He won the Young Animators Award! Son1 is the one in green, standing with his teammates and the Dubai International Film Festival sponsors. As you can see, he was on cloud nine! Turns out the judges thought their cast of characters showed great imagination. #SpaceRocket #Unicorns #MaliciousCheeseburger #AlmostTheOscars #ProudMum
Son1 has one ambition in life – to be a famous Youtuber. I think it all started when he discovered Stampylongnose. Have you heard of him?
He also goes by the name Stampy Cat, but really he should be called the Pied Piper of Youtube. His channel is among the most viewed in the world, more popular than Justin Bieber or One Direction. Son1 and his friends seem to be able to spend hours watching videos that Stampy – real name Joseph Garrett, a 24-year-old from Portsmouth – has uploaded to Youtube of him and his mates playing Minecraft.
Don’t see the appeal? Neither did I – although I don’t mind Stampy. He doesn’t swear; and I’ve seen his mum doing the hoovering in the background and bringing him a cup of tea (he was living at his parents’ house rent-free until the income from his Youtube celebrity status allowed him to give up his post-university bar job). Apparently he’s now testing the waters in Hollywood.
Stampy: The gamer who calls a generation of children to their computers every afternoon
Anyway … Son1 progressed from watching Stampy endlessly to making his own videos, which he (somehow) uploads to Youtube. And so we found ourselves in this brave new digital world where we have discussions about subscribers and views and technical things about which I have no clue. When The Young Animators Competition came along, requiring a 60-second video featuring the entrant and a few Youtube links, I knew I had to enter Son1.
Fast forward a few weeks, and – to his rapturous joy – he was shortlisted, the prize being a 5-day animation workshop in which 18 participants created their own animations at thejamjar, Dubai’s fantastic community arts space.
Now, I’m honestly not bragging here, as it’s highly unlikely his team will win (they were three 10-year-old boys, whose animation involves a space rocket, unicorns, a transformer and an army of malicious cheeseburgers). But at the weekend we get to go to a red-carpet screening of a children’s film I’ve never heard of at the Dubai International Film Festival, for a presentation ceremony.
Son1 is VERY excited. Not just about being one step closer to his dream of becoming a famous Youtuber, but mostly about the gala event (at which, I should imagine, the Young Animators part will be very short, while the audience scoffs popcorn). We talked about it at bedtime tonight. “Mum?” he said. “Will we get to walk on the red carpet?”
“Maybe – I’m not exactly sure. You’ll definitely get a certificate.”
A pause.
It occurred to me he might be getting a bit carried away.
“Mum?” He sat up in bed. “Will we have bodyguards?”
I tried not to laugh but a snort slipped out. Stampy – you have a lot to answer for.
These photos popped into my in-box today. Taken by Dubai’s very own ‘eye in the sky’, they mark the second anniversary of the launch of DubaiSat-2, the emirate’s second earth observation satellite. Love how you can see the World islands, two miles off the mainland, the Palm, and, if you peer very closely at the photo above, the 828-metres-high Burj Khalifa.
DubaiSat-2 was launched into space from the Yasny Launch Base in Russia in 2013.
Last week, I had to pop into the doctors’ to pick up a prescription. I don’t know about you, but I find the whole subject of medicines in Dubai a little confusing sometimes.
This might have something to do with the fact that you can walk up to a pharmacy here and buy antibiotics, while other medicines (like codeine) that can be bought without a prescription in other countries are restricted.
Anyway, I digress. Back to my prescription. I gave my name, and the receptionist started flicking through a pile of white envelopes. She pulled one out and opened it. A quizzical look passed over her face – the insurance details didn’t match up.
While it is actually against the law to sell antibiotics, most pharmacies ignore the directive. Customers can easily get hold of antibiotics over the counter, and the pharmacy makes a profit from selling them without a prescription. A dose of superbug, anyone?
“Erm, no,” I replied, shaking my head. She glossed over my answer, and thrust the envelope into my hand anyway.
