Dolly's blog: Travels with my family

Colleague: “So where are you going on holiday?” Me: “Saudi Arabia”. The colleague laughs heartily, then re-arranges his face as he realises I’m serious and that this is my first trip to visit Mr D following his economic migration to Riyadh.

Equally bemused by the latest twist in our family saga, another friend recounts being detained for several hours by Saudi airport security because of the “pornographic” Vogue magazine in his luggage. In complete seriousness, my holiday reading plan was a Jilly Cooper bonkbuster set in “Rutshire” and with a cover depicting a woman’s hand grabbing the crotch of a man in tight jodhpurs. I swapped it for a self-improving Anthony Trollope and headed to Heathrow, soul searching whether I would (a) be detained; and/or (b) survive a week without alcohol (it’s been a while…).

Landing in Riyadh the heat hit like opening an oven door, but the Chevy Suburban which collected me was both air conditioned and the size of a tank, which was good because I’ve seen some crazy driving but this was a proper near death experience (think Harry Potter knight bus, but without the magic). 

Arriving at the compound in which Mr D now resides, an armed guard checked under the bonnet (it was unclear for what – perhaps copies of Vogue) and two massive gold doors parted like we were entering Gringotts.  Described in its promotional material as “an oasis to fulfil the desires of each guest… a whole new reality you only dare imagine… and the luxury you deserve”, I was looking forward to “reclining into the plush folds of tranquillity” and thinking it all sounded a bit Jilly Cooper.   

The reality was described to me by one resident (another ex-army wife) as more like Eldorado – as in the early 1990s soap opera set in the Costa del Sol and prematurely cancelled due to poor ratings. A child of the 80s my other cultural reference point was Auf Wiedersehen Pet, because it was largely populated by middle aged men pursuing economic gain pre-retirement (and women who go to the gym a lot). I liked it.

After 24 hours reclining in the compound’s “plush folds” and having realised how much flesh my summer wardrobe exposes (Jilly Cooper again), it was time for some abaya shopping.  I had a great time trying on at least 20 options and asking my long-suffering daughter to pass verdict on each of them, one by one.   “I have nothing left to say” she said 30 minutes in, as the discarded options piled up in her lap and I was reminded why my own mother has refused to shop with me since an ill-fated trip to C&A when I was 11.  But I was pleased with my purchases, as was Mr D.  “Looks good” he said on my return to Eldorado as I modelled my kaftan.  “It reminds me of our cushion covers. In a good way”.  I was aiming for a Fleetwood Mac vibe, but no matter. 

And so (despite the absence of alcohol, constant static electricity shocks, and dry-air induced multiple nosebleeds – smearing Vaseline inside my nostrils helped) the days sped by most enjoyably, the greatest surprise being that Mr D has been living without hand soap. You think you know a man after 30 years, but it turns out the only reason it’s hitherto featured in his life is because I’ve been buying it.

Back home, the dog was exceedingly pleased to see me and I was exceedingly pleased to drink a massive glass of wine.  And resume reading my Jilly Cooper.

“I think we may be on to something here” said Mr D in his bon voyage text. I think he may be right.

After 19 years of fee earning, Dolly now works in a management role in a London law firm. Working four days a week she is supported by a wonderful (though often absent) husband as they attempt to bring up three teenage children. A lockdown puppy adds to the chaos but keeps her sane.

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• Families