Something I really remember about our trips to Wales 25 years ago is that my mum was always trying to sneak off to boutique shops. We gave her such hassle about it. As a kid, I thought such shops were sooo boring (how wrong was I?!).

When she mentioned today that she’d rediscovered one of her favourite boutiques, I had no clue what store she was talking about. My brother and I only remember the joke shop, which, as my mum puts it, sold ‘farty’ not ‘arty’ stuff.

How the tables turn! As I snuck away for a half-hour break from our holiday today to meander up the high street, I realised that now-a-days it’s me who hot foots it to the shops as soon as an opportunity arises. Becoming a mother has made me fully understand the importance of browsing in solitude and being able to think about which handbag to buy.

What’s more, tonight we waved mum and dad off on a night out. They were going to see friends an hour away and disappeared at 5.30, with instructions from the rest of us to not be late back and to call if they were delayed. And, you know what, I have been worrying!

It’s raining cats and dogs outside and, as I mentioned, it’s about as rural as it gets here. Dad will be relying on the sat nav and Electronic Eddie could have all sorts of fun with his silly ‘short cuts’ up mountain passes.

That’s the odd thing about the countryside: when you’re used to living in a city, it’s being in the middle of nowhere that feels edgy at night. In Dubai, the sound of roads or planes overhead is just background noise, but here, if a sheep bleats in the darkness I’m startled. Baaaaa-HA-HA, Moooo-HOOO. And, at the crack of dawn, cock-a-doodle-rudy-do!

On the subject of animals, my favourite photo from the petting farm we visited today is this one of the little boy. He had great fun attempting to insert a corn flake in the rabbit’s nose.

A while ago, I blogged about expat brats and how to spot the clues, two of which were only thinking it’s a nice day if it’s tropical outside and not considering the British seaside to be a beach-worthy place.

Well, I’m happy to report that my sons don’t fall into these categories. It’s borderline in eldest son’s case for the first category – he’s turned a bluish colour a few times this holiday – but, on the whole, they love the great British seaside, as do I.

There’s just something about beaches here that makes me really happy. I’m not sure whether it’s the bleak weather, blustery wind, stony terrain, seaweed, rip-off merchant ice cream sellers or the fact you need to wear a jumper, a fleece and the beach rug to keep warm, but whatever it is, it works for me. Maybe it’s the sea, with its crashing rollers and white frothy surf. Or maybe it’s because the boys can run free, while I sit in peace.

Today, at Black Rock Sands, everything was perfect. The weather was challenging, the sand actually looked black a little deeper down, the seaweed was stringy and the ice cream man laughed at me when I tried to pay for a ’99’ cone with a pound coin. There were even tractors chugging down the beach and into the sea tugging jet skis.

I wasn’t even jealous when I finally made contact with DH (who you may have noticed has been suspiciously absent on this trip) in Florida!

When it started raining, we had to bail and go somewhere more sensible – a ruined castle on a steep hill with precarious ledges for the kids to hang off (!), but, we were on such a roll, we visited a different beach later to clamber over rock pools in search of crabs.

The lovely day was rounded off with some great pub grub (another thing I love about being home). Lamb shank for my mother – and as we ate, nursing wind burn, she remarked to the boys, “See this, I’m eating one of those Welsh sheep!” Aren’t you supposed to wait until they’re at least eight before telling them that?

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Our Welsh retreat is still lovely (really, it is, when it’s not tipping down with rain), but so very remote.

We’ve had to abandon driving our cars over the teeny-tiny bridge, following the A-team’s flat tyre on the day we arrived, and now leave our vehicles on a verge some distance away. This means getting in and out requires lugging 4 kids and at least 8 bags down a stony track and over a cattle grid, while dodging cow pats and sheep poo.

And I’m sure the sheep are laughing at us (not the horses, though, as they got fed sweets this evening so they’re our friends).

Mobile phone reception is non-existent and it’s only thanks to wi-fi that I remember civilisation exists (impressed, however, that wi-fi reaches these parts as I’m pretty sure that rubbish collectors, the postman, etc, don’t stand a chance).

Then, tonight, on discovering there was no hot water, we learnt that to control The Stanley (the central heating boiler that’s so clever it can do cooking as well, apparently), you have to:

“Open the door above the thermostat knobs and use a tool (normally found in the knife and fork tray) to turn shafts that push the baffles across and through the flame.”

They’ve got to be kidding????

Following yesterday’s saga with the very mean woman who caused such a lot of stress over getting in to the place, we are, of course, all walking round with our shoes on and jumping on the beds.

No photos today – I’m too busy going cold turkey from shops, restaurants, take-aways, Waitrose and warm weather.

It’s been a while since we’ve all been on holiday together. And by ‘we’ I mean extended family – my parents, my kids, even my brother and family.

In fact, I can’t even remember the last time my brother and I holidayed with Mum and Dad. There’s probably a reason for that.

Anyway, off we went this morning, in the car on a British road trip through the shires to the far-most corner of Wales. A five-hour drive that felt like ten.

I think the reason for this is, in more recent years, I’ve got used to road trips in the US – a wonderful, life-enriching experience, according to my American husband, who misses such trips terribly now we live in Dubai.

And I can see his point: wide-open roads, much lighter traffic and uncrowded highway services along the way mean you can travel for 14 hours or so on American roads, while a three-hour trip on Britain’s congested motorways in drizzly weather feels like a very long way.

Oldest son started asking “How many more minutes?” before we’d even left Surrey and my mum kept a watchful eye on the road from the back so she could tell my dad to slow down – not that we were about to go haring up a mountain. With a week in self-catering accommodation ahead of us, the car was packed full to the brim and straining under the weight.