A little voice told me to check it as I was walking out the door.
And let’s just say I’m very glad I did.
Inside was a prescription and a letter from the doctor – to someone completely not me. Someone called Damian.
I walked back into the clinic. “Excuse me,” I said politely. “The prescription – it’s not mine.”
The receptionist glanced at it. Then stared at me, the same puzzled expression on her face. I tried again. “It’s for someone called Damian.”
She kept her gaze, and with shoulders still straight and her tone easy, she said, “But the surname?” She pointed at the front of the envelope. “It’s the same? Yes.”
“Similar – but not the same. Look – I’m really not Damian.”
She eyed me suspiciously. And I shook my head again. “This is for Damian. Someone else … A man.”
Her eyebrows lifted as I forced a smile, hoping to end the unexpected standoff.
“Nope, not me.”
Finally, she was persuaded, and whipped the prescription back before returning to the pile of envelopes to find the correct one.
As I said, it can be a funny ole healthcare system sometimes.
Drivers in Dubai come with all kinds of wheels: And I don’t mean regular drivers. I mean the paid kind who ferry kids back and forth. Pic credit: The National
After much raucous excitement (go-karting, lasertag, pizza and ice cream x 15 kids), I let out a long, slow, deep breath – Son1’s birthday was OVER. Thank God! Everyone had gone home.
At least I thought they had … until DH piped up, “Oh wait, someone’s still here.”
A boy. Let’s call him H. He was inside the building, standing around quietly, waiting for someone to pick him up.
I told DH to head off with our two. H and I stood on the kerb outside, in the dark – the moon was full, the sky full of stars. We chatted – he was a nice kid, grown-up for his age. He was also getting worried about the fact no one had come for him. “I’m sure your mum will be here any minute,” I said kindly, stifling a yawn (end of the work/school week, blimin’ knackered).
“Can I use your phone?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said. “Do you know your mum’s number?”
He nodded, and I handed my mobile over.
A few seconds later, I heard a small voice – much more plaintiff than the polite tone he’d been using to chat with me. “Mummy!” he squeaked. A few more words were exchanged as he scuffed his foot against the pavement. “But there’s no-one here.”
When he got off the phone, I asked (and I’ll admit I was more than a little hopeful myself as I REALLY wanted to go home), “So is she coming?”
H shrugged. “My driver’s coming.”
Now, this in itself isn’t at all surprising in Dubai, but what did surprise me is we sat on the kerb for another 20+ minutes without so much as a message (or apology) from his parents, and when a car eventually screeched to a halt (a driver-maid combo), the darkened windows meant there was no eye contact. I walked round to make sure he was getting in the right vehicle, but they were clearly in a hurry. After a quick “sorreeee” and “goodbye”, the car door slammed and they were off in a puff of smoke.
I listened to the crunching of gravel as they veered across the car park, and thought, “Thank Gawd, now I can go home – half an hour late. Just in time to clear up all the shredded pieces of wrapping paper I’m sure will be strewn all over the floor by now.”
A little odd, I decided. Madam can’t have known her driver was running so late, or she would have texted. Wouldn’t she? Or am I too English and hung up on manners?
Either way, it takes all sorts to make Dubai go round, doesn’t it?
Proactive parents will all know about the class mums’ WhatsApp group – the 24/7 group ‘chat’ on the ubiquitous phone messaging system, in which mums discuss anything from homework to lost items and how much to give kids for the bake sale.
I’m all for it (mostly) – it helps me stay on top of things, and any questions you post on the group are usually answered within seconds. I’m now included in four motherhood WhatsApp groups: two school groups and two groups for the baseball teams my sons play on.
“Just a quick reminder that tomorrow is Florence Nightingale Day – don’t forget the kids’ costumes!”
The corners of my mouth did twitch upwards, though, when I found myself discussing these memberships with the working mums at my office – because, if I’m perfectly honest, there’s nothing quite like coming out of a meeting to a phone screen full of 26 messages about head lice.
