It’s that time of the year when everyone just disappears and driving is a delight on Dubai roads, but the only hitch is that it is so hot.

At 10 in the morning, as I climb into my car, I remind myself to be very careful when buckling up. It was still very oppressive in the car despite opening all doors and standing and waiting in the shade of a very thin tree, that I forgot my own warning and nearly branded myself with the steel buckle of the seat belt.

After swearing loudly and after being admonished by own son for swearing, I blew on my hand but that did not help, so I spat on my palm and my spit started sizzling and I could see the letters embedded on my palm, spelling out my car model: LUMINA

My wife immediately started rummaging in her huge bag and started taking stuff out and placing it on the dashboard. Finally, she handed me a tiny, plastic bottle that said ‘hand sanitiser’ on the front label. “I don’t wish to be germ-free at this moment,” I hissed.

“Please switch on the A/C,” she said in her calm voice. A/C, according to Wikipedia is Air conditioning, and it is that process of altering the properties of air (generally temperature and humidity) and bringing it to more favourable conditions for you to survive in the desert climate.

“Every time the weather changes, we get dozens of cases of people suffering from coughs and colds,” said a doctor once as I was covering a story about summer allergies. “Doctor, it is in the high 40s outside,” I told him, perplexed. “It is the A/C,” he said with a mournful look and shaking his head.

Living in the Arab Gulf states for decades, I realised that the A/C can be both, your friend and enemy. It keeps you looking fresh like the model with her hair flowing behind her and breathing out blue ice whenever she smiles, but it also harbours some real nasty bugs, just for fun.

“The A/C is on,” I shouted over the whirring noise from the new fan I had. “My dad used to say that the British would retreat to the cool, “hill station” of Shimla to escape from the oppressive summer heat of the Delhi plains,” I said, though I have never been to that town that I believe is still very eccentrically British.

“Everyone migrates to London now for the summer,” said my wife. “We should go and see the Natural History Museum,” she said, to the sound of groans from the backseat.

“Don’t worry,” I told my son. “After Brexit, I heard they are not allowing foreigners into the country.”

“What nonsense,” said my wife.

“No, really ...” I said.

“This app is all wrong. It can’t be 57 per cent humidity,” she said looking at her phone, as the car windshield slowly started fogging up.

“Did you top-up the coolant?” asked my wife.

“What?” I said as I reversed and then saw what she meant. The spot where we had parked was covered with gross, green fluid, as if an alien had spilled its lifeblood from an ugly wound.

“We need to check the coolant level. Everybody thinks I am joking when I ask you all to recycle the junk,” I said.

“Won’t it be easier if we sold this car and got a new one? The Ramadan offers are tempting; you don’t have to pay interest at all and servicing is free for life,” said my son.

“It is a conspiracy by car makers,” I said. “Don’t touch the hood. You can make a roti on it,” I said.

Mahmood Saberi is a freelance journalist based in Dubai. You can follow him on Twitter at www.twitter.com/ mahmood_saberi.