In the Middle East, it’s possible to outsource every task you could conceivably think of – from the ironing to banging a nail into a wall to assembling Ikea furniture and changing a lightbulb.
When grocery shopping, you’ll find a team of men lying in wait for you in the car park with mobile car washing units. There’s usually so many of them that at least one or two will helpfully direct you to a car parking spot and watch as you attempt to park. Then when you’re done shopping, it’s not unusual to be asked if you need help carrying the bags to the car. Bags, incidentally, that have been packed by a nice man whose responsibility it is to ensure that each bag is not filled to capacity – so if you buy three avocados, some mincemeat and a tube of toothpaste, you’ll walk out with the avocados in one bag, the meat in another and the toothpaste in a third if you don’t intervene.
At malls that charge for parking, there’s a person standing at the exit barrier whose job it is to take your parking ticket from you and put it in the machine for you. No matter if you’ve pulled up just slightly too far from the machine and have a short arm – all you have to do is open your window. I’m not sure where we’d be without this man – probably still stuck in a queue trying to get out of the mall.
Then, when you get home, if you discover you’ve forgotten something, it’s really no problem. You can just whip your phone out, tap the InstaShop app, and an hour later a man turns up on a motorbike to deliver your groceries.
You might also choose to have your petrol delivered straight to your car by a fantastic new app-based service called Cafu. After ordering and unlocking your petrol cap, a gentleman arrives outside your garage in a small, grey tanker lorry and fills your car up. It’s a genius idea, especially as the queues at UAE gas stations can be long.
It’s really only when you get back to the UK that you realise how utterly useless you’ve become at things Brits do on a daily basis.
A case in point – self-checkouts, which since I was last in the UK seem to have taken over at every single store I shop at.
I approach self-checkouts feeling decidedly wary, and also a little bit cross that stores expect customers to do all their own scanning, rescanning and scanning a third time with gritted teeth when it STILL doesn’t work. I’m not a store employee, nor do I want to be one for free. (And how on earth are they stopping shoplifting by self-scanning thieves? I wonder.)
What’s to stop me ringing my large lemons up as medium-sized? I rebelliously think.
But my first thought on seeing a bank of self checkouts is, “Where’s the man/woman?” (Please don’t judge! I’ve lived in Dubai for eleven years!). Then I realise that the attendant is either:
Not there
Staring at me the whole time
Rolling his/her eyes that I’m such a hapless customer who hasn’t got a clue.
Anyway, I’ve just about got it now – helped by a nice member of staff who took pity on me after I told her I lived overseas. But it’s certainly not seamless. My ‘foreign’ credit card requires a signature if I don’t ‘tap’, and so a message flashes up: ‘Attendant has been notified to assist you.’
I’m so glad they haven’t all been fired.
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So we’re in that murky zone of the two-month school holiday, where it’s hard to persuade the kids to actually get dressed, and they’re up all hours of the night due to jet lag and day-time laziness. To be fair, they’re not lazy kids when school is on, and they can’t actually go outdoors at the moment as we’re in the UAE and it’s 40 degrees-plus outside.
There’s also something in the air right now: thick DUST – making the air quality in the UAE little better than in China with its belching power stations and fetid smog.
So the kids have turned to electronic stimulation and are on their devices for way tooooo long when DH and I are both at work. They must surely be wiping out the benefits of enforced PE and various sports the rest of the year.
The other day – just after getting home from work – I raised the issue of screen time with them for the zillionth time. “What exactly have you done today other than play on the PlayStation?” I asked, rolling my eyes at the sight of the two boys still in their pajamas at 6pm.
They shrugged their shoulders simultaneously, stared back at me with screen-glazed eyes and said nothing.
So, I went on a little bit of rant about all the things I’d done that day, from the laundry, to dog walking to emptying the dishwasher – not to mention a full day in the office.
Son 2 cracked a smile. “But mummy,” he said, fisting his hands and putting two thumbs up. He waggled his thumbs like they’d become unhinged.
“Look!” he said, drawing his hands closer together, as though holding an imaginary PS4 controller. “Just look how much exercise my thumbs have had!”
A little later, he passed me the console. “See! Sweat,” he declared, triumphant.