Or getting home, tired, and hearing…
Ding, ding, ding, ding!
… As messages download about all the homework you haven’t had time to do with your children as you’ve been at work.
I’ve also come to the realisation that it’s an incredibly powerful medium. Just as social media has been at the core of some of the world’s biggest protests, WhatsApp brings parents together in a way that can actually overthrow teachers.
I was talking to V, full-time at my office, and the mother of a little girl. She was looking harassed – a slight flush to her cheeks so I asked her what was wrong.
Her eyebrows snapped together. “It’s the mums in H’s class,” she said. “I’ve got all these messages on my phone about the replacement teacher – they want someone other than the person who’s been chosen.”
She gave a half shrug. “I just think the woman should be given a chance.”
See what I mean? The mums in her WhatsApp group were planning a COUP.
Then there was my chat with A, mother of two boys and currently juggling a new job with a mad dash out of the office at midday to do the school run followed by a full afternoon back at her desk.
“There’s this WhatsApp group,” she told me.
I gave her a knowing smile. I could tell by the way her face had contorted that she was getting a little frustrated with the nature of some of the messages (“My son always forgets to bring things home from school!” “Yeah? Mine too!”; “I’m the first one to arrive for parents-teachers day!” *picture of empty school hall* “Reserve a seat for me!”).
“I got home the other night,” my work colleague A told me, “and there were 58 messages from the class mums – trending tennis coaching.”
Facepalm – but then again, as I’ve come to realise, the Mummies’ WhatsApp group is also incredibly useful, and who wants to be the only mum who has to be sent separate text messages from the virtual motherhood circle (that is, if they remember – I mean, do you live under a rock?).
Peer pressure, I’d say, and the fear you’ll get everything wrong are enough to make most of us get with the programme.
The Qatari capital is a dazzling city in the making
Posing in the bathtub
As I looked around at my fellow bloggers turned conference-goers, their beaming smiles made it hard to believe we’d only just met. We were gathered in a regally furnished, luxurious state suite in Doha’s Four Seasons hotel, dressed in personalised, fluffy white dressing gowns – gifted to us by the hotel.
The noise levels rose as photo opportunities were snapped up (two people, it turned out, could pose in the giant bathtub, all shiny marble with gold taps), and it was only a matter of time before everyone jumped on the huge double bed for a group picture.
Props all provided
It wasn’t just any old bed, you see. It was the four-poster that British footballer David Beckham had recently stayed in, when he visited Doha for the tennis. I could have moved into the suite there and then; it was enormous, and the impressive views made it feel like a swanky New York penthouse apartment, complete with a grand piano, butler and walk-in wardrobe.
I’d stayed in many faceless hotels on work trips in my life before kids, but the BloggingME workshop at the Four Seasons in Doha took hospitality to a new league altogether. They’d thought of everything, from the amazing canapés to the sundown reception on the terrace with champagne and chefs at live cooking stations. Doha, I discovered, knows how to conduct business, be it in a local coffeehouse or at a five-star hotel with bells on.
Building boom
There can’t be many places in the world that are changing as radically as Qatar. Doha, which began as a small fishing village, is now the capital of one of the fastest-growing countries on the planet.
Qatar’s economy used to be dependent on pearl fishing on the Arabian Gulf until the discovery it was on top of 15% of the world’s proven gas reserves. Credit: The Telegraph
A massive spending plan is part of the government’s National Vision 2030, which envisages a highly diversified economy with a focus on education and culture. What’s more, as Qatar gears up to host the 2022 Fifa football World Cup, Doha is investing more than $200bn in the development of essential infrastructure such as a metro to transport fans, stadiums to host matches and accommodation.
But while there are cranes and heavy equipment all over the city, visitors will find both history and modernity, often on the same city block, along with a generous smattering of authentic souqs and wide-open green spaces.
