in full blossom, the pink flowers had fallen into the pool and lay scatters across the garden. I remember thinking how strange it was that a tree could be so colourful in the middle of such a bland, dry, desert.
That’s when he kissed me, I had been so lost in awe at the strange tree that I had forgotten where I was. He pulled me up and pushed me against the cool brick of the villa. Everything happened in a blur from there. We slowly worked our way upstairs. Our hands not straying far from each others bodies as we frantically undressed each other.
The next morning when we emerged from the room we found our clothes strewn across the floor. It felt like a very clich├ęd movie moment as we retraced our steps, reclaiming our clothes from the night before, which lay hung from the light shades, across picture frames and on the stairs.
Things were not strained or awkward, things were easy. We went out for breakfast and in the late afternoon he dropped me home. We swapped numbers and promised to be in touch.

As I saved Icarus into my phone book, I smiled. Maybe boys were not so bad after all… Maybe…

‘Waiter, you appear to have served us different menus…’

The rules of having a friend with benefits seem to be a little grey.
Partly because checked shirt guy wasn’t a friend, so really that makes him… Just a benefit?
On paper this concept sounds good but in actuality it didn’t play out as expected.

If my room had been a restaurant and the rules were our menus, we would have to complain to the manager. However in this scenario there is no management team, no waiters and no cashiers. In fact we are the only customers. There is no hierarchy for making a complaint about the inconsistencies in our menus.

In the beginning we seemed to have corresponding menus. The dishes being offered were delicious, filling and made with the customer in mind. They were exactly what the customers ordered.

However as time passed one of the menus seemed to have been redrafted and I certainly did not sign-off on this redraft. I did not enjoy the re-written edition of his menu. Frantically I searched my menu. Nope THAT was definitely not on the original version. The dishes were no longer fulfilling our appetites and no matter how many times I tried to like the chefs new creations, it just wasn’t doing the trick.

He seemed content to create a pick and mix style buffet meal where he mixed and matched his dishes. He didn’t mind that the flavours did not compliment each other.
I however am a fussy eater, I like my food to be hot, fresh and exactly what I ordered. No surprises or last minute dish alterations.

Needless to say when your restaurant only has two customers and half of the customers are not satisfied with their meals, it’s not good for business.

Within a couple of weeks the foreclosure signs had been knocked in and bags had been packed.

We both went in search of restaurants that were more finely attuned to our individual tastes. But it wasn’t a wasted dining experience. Maybe I didn’t find what I was looking for but I was now clearer on what I wasn’t looking for. Which is another step forward, right?