Flat out, on and and off court

My new Romanian friends - that's them above, and one has just clipped my sporting wings, of which more later - tell me that the occupancy rate for flats in Abu Dhabi is 99 per cent, as opposed to a more typical 80 per cent in other capitals.

No wonder we're all having such problems finding places to rent.

One colleague struck lucky in his first few days, but is now enduring a spot of uncertainty about a deal he believed to be secure.

I have been assured that there will be an apartment available for me. It comes at a rather higher price than I wanted to pay but is precisely where I need to be - on the superb Corniche - if leaving the south of France is to make sense.

In fact there will be two flats in the same development, the other earmarked for someone who is part of the new newspaper's strong advance contingent of north Americans and therefore calls me her co-worker.

Co-worker is just one of the words I am urging her to discard before we become neighbours. But that should leave her plenty of time to retain it in her vocabulary since the building may not be finished before February.

There is frantic building going on to enable Abu Dhabi to cope more smoothly with the influx of expats drawn by its phenomenal growth. But house-hunting is certain to remain an arduous and stressful pursuit for the forseeable future.

Another consequence of the expansion is that some of the places in which westerners like to socialise - hotels or clubs with pools and/or beaches, sports and gym facilities and the right to serve alcohol - have waiting lists.

That, as I have already noted, is the case at The Club.

Having paid 500 dirhams, about £70, for a one month vistor's membership card, I have been working flat out to get my money's worth.

The Club is not everyone's cup of tea, and I have heard the odd snooty putdown. But it is a well established and well run centre where people of 80 nationalities gather to relax.

It is also a good place to watch football, though being a good place doesn't necessarily help with the results. It has one of Abu Dhabi's few badminton courts, a fair choice of restaurants and a busy entertainment programme.

Along with the curry evenings and quiz nights, there are concerts, informal music sessions and after-dinner speaking events. The latter always seem to be hosted by the comedian Jim Davidson and I see from old posters, which were still displayed until yesterday afternoon before finally disappearing, that the themes have included two "So you want to be......." nights, Kate Adie and David Mills talking about being TV correspondents and Rick Wakeman on the life of a rock musician.

There was also a "Gentlemen's Football Dinner", which rugby snobs would call a blatant contradiction in terms. The speakers were Ian Rush and two chaps with strong Sunderland connections, Peter Reid (monkey head according to the gentlemen who support Newcastle United) and Dave Watson, a star of the 1973 FA Cup winning team.

Today, I booked a desert expedition at The Club and bought a book published in 2002 to mark the 40th anniversary of its formation. Contrary to my previous assertion, Michael Daly, oilman/industrialist/co-founder and former chairman declares in the book that it was never the British Club, always The Club.

Michael, an exceptional character by all accounts, died very recently. He was a Corkman, which may explain his eagerness to correct what is obviously a common misunderstanding.

In that mission, I am afraid, he failed. Virtually every expat of my acquaintance and all taxi drivers still know it as the British Club. At least one of the plaques and a thankyou note from the commanders of Royal Navy and US Navy warships, the crews of which had enjoyed R&R there, also refer to the British Club.

British or stateless, it was today the scene of my downfall on the badminton court. After a glorious triumph last week over an Aussie upstart, John, I came a rather embarrassing second to one Cristian Sucu, the Romanian mentioned earlier. Darting to and fro between old scoring rules and new brought me little advantange; he saw me off 21-6, 15-1, 21-6.
Spot the difference....

Watching the deadly serious warm-up stretches of his wife, Irina, I suspected she would hammer me too.

But I wasn't as pleased to beat her quite easily as I was to learn that Christian is not only 34 and superfit but was not so long ago one of Romania's leading players, as high as 15th in the national rankings. "There was a big gap betwen fifth best and the rest," he claimed, utterly failing to tarnish my reflected glory.

And in any case, poor John then completed the cheering up process by sending a text message saying he's booked a court* for tomorrow.

ps Update 24 hours later......it went to script