History meets modernity
Sparkling skyline
I was struck by the uniqueness of Doha’s buildings, and still have one particular view etched on my mind. While promenading the corniche, you can admire Doha’s sparkling skyline, rising up behind the old wooden dhows bobbing on the cobalt-blue bay. The corniche is without a doubt the highlight of the capital – together with the city’s geometric Museum of Islamic Art, which sits on the water’s edge like a gigantic broken Rubik Cube.
Museum of Islamic Art
Inside the free museum, there’s a fine collection of Islamic metalwork, ceramics, jewellery, woodwork, textiles and glass, spanning a period of 1,400 years and mostly from Turkey, Syria, Iran and Iraq. The building, with its symmetry and lineal architecture, is just as impressive, with stunning views over the water and downtown Doha across the bay. A popular photo is taken from the terrace on the left side of the building, where you’ll find water fountains and three arched open windows, which frame the city centre buildings beautifully.
Social heart
It’s then just a short walk to Souq Waqif, the social heart of Doha and a great place to explore, shop, have dinner or people-watch from one of the cafes. Tourists and locals mingle here, and the alleyways and architecture are wonderfully atmospheric. I found myself surrounded by colourful birds and rabbits (in dresses!), then angled myself in a different direction and soaked up the aromas coming from the numerous shops selling spices, perfumes and oud (an exotic incense made from agarwood).
Given a day in Doha, you can also fit in the cultural village of Katara, and by way of contrast, The Pearl, the glamorous address for some 12,000 residents as of January 2015. Once fully completed, The Pearl will create over 32 kilometres of new coastline. Love or hate it, it’s a distinctive sight, and otherwise known as Doha’s ‘Riviera Arabia’.
Of course, you’ll also want to take the obligatory Doha selfie on a mosque visit – my last photo I’ll leave you with, just as a thumbnail!
My favourite quotes from Halloweens-past have got to be:
“Could I have money instead?”
And, “I don’t like those sweets. Have you got any other ones?”
[I mean, seriously, do I look like a pick’n’mix store?]
Then this morning, my overexcited youngest son and his best mate sung a little ditty to me:
Trick-or-treat, trick-or-treat
Give me all your yummy sweets! (repeat)
I really hope they’re politer than that when they go knocking on doors tonight, seeking their annual candy windfall.
So, in a tongue-in-cheek spirit, here are 10 ways to turn the tables on the trick-or-treaters:
– Give away something other than candy (bags of sand, empty water bottles, golf balls, packs of oatmeal).
– Get everyone who comes to the door to come in and see if they can figure out what’s wrong with your washing machine. Tell them it makes a strange banging noise and your maid’s away.
– Stick a ‘Beware of the Lion’ sign on your door.
– Install a motion sensor that turns off the porch light every time a festively dressed child approaches.
– Hand out menus to the trick-or-treaters with pencils and let them order their candy by candlelight. Give them a bill at the end. Any complaints – throw your hands in the air, shrug and say, inshallah.
– Answer the door dressed as a dentist and give out toothbrushes. Treat them to a lecture about tooth decay.
– Get about 30 people to wait in your living room. When older kids come trick-or-treating in their normal clothes, say, “Come in.” When they do, have everyone yell, “Surprise!!!” Act like it’s a surprise party.
Happy Halloween everyone!
Every year I do a Halloween post. All about how much fun the kids have trick-or-treating in Dubai. Since this weekend has unofficially been dubbed Halloween weekend here, I’m publishing this post early – and, this year, it’s not about all the fun stuff laid on for the children.
It’s about Halloween at work, for fully grown adults.
So, this morning, I walk out the elevator and see bloody handprints on the linoleum. My eyes follow the scarlet trail to the door and, lo and behold, through the glass I see a body, lying inside the entrance foyer – a wild-haired killer clown (who I later find out is one of the editors) sprawled out on the floor. He’s twitching like a beheaded chicken.
Stony silence: Sales? Subscriptions?