Postscript: I’m consoled by the fact it’s not just my lazy kids: a study commissioned by McAfee showed that, with schools closed over the summer, children in the UAE spend up to 8 hours a day on their electronic devices, with 86 per cent of parents allowing their offspring to play online games recommended for older children.
Postscript 2: As an aside, there’s an IT chap in the office with the solution: he has a web cam on his kids’ computer den and can react with a phone call the moment he sees, via his laptop, that his boys are violating screen time rules. Needless to say, my two weren’t impressed with this idea!
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“Don’t tell Mummy!” Son2 glanced at his brother and stifled a laugh as my curiosity grew. He brought his index finger to his mouth. “Shhh.”
“Don’t tell Mummy what?” I asked, deeply suspicious.
Hopeless at keeping a secret, Son2 then proceeded to tell me anyway: he’d lost a tooth. I peered into his mouth, and there was indeed a new gap, next to a huge front tooth that still looks oversized in comparison to his milk teeth.
The end of a chapter in our lives
“Tooth fairy tonight,” I said brightly.
“But mum,” said Son1, from the other side of the lounge, where he was playing on his computer. He pulled his headsets off to actually join in the conversation. “THE TOOTH FAIRY IS FAKE!”
I stalled for time, considering whether just to come clean. To be honest, it would have been a relief. My mind was already trying to figure out whether I had any small notes in the house, and I’m over remembering, exhausted, at 2 in the morning that I need to play tooth fairy. But if I admitted she wasn’t real, wouldn’t they then immediately clock that we’ve been lying about the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus too? It was a slippery slope I didn’t feel quite ready to go down, so I replied, “Of course she’s real. Why weren’t you going to tell me about the tooth anyway?”
“Because the tooth fairy is daddy,” said Son1, pinning his gaze on DH on the other sofa. “That’s why we weren’t going to tell you – if the tooth was still under the pillow in the morning, then we’d know for sure we’re right. William’s tooth stayed under his pillow for three days before he finally told his parents and then he got money.”
“What makes you think it’s daddy?” I asked, my nose twitching with the effort of staying deadpan.
“Because,” said Son1 as though it was completely obvious, “the last time he forgot. When we came downstairs in the morning and said the tooth fairy hadn’t been, daddy quickly said ‘Here, hold this,’ and gave me his plate while he ran upstairs to put money under the pillow.”
“Ah, yes.” I gave a small cough. I remembered the incident well.
“And,” Son1 continued, rolling his eyes, “daddy left the tooth under the pillow.”
I think that’s us just about rumbled! Best-case scenario now is that the Santa myth is hanging by a single crimson thread.
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There is a time of the year (it used to be a night, now it’s nearly all month) when expat communities in Dubai become satellite suburbs of the good ole’ US of A.
It starts with a few Halloween decorations here and there, a bush covered in cobwebs, creepy spiders on the wall, and by October 31st morphs into a full-blown horror scene with grave stones and skeletons, strung-up ghosts and ghouls, along roads normally festooned with bougainvillea and desert roses.
Doesn’t DH make the prettiest girl? (bottom left)
Last night, as the sun slipped from view behind the white picket fences of our new compound and the pumpkins began to glow orange, the children took to the streets en masse, in fancy dress. They were trailed by their parents, many of whom had made a valiant effort and donned costumes too.
If you saw a blondish mother in a floor-length, gold, Cleopatra outfit with jewels dripping from my forehead, limping along (my shoes hurt), wiping the sweat from my brow (it’s still humid to be walking around clad head-to-toe in cheap polyester material) and completely lost from my kids, then that was me.
When I finally caught up with my 8yo, who waits for this night all year and gets beyond excited about dressing up and getting a massive stash of candy, it occurred to me that I should ask him what he was saying to the people answering the constant stream of door knocks.
“Are you saying thank you?” I asked.
He gave a firm nod.
“And saying trick or treat nicely?” I enquired.
“I tell them, “Give me all your sweets or you’ll die,” he replied, totally deadpan.
“You’re what?” I gasped. “ YOU CAN’T SAY THAT!!!” I felt my heart skip a beat at the mere thought of how this was going down with all our new neighbours.
Stash of sweets: The gleeful face says it all really
A little chat followed that he wasn’t a prankster-gangster, he was a grim reaper and had to be polite – or I’d confiscate all his sweets – and he nodded again before running off into the darkness with his friend-in-crime.
