The summer life of Jumeirah John in Dubai

Frank Kane has been living the life of that mythical figure, Jumeirah John, while his family have been away.

People relax before an event at night in the DIFC - a regular haunt of Frank Kane's. Antonie Robertson / The National

For the past few weeks, with wife and child away visiting her family, I have lived the life of that mythical figure, Jumeirah John.

There are armies of us in Dubai in the late summer months, sad figures sitting alone in restaurants or cafes, or the even sadder ones invisible at home, with a delivery pizza and movie-on-demand. By this stage of the long holiday, the initial exuberance of liberation from the family routine has begun to pale, and most of my fellow Johns are looking forward to having the darlings back at home.

Days are OK, because there is work to keep you occupied, but the evenings are a drag – the period from about 6pm to midnight is one long battle against boredom until it’s a respectable time to hit the sack.

What you do in these hours says a lot about you, but also a lot about the potential pitfalls of solitude in Dubai. The following story is a case in point.

Just a couple of days ago, I found myself in DIFC at the end of the working day. What to do? Go home to the pizza or hang around the financial centre?

An incoming email bonged on my iPhone. “It’s my birthday! Come and join me in Caramel … NOW”. It was an old pal and I gratefully accepted the invitation. Within a few minutes I was in the middle of an entertaining crowd in the swanky restaurant/bar, where the conversation dazzled.

But you eventually have to make your mind up about the rest of the evening. The dinner invitation was tempting, but carried the threat of a long and expensive night.

I decided to have a quiet meal alone and head home early to catch the live English football match. All very John-ish.

Cafe Belge in DIFC’s Ritz-Carlton is one of my favourite places in Dubai. I know the menu virtually by heart, and developed a sudden yearning for their beef bourguignon. There I could unwind with a drink and a delicious dinner, get in writing mode for this notebook, before watching the football and a relatively early night.

All was going to plan, and before long I was munching away while surreptitiously eavesdropping – my sec­ret vice – on a conversation on the table next door, about fintech and platforms.

Then it happened. Maybe I hit a bit of beef grizzle, maybe I swallowed too quickly, but I became uncomfortably aware something was stuck in my throat. Discomfort rapidly became panic as I realised I could neither swallow nor breathe, and my body went into shock mode.

Clutching a tablecloth to my mouth I made desperately for the desk. Unable to speak, I pointed to my throat. The assistant’s reaction – “room number, sir?” – made it obvious she hadn’t appreciated my plight.

But once it was obvious I was in serious trouble, the Ritz-Carlton staff swung into impressive emergency mode, and a couple of seconds later I was in the restroom with Amit Dalvi, assistant manager loss prevention, giving me the Heimlich man­oeuvre.

It worked like magic and in a few minutes I was recovering. Not enough to think about finishing dinner, for which the restaurant rather uncaringly made me pay. But at least I left the ­hotel without an ambulance.

The night ended watching Chelsea versus West Ham, carefully chewing the remains of the previous day’s pizza, and wondering whether the pain in my ribs might be Heimlich-related.

I think I’m going to stay at home until the girls are back next week. John’s had enough.

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