Category Archives: Expat

Hats off to DH

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A question I get asked a lot is: “So, does your husband always fly the same route?” I guess I can understand why people might think this – bus drivers, ferry operators, London underground drivers, long-distance truck drivers, mums on the school run, we all do the same route. So why not an airline pilot?

I smile and answer politely, “No, he flies to different places all the time.” He could be in New York one week, then Seoul the next, followed by London or Munich the week after. There’s a bidding system, which is too complicated to explain here, but that’s how it works. And it varies from month-to-month, too, with training, ground schools and six-monthly medicals as well.

Often, his trips take him to more than one country, so they’ll go to Sydney, then on to Auckland, or they’ll fly to Bangkok and from there onto Hong Kong. A bit like picking the children up from school, then continuing on to an after-school activity, I suppose. Or not.

Anyway, last week he was at Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi airport, preparing to fly on to Hong Kong. Picture the scene, if you will: a busy Thai airport, with nearly 16 million arrivals a year, serving a huge, cosmopolitan capital brimming with gold-spired temples, colourful markets and sà·nùk (fun).

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The crowd pleaser

The flight crew is sitting in a corner before boarding, when a Chinese lady sits herself down right next to DH and asks if it would be okay for her friend to take a photo of them. Sure, says DH, and makes her day by letting her wear his hat for the picture.

The area they’re sitting in isn’t particularly busy, so you can imagine my DH’s surprise when he looks up and sees what’s happened.

Did you guess? Yes, out of nowhere, a line has formed. A 15-deep queue of excited passengers, many of whom are probably travelling on the A380 for the first time, all wanting a photo – with THE HAT.

My DH, who’s very good-natured, obliged. Bless him! And I did have to laugh because it’s not the first time he’s caused a line: a long time ago, when we were 16, he was waiting for me at a train station, in school uniform. I arrived to find DH standing by the exit, collecting tickets. The reason? A passenger had thought he was the inspector and handed her ticket over, causing everyone getting off the train to follow suit.

Proud of you DH, for fulfilling your flying dreams – and for the fact people will actually queue for you!

You might also like: My hat trick on the airplane

The UAE’s first online hypermarket

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I know there are people who love the tiresome chore that is grocery shopping, but to be honest, I’ve never really understood why.

When I was single, grocery shopping was more interesting, especially when it involved the hallowed M&S food hall, but now that I have a whole family to feed, I find myself running round the supermarket with gritted teeth every other day, retracing my steps each time and lugging the same old dullsville groceries from shelf to check-out to car to kitchen. Occasionally I go off-liste and find some new or different things, but usually I get home and realise there’s still nothing for dinner.

As a working mum, you can imagine my joy when I heard that the UAE’s first online hypermarket had launched – and it actually delivered to our area. I decided not to get too excited, as this is Dubai, after all, and it was bound to mess up, but I secretly thanked the supermarket Gods for finally smiling on me.

And why do whole families go grocery shopping together for fun, just as I've got approximately 22 minutes to do the 'big shop'?

And why do whole families go grocery shopping together for fun, just as I’ve got approximately 22 minutes to do the ‘big shop’?

As I read the website this weekend, I realised the supermarket Gods weren’t just smiling, they were rolling around the aisles with side-splitting laughter, eating popcorn and Häagen-Dazs.

In the Getting Started section, you’re welcomed to this new experience in retail convenience and told: ‘Your lifestyle reflects your life story. It is told through the everyday objects you surround yourself with, through the food and drink you consume.”

It gets better: “These items are major characters in your story; they are your friends.

“They bring you joy and comfort, and welcome you home at the end of the day. Each morning you farewell them, perhaps with a touch of sadness.”

Seriously, I couldn’t make this stuff up.

Géant Online, it promises, will provide all the fun, excitement and joy of ‘physical’ shopping (I’d just settle for the groceries) and, with that, I found myself registering.

The first order does take some time as you have to find the virtual version of everything you need (while there are plenty of goods available, it’s not the whole range, by any means), but next time it should be a piece of cake as the system remembers your list.

I proceeded to the queue-less checkout, picked a delivery time for the same day, paid and kept my fingers crossed. My phone rang almost immediately confirming the order, and I sat back, still feeling a little twitchy about the whole thing.