Then there was just the small matter of getting back to our house, in my flowing robes and heels, along a road that felt twice as long as it normally does so I could cool down. “You look like Cleopatra the morning after,” quipped DH, who’d taken his shock of white hair off a long time before and was enjoying a bevvie indoors with his mother (dressed as a 1920s’ Flapper).
All in all, it was wonderful night, full of frights and sights – not least of them DH and myself!
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INFO POST: Despite the heat, guest blogger Kristin Lewis can truthfully say they are never bored in Dubai
On offer in our glorious desert city is horseback riding, all-terrain vehicle (ATV) riding, trampoline parks, skate parks, skydiving lessons at FlyDubai, indoor skiing or tubing at Ski Dubai, and ice skating and hockey at a huge rink in the middle of Dubai Mall. There’s an active diversion at almost any mall in the city. Whether it be indoor football, soft play areas or glow-in-the-dark mini golf – you will find something.
Almost any sport you can name is available to the kids at some time throughout the year. Cricket, rugby, rounders, netball and soccer (otherwise known as NOT-American football), are biggies here. On rare non-uniform days at school, sports team kit is off-limits, as there are just too many strong opinions about whose team is best.
The baseball fields: a self-contained quad of baseball diamonds on a green plot of land in clear view of the Burj Khalifa
For us American folk, our interests are accommodated too – basketball, American football and (my personal favorite) baseball. Walking into the Dubai Little League baseball complex is equivalent to the mothership calling me home. It is SO American and it totally rocks, and is made even cooler because kids from lots of other countries participate on the USA-named teams. The complex has beautifully kept baseball fields, t-ball fields, clean bathrooms and – get this – a snack shack that sells hot dogs, hamburgers, the best nachos E.V.E.R. and a few healthy things, although I’m not really sure what those are.
Ball park with a view
While I gripe about going to some of my kids’ activities, baseball is not one of them. If there is a conflict, my husband and I will actually argue about who gets to go to the ball field. Hubby even volunteered to help coach this past year just to have a solid excuse to attend as many games as possible. I think I may volunteer for team mom next season just to spite him. This is hands down my son’s favorite sport too – he loves the camaraderie of the game, the parent-led teams and the thrill of having someone’s car alarm go off when he accidentally hits a foul ball over the fence.
My daughter, on the other hand, would rather stick a fork in her eye than be dragged to a baseball game. Oh my goodness, the days she has to go with us can be painful – “It’s SO hot I can’t concentrate on my homework, it’s SO bright I can’t see my homework, it’s SO loud I can’t focus on my homework, the bench is SO hard I can’t get comfortable to do my homework.” It has now been mandated that all homework be left at home – at the ball field, everyone eats nachos and enjoys the game. No forks allowed.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!
Since baseball is obviously not her thing, my daughter recently came to the realization that her other sports passion is basketball. Her first year on the court she was named team captain, which tells you something – that everyone else is playing an abridged version of netball. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a good player…and also one of the few to understand most of the rules of actual basketball. The whole team tried really hard, but they were just SO polite. Although we promised to never be those parents, my husband was in the stands almost every game with a vein bulging from his forehead. Out of his mouth was a constant stream of “GET THE BALL!”, “DEFENCE!” and my personal favorite, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?”
It got so bad that our daughter actually marched up to the stands one halftime and told her Dad to get out and not come back until he could behave himself. Meanwhile, I felt like the belle of the ball in the stands, smiling graciously as I intercepted questions from other parents about traveling, free throws and the three-second rule.
COMING SOON: In the final blog of Kristin’s three-part series on activities in Dubai, she writes about rock-climbing and water parks.
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Saturday morning (the last day of the weekend here in the UAE) saw me feeling determined: my kids were going to get their homework done early, rather than leaving it until last thing on Saturday night when we’re all tired and would rather stick pins under our nails.
So I sat down at the table, drumming my fingers while the boys shouted out various excuses, from needing to land an airplane on whatever computer game they were playing to being hungry/needing to run an urgent errand/feeling ill etc.
I heard my youngest son chasing the dog. “Bella … Bella. EAT it.”
