I’m doing Silent Sunday a day early because I’m never quite sure when Twelfth Night is (is it the 5th or the 6th?). Just in case it’s the 5th, and the bad luck associated with keeping your decorations up after Twelfth Night also applies to blogs, I’m posting this Gulf sunset photo now. It’s from a day out at Jumeirah Beach Residence and is a lovely reminder of the fun times we’ve had on the beach this Christmas school holiday.
So what do you think happened to the third wise man?
“Now would be a great time to turn your phone OFF,” I tapped out in a text to DH while on a spending spree at Marks&Spencer the other day.
Being on a digital rein is a royal pain, I tell you. And the text – from the bank telling him the exact amount I’ve splashed out and where – always seems to reach him, even if he’s travelled to the most far-flung corner of the world and I can’t get through myself.
It means he comes back from trips and can joke around with comments like: “Right, let’s see where you’ve been over the past few days. Ah, breakfast at Shakespeare’s. Lunch from Costa, again.
“And what’s this?” he’ll enquire, as he scrolls through the HSBC texts giving away my movements around the city’s malls and supermarkets.
Despite what this sign might suggest, we don’t have to walk behind our husbands!
In all honesty though – and contrary to what people across the globe might think – women in the UAE enjoy a great deal of freedom. The bank texts are for fraud purposes; it just so happens that as the primary card holder, our husbands tend to get the messages.
And, compared to an initiative in neighbouring Saudi Arabia – worryingly called Relax! We’ll track your wife down! – the UAE’s electronic trails are nothing. A text is sent to the male guardian of any female national who leaves Saudi to alert him of her departure (though maybe it is the woman who gets the last laugh, as the text doesn’t say where she’s gone).
But that said, even in the UAE, the most liberal of the Gulf states, there are times when a Western woman will find it a little peculiar (you could switch that word for ‘frustrating’, if you’d like to read between the lines) that she can’t do something she’s always done, like drive, without a ‘letter of no objection’ from her husband.
I’m used to it now – and, in fact, I love the way women are treated here, with female-only queues that really speed up boring, bureaucratic chores – but DH and I still joke about it.
The other night, I was mad about something. I can’t even remember what. And, occasionally, when I’m angry, I’m guilty of pulling the trailing spouse card.
“Well, just book me a flight back to England then,” I frothed at the mouth [horrible wife, I know, but it was late, the kids had been playing up, etc, etc].
For us, it’s not as simple as going to the airline’s website and pressing ‘book’. We use a staff system that I’m pretty clueless about.
And that’s when I realised. The corners of my mouth started twitching upwards. I suppressed a laugh.
Then I caught DH’s eye and he was trying to keep a straight face too. Suddenly the argument seemed silly.
“I can’t even leave the country, can I, without asking you?” I laughed, shaking my head with mock resignation.
[Rolls eyes – and vows to make this the year I get a bank card in my name only.]
It’s a bit of a running joke among pilot’s wives that our husbands are never around when you need them to be – like on Christmas Day, New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day (you could add birthdays to this list too, if you like).
But this isn’t a grumble. It honestly isn’t. It’s the lifestyle I signed up for and I don’t know any other way [slips crew scheduling our last mince pie in the hope DH will be home for Easter].
The upside of being a waif and stray (and unable to get home to family) on such occasions is the lovely friends – two of whom are dear blogging friends (SandboxMoxie and ExPIAtriatewife) – who take you in, offering not only great company but also wonderful food and even childcare.
Stop going away on special occasions DH! Look what happens (last festive photo, I promise!)
Last night, DH was in London, and the children and I were in Dubai. We celebrated at ExPIAtriatewife’s villa with a fabulous BBQ and, just before midnight, took our traditional walk to the desert right outside our security gate.
Standing in the sand, with a glass of bubbly, we could see in the distance the spectacular fireworks cascading up and down the Burj Khalifa, as well as the bursts of colour exploding into the starry, night sky over the Burj Al Arab and Global Village (AND we were home by 12.30am!).
My husband, 5,000km away, was in a hotel, surrounded by cabin crew. And I really mean surrounded. Five A380 crews stay at this hotel every night. I’ve mentioned before that each crew is made up of some 27 flight attendants, mostly females in their 20s, with bright-red lipstick, fashionable boots and slender silhouettes unblemished by childbirth.
I don’t even want to do the maths to figure out how many there were.
A single friend was coming to meet him – who must surely have thought he’d died and gone to heaven.
Shortly after midnight, DH and I were texting. “Just back from the fireworks,” I wrote, picturing him in his hotel at Heathrow, practically tripping over giggly air hostesses.
“You’ll never guess who’s here,” he texted back.
“LB’s teacher.”
Strict, fair, no-nonsense and by far the best teacher I’ve ever met in Dubai (of whom DH is a little nervous), what are the chances of that?
