I miss this.

It is early morning in Dubai. The compound where I live is quite and still, curtains closed, overnight dust gathering by unpolished faux-marble front steps and the dull hum of air conditioning units makes for the backdrop of noise to come. Underneath their matt white and rusty casings, puddles of condensed water provide tiny lagoons for insects, lizards and the occasional sparrow. The call to prayer has come and gone and the night time migrant workers wait in orange jumpsuits at the side of the motorway for transports to bounce them back to work camps where they can share spiced rice, lamb, internet and companionship.

As the sun creeps up into the dark azure sky and shadows fall like discarded abayas onto awakening streets, metal shutters are hoisted along grooved tracks, screeching metal on metal as the cold stores open their eyes to the life outside. Once remembered as shops with the only fridge in the area they now supply everything from cheap Indian razor blades to cigarettes that are sold by the single. A Bic lighter dangles on a fibre string waiting for customers to rasp its flint wheel and then draw eagerly on imported American brands cupped in rough hands.

In the Financial Centre sharp suited very important men bark into phones that are cradled between head and shoulder. They stand, shifting their weight in much too tight shoes, feet flattened from a weekend on the beach. Collecting their coffee with little regard for conversation they walk like chiropractors dummies, heads bent over with clown-like abilities to balance imported day old newspapers and iPads. Girls in pencil tight skirts flit past, they too are important and are consumed with talking to no-one except their invisible partners somewhere in the internet universe.

Today is is the weekly trip to Abu Dhabi, and this was 2008.