I finally got them to the table, where it quickly became obvious we might still be sitting there hours later with my boys yawning and feigning snoring over small heaps of crumpled paper.
“I’m not going to do it for you,” I told my eldest. “I’ll sit here doing some work of my own, BUT YOU HAVE TO DO YOUR OWN HOMEWORK.” I emphasised the words with a raise of the eyebrows.
Son2: “Mum, can I have a hacking device for Christmas?”
Son1 shot me a look, and even the plants on the windowsill looked as though they were seeking an escape from within.
Fifteen minutes later, Son1 was still struggling, complaining that he couldn’t find a good website to answer the question he’d been set. I heard the flicking sound of the rubber he was fiddling with – then he dropped his pen on the floor, which always sets my teeth on edge after the third time. At one point, he nearly slid off his chair.
A stare passed between us. I might have felt my face flash hot with annoyance.
It’s at this point that I try to remember what Clive Power, managing director of Dubai-based Power Tutoring, told me:
“It’s usually difficult for parents to help with their own children’s homework. Children like to keep their work/life balance just as much as adults. We don’t like bringing work home and it interfering with our family life, the same is true for children. It would be just as strange for children to have their parents in the classroom as it would be for the teacher to have a meal with the family in the home. So when the parent takes on the role of the educator as well, there’s confusion. Children can even question whether the emotional support and unconditional love will still be there if they get the answers wrong or don’t understand things fully.
“We’ve had qualified teachers who’ve come in and said that they can work with all the children in the school, but not their own children,” Clive continues. “It’s the blind spot on the car, the part of your back that you can’t quite reach to scratch.”
So today, as my son continued to whine that not one of the websites he was looking at told him the answer, I tried to bear Clive’s words in mind – then felt the small hairs on the back of my neck rise and lost it with my son anyway.
“You know, your father and I – we had to do this WITHOUT GOOGLE! We couldn’t just type a question into the internet and get the answer, a thousand times over on the screen in front of us. We had to look in BOOKS, ENCYCLOPAEDIAS to do our homework! There was no Wikipedia, no search engines. No internet!
“Can you even imagine that?” I finished, beetroot red in the face. “Do you even know how lucky you are?”
Son1 gave a small nod, his alarmed eyes as wide as saucers.
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PSSST, my little e-book is free! It’s up for grabs for the next 24 hours at:
In the UK: Click here
In the US and worldwide: Click here
Alternatively, please search for Cupcakes & Heels in your local Amazon online store.
And because I’m feeling super generous (and thrilled that it’s reached the number two spot in the Amazon 45-minute reads fiction section), I’ll email it to you if you don’t have a Kindle or iPad (with the Kindle app). Just leave a message for me below, or on the Circles Facebook page here.
Here comes the blurb:
Workaholic mum Julie Wainscote becomes an overnight Twitter sensation when her live TV gaffe goes viral. Fired from her job, she takes up the challenge of becoming a stay-at-home mum to her son, Jacob.
But when she realises the school run is a catwalk, the coffee mornings involve competitive catering and the class bear has been to Lapland, she has to admit the adjustment required may be beyond her. Does she have what it takes to join Dubai’s ranks of immaculately groomed school mothers?
Someone was even kind enough to say:
“An uplifting and candid story about one of the most difficult decisions any mother has to make. A truly funny, insightful and beautifully written slice of parenting life.”
COMING SOON: Have you ever just popped into IKEA? In my next book (due out in the next couple of weeks), you’ll meet all sorts of characters you’ll recognise. Helicopter Mum. The Atlantis Tooth Fairy. Shopaholic Katie, who disappears down the Karama rabbit hole while buying handbags. There’s also school teacher Hilary (will she get to keep the Range Rover gifted to her by the royal family?); little Amir, a historical character who wants nothing more than to do his first, dangerous pearl dive; and horrified, overworked Marcie, whose husband gets overexcited at the Expo 2020 and swaps their housemaid for a robot.
Watch this space for: Circles in the Sand: Stories about life in the Big D
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There’s a new addition to the Circles family: Meet Bella, our seven-month-old rescue pup.
She was born on a labour camp in Umm al-Quwain – the little ’un of a litter of mixed-breed pups (Saluki/Lab, I’m told, and being a complete novice at this, I knew a Lab meant Labrador but thought a Saluki was a type of car).
