A Day at the Races

On the weekend Dubai's glittering social event of the year once again graced its shores - The Dubai World Cup. The theme this year had been deemed (by a few of us girls) as being English garden party inspired. Using this vision as her tool, my friend Jessie played the role of perfect host by holding the pre-race drinks in her apartment with champagne, flowers, candles and lots of pink and white touches around the place. My contribution was home made smoked salmon blinis - which were eagerly received by the well perfumed and suited up attendees.

A picture perfect scene of pre-race festivities

No sooner had we all stepped out of the taxis and in front of the venue had Jessie decided to take a short cut downhill, off road, into terrain of quicksand consistency which devoured her dainty white peep toed silk shoes as easy prey. Holding dangerously still with her hands up in the air reaching for imaginary rope, and resembling something similar to that of a street performance artist, our friend Daniel precariously tip toed across and took Jess by the hand leading her with great chivalry back to the safety of bitumen. A quick footwear brush-off against the lush green turf and we were off and racing once again, clicking our heels through the not so festive metal detectors and baggage scanning points.

(L-R) Jess, Nat and I

First stop was the Ahlan tent/studio - Ahlan being Dubai's conservative answer to a trashy gossip magazine. Like well trained monkeys we (Jessie, Natalie, Dan and I) proceeded to snap into an array of poses as instructed by our follicly challenged European photographer on the count of each "THREE!!". The contorting and pouting in our heels was all très tiring and as such we continued our search for a well populated watering hole. After establishing our base camp and ascertaining that the closest bar did indeed stock Pimms we began to survey the immaculately dressed punters (I use this term loosely as betting in Dubai is illegal). One major difference I noted at these races compared to the ones I had been to at home, was the absence of actually being able to see the horses race in front of the masses, this would require entrance into a dry area. Needless to say I saw no horses that day.

Always an ingenious idea, I used this occasion to break in a new pair of towering black high heels. Thinking that my gel insert "party heels" would provide me with cushy satin like comfort all day I was sadly mistaken. Note to self: blisters cannot be numbed/prevented by marketing ploys involving pictures of masseuses and phrases like walking on clouds and floating on air. Instead my feet were making it clear by the end of the evening that walking on glass, fire or cactus plants was now an enticing option.

Rather than run the risk of perpetuating any race-day barefoot cliches, Natalie and I accosted the one-eyed driver of a passing golf buggy to give us a lift to the nearest first aid tent for some medical attention. We may or may not have stretched the truth somewhat as to my condition (ie glass wedged in foot) but what ever we said (or didn't say) worked! Our visually impaired driver took us with great speed and accuracy across grassy knolls and through the clusters of glossy girls and well dressed men until we reached an oasis of medical supplies. We were understandably met with some raised eyebrows and looks of disappointment from the first aid team when presented with the situation at hand but I was a desperate desperate woman - who was laughing uncontrollably at Natalie who was now getting trigger happy with her camera pointed squarely at me! With shoes firmly on, and blindingly white plasters beaming away from my feet we ended the day via our final golf buggy ride to the exit. Waving like two beauty pageant runners-up on a float, we stood perched on the back of the cart clinging onto the vehicle's roof frame giggling like a couple of school girls.

Me getting plastered