I, myself, am clutching an axe, borrowed from Son2. Shoving my own hair into a ponytail, I don my mask and brandish my axe, the bones of my knuckles showing white.
I hear the sound of a knife-like instrument on glass.
Scrape, scrape.
(A little bit like fingernails on a blackboard).
Then a blood-curdling scream.
The door opens and the full candle-lit Halloween horror scene is revealed, complete with a knife-wielding intergalactic alien, cackling witches and a (rather sexy) pirate.
Another shriek.
Followed by laughter (heh-heh-heh).
This is clearly going to be no ordinary day at work.
In the kitchen, where I always go first to make tea, there’s a severed hand in the fridge – and though I know it’s not real, I push the fridge door shut firmly, smiling to myself that our workplace has become just like The Office TV show with Halloween gags and pranks.
A few minutes later, the procession of zombies and ghouls filtering into work is joined by a slightly tubby gravestone, who saunters around the office for, oooh, at least half an hour. No-one knows who he is (sales, perhaps?). He does a jolly good job sneaking up behind me, his hands enveloping my neck in a chilling grip as I’m caught unawares.
“But who on earth is he?” I say to my friend afterwards. “Is he going to walk round all day, d’you think?”
(After 30 minutes, it’s becoming quite amusing that he’s in no hurry at all to sit down and do any work.)
He comes back round with treats, and I take a shortbread dismembered finger – still none the wiser as to his identity.
The mystery was only solved later in the day, when we found out he’d been hired as entertainment – a tombstone-o-gram!
Who says the annual revelry is all about the kids?
Mwahahaha!
So The Telegraph put the cat among the pigeons yesterday with this controversial column entitled: Who in their right mind would want to visit Dubai?
For those who haven’t seen it, here’s a small taster:
“For starters, it has an awful climate. It’s horrendously hot and humid for nine months of the year. It has close to zero real culture unless you count its unique take on Sharia Shopping ‘n’ Starbucks. It is an environmental Chernobyl filled with SUVs and air-conditioning up to and including an indoor ski slope. And it has some of the worst upscale architecture in the world. Bigger, better, higher, glitzier, nastier: it’s like an entire city designed by Donald Trump.”
It gets even spikier … (Visitors, apparently, are a certain brassy subset of the middle-classes, who love expensive mock-Georgian new-builds … and probably don’t have many books on their shelves.)
What’s not to love?
But, actually, after I got over my initial outrage at the fact the journalist had only ever spent three hours at the airport (I never left the airport, he admitted), I made my peace with him. The column was designed to shock, to provoke debate – and judging by the massive response, it succeeded in ruffling some two million feathers.
What’s more, many of the 844 comments are hilarious – strangers literally going hammer and tong at each other, and revealing just how little some particularly vocal people know about Dubai. With buttons for voting on comments, and new slanging matches erupting all evening, it was the best entertainment I could hope for without even leaving the sofa. Here’s my favourite exchange:
Inthesun: Well the beach was mighty fine today, water was very warn and just a slight breeze. A few beers and some salad and now going back to the pool. How is the UK today? 🙂
Damian: Yes, so laying on the beach where you can do in hundreds of places in the world is fine as long as the oppression isn’t in front of you?
Inthesun: How is your mobile? Computer and all the other rubbish goods that you buy. Made by kids in china when the suicide shift starts. Kettle, pot, Black.
Aussieinswitzerland: Where did you hide while having the beer?
Inthesun: In the bar on the beach. It is called Barasti. Look it up on google. Great food as well.
Aussieinswitzerland: But it’s not actually on the beach is it? That would be illegal. You have to hide in the international hotel with your beer. Not quite the same thing.
Nynx: Listen jackass…stop commenting on things you know nothing about. YES, you can order beer and YES, you can consume it on select beaches in Dubai.
Ah: Clearly, you have never been to Dubai.
Inthesun: Er, yeah. It is on the beach and you can order to your sun bed.