There were some 500 men living in the camp and, despite having so little themselves, they shared their food with the pups (how heart-warming is that?). The kind-hearted labourers also called a rescue home, the wonderful Stray Dogs Centre UAQ, who came along and collected the litter along with the mum.
Fast forward a few weeks and I see a photo on Facebook. I’m not even looking for a dog. I’m a cat person. But my youngest son has been asking for a dog … for five years.
I’m not quite sure what happened. I think it was her eyes – those deep pools of melted brown chocolate staring out the photo – and the caption saying she’d been rescued from an industrial area, was incredibly affectionate, and needed a furr-ever home.
Unconditional love: Check out those smiles!
My fingers started typing. I’m not sure they were even connected to my brain (which was screaming: It’s summer! We’re leaving Dubai for six weeks then moving house. We’re CAT PEOPLE! We know nothing about dogs! She might as well be an elephant for all we know about dogcare).
They say that where there’s a will there’s a way, and this rang so true in this case. Bella (who also went by the name Vanilla – her siblings were Cupcake and Biscuit) was destined to be ours. Thanks to a combination of the most amazing foster carers, who looked after her all summer while we were away, and my sons’ unquashable excitement about finally becoming dog owners, we reached the end of August and found ourselves welcoming Bella into our home.
And what a welcome.
She’s stolen our hearts. Bella has lolloped into our lives, wagging her tail, snoozing on the sofa, stealing pyjamas (even when Son2’s wearing them), demanding tummy rubs. She loves the boys’ toys, especially the fluffy, stuffed animals which she playfully carries around with her, and she’s such good fun with my boys they can’t get enough of her mischievous ways. Bedtime just got even crazier (if that was even possible). The kids and I adore her, and the ear-flapping and jumping that goes on when we return home suggests it’s mutual.
My little boy and his new best friend
Our lives have been reorganised to include early-morning dog walks, trips to an air-conditioned dog park, and endless cleaning up of puddles indoors due to not-quite-there-yet toilet training. Our home had to be puppy-proofed, in much the same way you’d do for a small child. Woe betide anyone who leaves shoes or flip-flops lying round! They make wonderful chew toys.
I think I’ve made every rookie mistake in the book, spending the first night on the sofa with her (omg, this is like having a baby. ALL OVER AGAIN!). The second night, letting her onto our bed. The third bleary-eyed night, paying the consequences. Yes, we did enjoy the 3am leap onto the space in between my husband and I, and the protest pee right there at being banished to a lovely, futon-like doggy bed.
The war that’s been going on between Bella and our cat of 13 years’ seniority is a blog post in itself.
But the love we’re getting in return, the licks and the devotion mean I wouldn’t change a thing. She might be a wee bit spoilt just now, but as a born-again, totally besotted dog person, it’s safe to say she’s found her forever home with us.
COMING SOON: Where to take dogs in Dubai
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INFO POST: One of the best things about our sparkling emirate is the range of water sports available. From surfing to shark safaris, paddleboarding to scuba diving, the blue stuff offers something for everyone. For guest writer Kristin Lewis, it was her daughter’s new-found interest in synchronised swimming that led to a bedazzling foray into a watery world of sequins and hair gelatin. Over to Kristin …
We are a pretty active family, so one of my initial fears about moving to Dubai was having to adopt a heat-induced passive lifestyle. Not that it would necessarily trickle down to my kids – who I imagined would be scaling the ceiling, inventing new hairstyles for the dog, Jackson Pollock-ing the walls with toothpaste and building epic forts in every room. But parental sanity would definitely be affected.
As it turns out, I needn’t have worried about my kids being bored here. This city has everything imaginable for a kid. And then some.
With the sea generally fairly flat, stand-up paddleboarding has become popular in the UAE
Of course, there are the pools and beach clubs. Whether it’s a community pool, a five-star resort or the whole range in between, these are always MUCH nicer than the run-of-the-mill fare you might find in just about any other country. You still need to keep your mind away from thoughts of leaky swim diapers, snotty noses and the occasional floating Band-Aid, but you would find that anywhere.
What you won’t find everywhere is the endless opportunities of paddleboarding, kayaking, surfing, scuba diving, volleyball, jet skiing – even land and water obstacle courses – that you find at Dubai beaches. Additionally, lots of pools offer cool classes, including swimming for all ages, water aerobics for the slightly aged, diving and synchronised swimming.