It’s such a small world, it really is. I trust DH implicitly, but let’s just say, I went to sleep chortling my ears off.
Love this photo, taken by my gorgeous cousin Angela – how I miss London!
Silent Sunday this week is another Christmas photo, which I thought was a suitable image as we slide into the new year …
This week, I’ve been having my favourite lunch of the year: turkey soup and a turkey sandwich made with gravy.
It’s why, despite not enjoying cooking, I insisted on having Christmas dinner at home. The reason I spent four hours in the kitchen toiling over a hot stove, preparing sweet potatoes with marshmallows, creamed onions, stuffing, roast potatoes, Christmas pudding, custard and brandy butter. (The bird was a take-out turkey, from a local Lebanese restaurant, which DH picked up rather like you’d collect a pizza.)
DH had wanted us to eat out at a Christmas brunch to save all the effort. “BB will just ask for bread and hummus,” he argued. “And LB will say he doesn’t like it.” All true, but I stood my ground, salivating at the thought of a whole week of my favourite, easy-peasy lunch.
The cat will help me finish the turkey at least
And, you know what, apart from a minor incident with some burning oil that caused the kitchen to fill with smoke and LB to run round the house shrieking excitedly, “The kitchen’s on fire, the kitchen’s on fire,” the Christmas dinner was a big success – if I may say so myself and even though I had to lie down afterwards it took me so long.
But back to the cold-turkey sandwich. It’s such a simple, no-hassle, tasty lunch. I was sure the rest of my family would agree.
They didn’t.
“Yuck,” harrumphed BB. “Not turkey a.g.a.i.n. Can I just have bread with nothing on?” Then when I practically shoved a bite in his mouth: “EUUUGHHHH! What’s that brown stuff?” he cried, eyeing the gravy suspiciously and dropping the sandwich like it was about to explode.
LB was less vocal in his complaints, and having eaten all the sweets off the gingerbread house wasn’t particularly hungry.
Until five minutes later…when he asked in a small, plaintiff voice, “Mummy, what’s for lunch?” (after serving a perfectly good meal, I literally bristle at that question).
If you’re sensing some frustration it’s because my children are going through a particularly fussy phase at the moment (I say phase, it’s lasted since BB was first weaned) and they’ve thrown a few too many meals back at me recently.
The turkey soup, needless to say, was a no-go, as the children took one look at all the veggies swimming around in it and gagged.
But I was confident DH wouldn’t think I was trying to poison him. He’d just got back from a long flight and what better way to show-off my wifely skills than by serving him some homemade soup with French bread.
“You’ve got to try my soup,” I enthused. ‘It’s delicious. I’ll bring you some.”
He took a few sips. I waited for a reaction. He ate a little more. I went back into the kitchen, still hoping he’d like it.
He sort-of-did – but only after he followed me into the kitchen, reached into the cupboard for the Hot Sauce, and poured a whole load in.
“Just needs spicing up a bit,” he said, before running for cover.
I may not be one of life’s cooks but, boy, was the brandy butter I sought solace in good.
“Santa came to my school, to music class,” announced LB proudly last night.
“No, he did not,” retorted BB, more knowledgable about such matters. “That wasn’t the real Santa. That was just a man dressed up as Santa.”
Christmas Eve: (having already had a visit from Santa on the 23rd) “Will he come twice, Mummy?”
The ‘how he gets in’ questions – our villas obviously have air-conditioning ducts rather than chimneys – had all been fielded successfully, I thought (he slides down the mobile phone mast just outside our compound and makes his way through secret, underground tunnels to each villa).
We’d also carefully got round the fact that Santa visited our house on the night of the 23rd, so we could have Christmas with DH before he left on a ‘sleigh ride’ to Tokyo.
But there was a chance BB was getting suspicious.
“Don’t you know?” he continued, causing me to nearly choke on my tea, thinking he might actually be about to tell LB the truth (maybe the secret tunnels were a bit far-fetched).
“The real Santa,” he said, summoning up every ounce of his three years’ seniority over his brother, “lives on YouTube.”
Phew – thank you www.portablenorthpole.com for keeping the magic alive.
It’s retail hara-kiri at the best of times. Let alone 48 hours before Christmas, in a city brimming with tourists and visitors.
But it was my last chance, and the present was important.
Each year, on top of a Christmas bonus, I like to treat our helper Catherine the Great to some girly presents. It’s the least I can do, given how hard she works, and I also love shopping for her. Being the sole female in our household other than the cat and me, it’s the only chance I get to buy guilt-free girl stuff, usually in pink.
This year, I’d left it a bit late, and while at the Madinat Jumeriah with the children, I realised I probably wasn’t going to get another chance to buy her gift.