So did my groceries arrive? They did, later than they were meant to. All the frozen items were missing and I’d accidentally ordered 30 cucumbers. But, to my surprise, the customer service line was actually really helpful, and as I left the house the next day (“Bye, bye beans! Farewell my fruity friends!”), a lady rang to say they’d bring the missing items that afternoon.

Happy dance!

Silent Sunday: Here we go again…

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I know it’s cheating to use a someecard as a Silent Sunday picture, but given that my brain is currently boggling trying to grasp the whole back-to-work, back-to-school merry-go-round, this one rings true. So, tell me, at what age do children start managing their own schedules, PE kit/swimming bags, lunch boxes, labelled piece of fruit every day? I’ve a feeling it’s still years away!

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School run survival tips

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The daily transfer of your offspring to school is not without its challenges, as every mum knows. Forewarned is forearmed, so if the long summer break has left you feeing a little rusty, here are my back-to-school tips and tricks:

– It might feel like the middle of the night, but get up with plenty of time to spare – this is your chance to get your own back on your sleeping children for all those early starts.

– Shovel on more make-up than you’ve worn all holiday, comb hair and pay special attention to your chosen outfit.

– Ensure school-sized sprogs are fed and have cleaned their teeth, without staining their uniform. Remember, the slightest trace of breakfast cereal or toothpaste will take on a luminous glow at the worst possible moment.

– Channel your inner drill sergeant to get the children out the door.

– Drive your seven-seater to within a hair’s breadth of the school gates, ramming other cars if necessary and double-parking if there’s no room. Just put your hazards on if you’re unsure and look busy, avoiding eye contact at all costs.

– Shepherd the children through the gates – remember, serenely does it. No shouting, or pushing. (You should probably practise gliding the night before.)

cartoon-shopaholic

– Don’t look too happy, or sad. Oversized sunglasses will hide any tears and inky mascara smudges, but a whoop of relief can’t be disguised.

– Have a story ready about the luxury, handmade yurt your family stayed in on holiday. (Yachts are so yesterday.)

– Try not to linger too long– you’re blocking several people in outside the gate, don’t forget, even your best friend.

– Watch the handbags-at-dawn fashionista mums go head-to-head on the school runway and vow to get up even earlier the next morning to wash hair.

– Put them to bed in their school uniforms that night.

Happy school runs everyone!

The 4-year-old’s bedtime shot

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Here in the Circles household, we’re trying hard to yank the children’s bedtime (and mine) forward so that when the new term begins in three days’ time, those red-eye early school start times (7.45am) don’t give us jet lag, all over again.

Of course, stopping wild horses in their tracks would be easier.

536794_639927182698099_1374862493_n“C’mon boys, bedtime!” I said last night.

Repeat x10.

“Can we have a day off from shower? We want a day off from shower!”

“No, look how dirty your feet are. Upstairs, now.”

Son1, who is getting more compliant as he gets older, climbs the stairs, leaving Son2 rooted to the sofa.

“I’m NOT going to bed. I’m not.” [pauses for effect]. “I hate you, and I DON’T LIKE your hair!”

Three days Son2, three days…

That’s all.

Ditching the blonde (at last)

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I adore my hairdresser. Finding someone in Dubai who can successfully turn a mousey barnet blonde, without any brassiness, bright orange or, heaven forbid, lime green, is like hitting the wheel of colour jackpot.

We’re at that stage in our relationship (over 4 years now) where I can plonk myself into the chair, eye up the pile of magazines, and ask for the usual. “Same again,” I shrug. And she sets to work, with plenty of friendly banter and a cup of tea.

The foils go in. The root colour goes on. All neatly stacked, without leaks or spills. Then off it all comes at the sink, where her quick-fingered assistant scrubs and massages your scalp till your nerve endings dance.

“Curls?” my hairdresser asks. “Or straight?” And, either way, I know the blowdry will be a sculpted work of art compared to my half-hearted efforts to tame my mane at home.

(If you contact me, I’ll even give you her number as I know well that the search for a skilled colourist in Dubai is a mission.)

Healthier-looking hair, but will I miss being blonde?

From high bleach to hamster: Healthier-looking hair, but will I miss being a blonde?