My 13-year-old daughter just caught the synchronised swimming wave and loves it. She started going once a week, then twice a week and was invited to join a squad. She’s a tall, slender girl who, at times, is sort of the opposite of her given name of Grace. After a year at this sport though, she is really learning the fluid movements and pointed toes of a synchronised swimmer.
Dubai water ballerinas turn the pool into a stage
Not only has it been a learning experience for her, but for me too. I learned how to shop for an almost-impossible-to-find plain black bathing suit AND expand my non-existent sewing repertoire by hand-stitching hundreds of sequins onto the suit. The silver sequins were supposed to create this nice swirly pattern, but as my daughter checked in on my handiwork she asked, “Why did you stitch a question mark on my suit?”
When she first modeled it for me, it was true – the suit seemed to ask, “Why did you let your Mom do this?” Needless to say, we all hope it’s a pre-decorated swim costume next time.
Making a splash
I also learned to gelatin her hair so it would stay neat in the water. After watching several YouTube videos, I thought I had the process down pat. Turns out, I didn’t thin out the solution quite enough, resulting in thousands of tiny glue balls in my daughter’s hair. I allowed myself three hours of prep time which was clearly not enough, as I didn’t have time for a re-do. So, let’s just say that, unless we were up for the Lazy American award, we didn’t represent our country well, because every other nationality looked fastidiously tidy with proper swirls, sleek hair and bold makeup.
Thank goodness my daughter’s a laid-back kid and was okay with the question mark, glue balls and makeup I managed to borrow poolside from another mom. In my defence though, after gliding and somersaulting through the water for several minutes, she had not one hair out of place.
NEXT WEEK: If water activity is not your child’s thing, that’s no problem. Despite the heat, Kristin can truthfully say they are never bored.
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So, I mentioned the other day that there are some maintenance issues with the villas we’ve moved into. Happens all over Dubai with new builds – concrete gets poured down drains and sets; pipes aren’t properly connected, that kind of thing.
Our biggest problem has been the water supply; the water upstairs spurts out the taps in fits and starts, surges like a fountain, then slows to a trickle before drying up completely – just as you’re standing naked in the shower, semi-blind with shampoo stinging your eyes and soap lathered all over you. Stop laughing at the back!
I’ve called maintenance numerous times, and days ago gave up hope that the man with a mysterious blue watering-can might fix the problem.
Then on Friday, a breakthrough. After telling maintenance till I was blue in the face that I hadn’t used a drop of water for two hours (as they’d requested), a slow realisation dawns on his face.
“Ma’am, big leak,” says the handy man. His eyebrows snap together and he spreads his arms wide to indicate the size of the problem.
Right, now we’re getting somewhere, I think. Hallelujah!
We walk round to the other side of the pump room, and he stops still, staring. “You must move all these bricks. I work on this wall…”
You’ve got to be kidding? I think.
The serious look on his face suggests he isn’t, and I imagine the Dewa bill in horror.
“Erm, I don’t think I can move them all myself,” I say (it’s still over a hundred degrees outside, and even without any exertion, it’s exhausting being outdoors).
Blank stare.
“Where’s boss?” he asks.
“If you mean my husband, he’s away,” I say. I want to say that that’s what our husbands do – they fly away and leave us to deal with @*@$ like this, because by now – faced with the mountain of bricks, the heat and intermittent water – I’m feeling really mean-spirited, even though I know my dear DH has done everything he possibly can to make this a smooth move.
We agree I can’t move the bricks, and he’ll come back tomorrow after I’ve got our gardeners back to shift them. (‘How to Train Your Gardeners’ – it’s coming soon, to Dubai cinemas!)
The next day, a small army of maintenance men show up. They dig and drill, and it feels like the mechanical whine is going off in my head, and then they beckon us round looking triumphant. “Fixed,” says the head man with a megawatt smile, pointing at a pipe under ground.
They turn the water back on.
WHOOSH! The pipe promptly bursts and the men all start shouting at each other.
It’s now two days later, still not fixed, and I think they’re all on Eid holiday.
This too shall pass, right? Like a kidney stone. But it will pass.
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