Shopping sans children is better than sliced bread
The kids darted through the Arabian souk, past wind towers and lantern-lit hallways. We paused briefly at a few market stalls, my eyes scanning the rows of sparkly jewellery. My fingers roamed over the rings and I picked up a couple of silver bracelets, turning them over in my palm to see the jewels catch the light.
All in about two seconds flat …
Because the boys’ hands would reach up to grab the shiniest item within touching distance. They dropped things, sent rings rolling across the floor. They knocked pots over. They put their fingers in the jars of coloured sand and it was a small miracle the souvenir bottles of sand didn’t go flying. Then someone needed a poo.
We found ourselves in one of the boutique clothing stores and I resolved to make a split-second purchase before my stress levels got too high. But then they discovered a mannequin, dressed in a floaty white cotton top.
“She’s got boobs,” announced BB to everyone around. It got worse: he cupped them in his hands. Gave them a rub, and called his brother over. “Look, boobs!”
I shooed them away, but they spotted the male mannequins, in swimming trunks. The boys peeked down their shorts to see if there was anything there (I must admit, I did ask them later: it looked like a nose, said BB).
Then, as I raced to the till with a hurriedly chosen item, BB appeared with a bikini top clutched against his chest.
“Look Mummy, boob holders,” he said loudly, with a triumphant grin that suggested he’d just invented the wheel.
I’m never taking them shopping again, I swear.
I tend not to put personal photos on the blog, but as I’ve made some lovely bloggy friends on here, I’m breaking my rule. I also went to great lengths getting everyone to co-operate for this photo (let’s just say, it was nearly me throwing sand) and so I decided it was worth getting some extra mileage out of it. Have a wonderful festive season and thank you for reading Circles in the Sand!
After all the bad news, this is a very quick, cheery videopost, best viewed with a mince pie and glass of sherry.
I really enjoy the fact that in Dubai we’re surrounded by about 200 different nationalities – it makes for a rich blend of culture that broadens your horizons in so many ways.
Tonight, our doorbell rang, and standing outside were some carol singers from the Philippines. I invited them in straight away, and called up to the boys that they had a reprieve from bedtime (woo-hoo, they yelped, as they scampered down the stairs).
These carol singers – who our helper Catherine the Great knows from church – visit every year, and I just love how festive they make me feel. Last year, there were about eight of them and it was like having a whole choir drop round. This year, there were just three, with a guitar, but how wonderful to be serenaded like this at home!
This might not work if my blog is emailed to you, but if you’re online, it’s a 30-second snippet of Jingle Bells. Enjoy!
What I really want to write is a raging post on gun control in a country I love – but although my husband and kids are American, I’m not, and perhaps I just don’t understand.
Yesterday, after hugging my children, I yelled at the iPad, my blood boiling – incensed by some of the comments left by absolute morons (who can’t even spell) on British journalist Piers Morgan’s blog. I’ve no doubt my outburst was futile.
So, I’ll spare you the rant about what to me is intuitive – and by way of distraction from a tragic topic that’s left me shocked, horrified and saddened to the core, I’ll be very British, and talk about the weather instead.
Here in Dubai, we don’t get much adverse weather. Some people would say it goes from boiling hot to hot, but this isn’t actually true: at 9am this morning, the outside temperature reading on the car told me it was a chilly, jumper-worthy 16 degrees.
The cars were making waves just outside my work
But it wasn’t the ‘cold spell’ that was the talk of the town today: it was the rain. Lashings of it, pouring down from low-hanging granite clouds and forming small, muddy lakes on the city’s drenched roads.
Puddle-loving children always get excited due to the novelty factor (the lack of variety has led one school that actually has weather on the curriculum to lay on a field trip to Ski Dubai – the lucky kids).
And for the grown-ups – who hail from the UK at least – the dull, wet, languid weather transports us on a metaphorical journey across oceans, back to Blighty, easing a little of the homesickness that can set in as Christmas approaches.
But what starts out as a rare treat can quickly become a proverbial pain in the arse as you start worrying about flooding on water-logged highways, remember that the wipers on the SUV don’t work (they disintegrated, through lack of use), and realise you have no rain clothes. Not even a brolly.
“Look Mummy, those people have an umbrella,” squealed LB in delight, as I dragged him in the pelting rain across a soggy football field to his classroom this morning. “Why don’t we have one?”
The wettest ever Dubai school drop-off completed, I got back in the car to go to work, fully expecting the roads to be chaos and for it to take twice as long, when I realised something. The usual 10-15-minute bottleneck – leaving the community that hosts my youngest son’s school – was, to my surprise, only six or seven cars long.
Half of Dubai must be taking a rain day, I smiled to myself, imagining my fellow commuters curled up at home with hot cocoa and watching Jaws on telly. What a good and sensible idea.
The next time the heavens open over Dubai, I’m having a duvet day too