Occasionally, there’s even some drama in the salon, like the time a high-maintenance client whose curls had dropped overnight came back and threatened to call the police (that’s Dubai for you). But, mostly, it’s a predictably relaxing experience, that ends in blonde.

Until yesterday, when – after 30 years – I ditched the bleach and went darker. “I’ve been thinking about your hair,” she said and suggested some (kinder) changes. There was talk about skin tone and base colour, lowlights and ash tones. Much of which caught me off guard, until a photo was produced of a fair-headed model with the most beautiful mix of light-catching colours.

“Okay,” I hastily agreed, throwing all caution to the wind (oh, how I wanted her golden highlights).

So, how did it turn out? After three decades, my new darker look, I’ll admit, is taking some getting used to. There’s depth, and more shine, coupled with the fun of trying different coloured clothing and make-up. Son1 loved it (“I was getting bored with your hair Mummy!”). Son2 cried. DH said he liked it. As for me, after the shock wore off, it’s now growing on me.

Just a few more honey highlights next time, and I think I’ll love it.

Geographical schizophrenia

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“I’m hot. Why do we have to live here?” Son1 asks petulantly, after coming in from the heat outdoors.

He looks at me with accusatory, dark-brown eyes, his cheeks flushed red and a bead of sweat trickling down his sticky forehead.

“Well, Daddy got a job here,” I explain, for the umpteenth time. “You know Daddy AND Mummy have to work to pay for all the thing you want, right?

“Besides, it’s our home and we’re very lucky to live here.”

He goes quiet for a few seconds.

“But WHY can’t we live in England?”

At this time of year, Dubai mummies are leafing through their little black book of playdates

At this time of year, Dubai mummies are leafing through their little black books (for playdates)

I explain, again, that, if we moved to England, it wouldn’t be summer all year round. There wouldn’t be fun outings every day, ice cream on demand and late bedtimes. It would rain, a lot.

“And,” I counter, trying to define winter to a child who has no recollection of this particular season, “You’d have to go to school there – and come home in THE DARK.”

I do get it, and I feel it too. Returning to the scorched, dog days of a Dubai summer after spending time in the motherland with family isn’t easy for many expats. It’s infernally hot, most friends won’t surface until school starts, everything is covered in a veil of atom bomb dust and the air is heavy with sand.

But it’ll pass Son1, you know it will. It’s the same each year and, soon, we’ll be dancing to the tune of glorious sunny days, under blue skies, with school in full swing. (Did you hear me whoop?)

In the meantime, darling Son1, could you please STOP whining – I’ve rallied every single 6-8-year-old playmate I can find within a five-mile radius and am on the verge of booking a reality-check trip to the northern hemisphere. In January. THEN, you’ll see, there’s no perfect place to live.

A very special flight

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I can’t let our homecoming pass without saying a few words about our flight back: DH was ‘driving’, and while I’ve been his passenger a few times now, it was the first time he’s flown our fledglings in a commercial airliner.

And, yes, it was a great flight, not least because the bribe potential in telling the children that if they didn’t behave, Daddy would ‘land this plane right now’ or put them ‘outside on the wing’ was HUGE. (Sipping celebratory Champagne and nibbling on Godiva chocolates helped too, of course.)

But, if the truth be told, the boys were as good as gold. At the gate, they squished their noses against the terminal window, trying to see through the darkened glass of the cockpit. They (and about 10 other little boys also lined up) were rewarded when DH stuck a sun-tanned arm out his window to wave.

You could tell each awe-struck boy thought the wave was directed at him and when I got talking to an Australia-bound Dad on the full flight later on, we agreed not to burst his son’s bubble. Pilots should wave more, they really should. It makes people so happy.

DH in his office

Airbus A380: DH in his office

On board, we waited patiently for DH to make an announcement (it sounded nothing like him!), and, while I’d instructed Son1 not to go telling everyone, his excitement bubbled over every now and then. “My Daddy’s flying this plane,” he told a flight attendant, *beaming with pride*.

We arrived in Dubai (nice landing, DH!) and were invited to come forward to see what to me looks like the Starship Enterprise. “Just don’t touch anything,” I urged them, as we climbed the stairs to the flight deck. “If you feel like you want to press something, JUST DON’T,” I pleaded, paranoid that they’d set off the emergency slides or a million-dollar fire-hydrant system.

I needn’t have worried; they were awed into silence by the countless screens and switches, and could barely breathe they were so impressed. (Too bad my work doesn’t have the same effect; I swear they think my sole purpose in life is to fetch them things from the supermarket.)

All too soon, it was time to deplane and make our way into Dubai’s cavernous, gleaming airport, where taking the new train triggered fresh excitement. It was well past midnight when the children and I joined the taxi queue. “We don’t want a pink taxi. We want a red one,” they chanted, in unison, demonstrating to me once again that, while my boys will never be interested in any of the girlie things that make me tick, I adore their transport-mad ways.

Home sweet Dubai

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We arrived back in the sandpit on Sunday, but it’s taken me until today to resurface – because, despite there being a tiddly three hours’ time difference in summer, I always develop a flu-like case of jet lag when travelling eastwards (pathetic, I know!).

My pilot DH has to put up with me lamenting about needing to sleep, but never at the right time (at bedtime, I’m bog-eyed with a fidgety wakefulness for hours), and believe me, he shakes his head at me, absolutely dumbfounded that anyone could be so utterly *hopeless* at jet lag.

While this should only apply to mums travelling back from the US or Canada, with an 8-hour-plus time change, it's not far off.

She’s travelled back from the US. I have no excuse.

“But I think I was still on a mid-Atlantic time zone after the US,” I protest, with a yawn. “You have to fight it,” he responds, at a loss.

And so it goes on: me plodding through the day, which has a surreal, otherworldly quality when you’ve just landed in the post-apocalyptic 43° heat of the desert, and unable to sleep at night; him business as usual despite having flown to six different time zones while we were away.

Aside from the insomnia (which the kids also have. Ugh.) and the wading through hot treacle, the other thing about arriving back in Dubai after a long period away is the brain dump that takes place while travelling. Simple things, like the route to your local retail centre, making a packed lunch, or locating the cupboard in which mugs are kept, require deep thought, while grocery shopping feels like a thousand-piece 3D puzzle.

Still, even though I drifted onto the highway today in a daze rather than into the supermarket car park, and have climbed the staircase a total of eight times tonight to soothe the two riving insomniacs upstairs, it feels good to be home.

EDITED TO ADD: At 11.30pm and decamped to the children’s room with my laptop, I can now say, hand on heart, jet lag is the SCOURGE of summer travel. Sigh.

The expat mum endurance test

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The best thing about summer leave is, of course, seeing family and friends, and this year, more than any other, I’ve marvelled at how certain members of my tribe are becoming super fit. There’s my sister-in-law who went for a bike ride, and can now do 60 miles from London to Cambridge, and my cousin, who’s doing a triathlon this weekend.

But for us expat mummies, it’s not so easy over the summer, is it? Aside from being ‘on the road’ for 6 weeks or more escaping the Dubai heat, there’s the small matter of all that good food in your home country, the shelves of wine in the supermarket and the ‘holiday’ treats you deserve because you’re solo with the kids.

So, I’ve been having a little think, about some of the endurance contests that expat mums across the world are competing in this summer, so we can pat ourselves on the back too.

Ready, steady….GO:

Pole-position passport queuing: With a child desperate for a wee

Sprint to the toilets: Before the inevitable

The bath-book-bed triathlon: With wide-awake time travellers

The time zone leap: No napping

The sweat-athon (in a British heat wave): Where will you hide?

The cross-country: How many relatives / landmarks / toilets can you visit en-route?

Team-member down: When DH breaks away from the pack and streaks to the finish line a month before you

The last hurdle

The last hurdle

The stamina test: After 5 weeks of children’s activities, August shows up with a wry smile and a “So, how will you entertain ’em for ANOTHER FIVE WEEKS?”

Hitting the wall: How long until the noisy / messy / hazardous things our offspring do to fill their days get too much?

14-hour cycle: Two weeks to go and too tired to go anywhere, the 14-hour cycle of front garden, back garden, side garden kicks in

The home straight: Just THE PACKING still to do [shudders]

Crossing the finish: And time to play beat-the-body-clock again

Good luck everyone – bonus points for putting petrol in yourself.