The A-team, headed by my brother, set off early in order to arrive in good time for the supermarket delivery van’s arrival, arranged by my amazingly organised and capable sister-in-law, who is so much better at thinking about these things than I am.

Our progress was slower: we sat in traffic jams in the West Midlands, made our way through rain and panicked when a phone call revealed that we were about to be barred from entering the holiday home we’d booked because we’d overlooked paying a £100 security deposit (despite having paid the full amount for the week upfront – ********!!).

BIG issue this turned out to be and the A-team spent an hour standing in a windy carpark, making numerous phone calls and trying to figure out how to transfer the money (a credit card payment by phone not acceptable, apparently). We all got really angry and, to cut a long story short, it was only resolved after the cleaner’s house was located up a mountain somewhere and £100 cash fluttered through her letterbox.

Would you believe, the snooty woman we were dealing with ended our conversations with, “And whatever you do, don’t wear your shoes in the house!” Yeah, right.

While all this stress was going on, we tried to remain cheerful while listening to the kids whining in the back, the sound of “Here comes a train!” on the DVD and comedian Eddie Izzard barking directions at us from the sat nat.

The computerised route didn’t hold much sway with my dad who, after a somewhat one-sided but heated argument with the sat nat, switched it off to rely on his instincts (and distant knowledge – we used to come to Wales every year as kids, some 25 years ago).

Electronic Eddie got his own back, though, in the last few miles by sending us up a mountain path, into the clouds, for what felt like ages – with the car, having got some barbed wire caught underneath, making really strange noises and the comforting thought that we didn’t have AA coverage and, even if we did, they’d never find us.

The road got really narrow.

We had to go over a bridge only about 2 inches wider than the car (which gave the A-team a flat tyre at the last hurdle).

And open five gates.

But finally we made it. “Thank God you’re there, I can shut up now,” trilled Eddie.

Thank God indeed. It’s very remote. Rather chilly. And it’s raining. But there are sheep in the garden and it’s really rather lovely.

Such extraordinary goings on in the green and normally pleasant land. Hoodies on extreme shopping expeditions. Kids turning into thugs and taking to the streets to wreck stuff and start fires. Fed-up residents forming anti-looter patrols.

Roads that my English friends walk down every day are strewn with broken glass and debris, with boarded-up shops on either side. Masked yobs even ransacked a Michelin-starred restaurant in Notting Hill and ripped wedding rings from terrified diners – the attack only ending when the cooks stormed from the kitchen with knives and rolling pins.

My best friend in Colliers Wood spent an intimidating night afraid to leave her flat as she listened to the sound of youths on the rampage. They’d raided the JD Sports around the corner and were selling trainers on the streets. Our much anticipated reunion in town had to be cancelled thanks to rumours it was all going to kick off again that night. Sigh.

Their motives are mindless: “We’re protesting because we’re angry with the government. The conservatives, inn’it?” And, my favourite thoughtless message, sent on a BlackBerry: “We are not broke but who doesn’t want free stuff.”

Having been pretty close to the Arab uprisings this Spring, it’s hard to believe that here we are in England seeing pictures of blackened buildings and teenagers forming queues to pillage clothes shops. DH found himself at Clapham Junction twice while he was here, the first time surrounded by overexcited rugby fans and the second time just as the hoodies were congregating. Wisely, he’s fled to America to “take care of a few things”!

We’re still here, hanging out in leafy and so far riot-free Surrey. And, on the home front, my very own youths are causing chaos in their own sweet way. Bringing two small boys home to my parents’ house is, I’ve realised, a little like setting a tornado off inside and watching it whirl round every room whipping up everything in its path.

With treasures and family china at every turn, our visits involve staying alert to the vortex’s ever-changing position while diving for flying ornaments. Youngest son even toppled the water feature outside the other day. Oldest son is, thankfully, not as destructive as he was when he was two and seems to have forgotten the game he invented last time: rolling the living room pouffe around the house pretending it was a boulder.

Novel uses for various household items are still dreamt up, however, and so when it’s not raining we go outside into mum’s beautiful garden, which I wanted to picture here. It’s such great green-grass therapy and makes the desert look like another planet.

We also go to the park next door where the boys can run free, feed the ducks (quite greedy they are), and play on the swings and slides. There are a few clues that, despite this being the town I grew up in, we don’t quite belong here – like not knowing a soul at the mother-and-child hang outs. And the other day BB revealed his expat colours by asking if the grandchildren next door had arrived on the same plane as us.

At the park, I marvel at seeing mums running after their own children rather than maids and nannies, as is so often the case in Dubai. And don’t let anyone tell you that England doesn’t get hot – it does, every time I come back. It’s like I bring a mini heatwave with me. This time, the temperature leapt 10 degrees as we landed, reaching the giddy heights of 27˚C. It’s all relative, of course; in Dubai, we’d call it a nice day and plan an outdoor activity, but in England, with no air conditioning, you feel it and people who aren’t used to dressing for hot weather have no choice but to rummage around for their summer wardrobe (think wobbly boob tubes, bum cheeks peeking out of hot pants). You gotta love the way Brits get their kit off as soon as the sun comes out, revealing body parts you only see on the beach in Dubai.

But the beauty of the UK is it doesn’t last: after a few days, the most glorious rain set in, the boys donned their wellies and off we went to find some good puddles. The novelty will last all month, I reckon.

Next stop, North Wales.

It’s always about this time that the jitters set in. With just two days, five hours to go until our annual summer pilgrimage to the motherland – the packing yet to be tackled, my to-do list still to do, and another day at work to go – I’ve started to dread the flight. The one DH says he’d love to be on with us, but won’t be.

We’re lucky, actually, that he can even take us to the airport – the day I wanted to fly, he’s gone and so now we’re taking a flight at 2.30am just so we can avoid the whole getting to the airport by ourselves bit.

This means on Friday night, we’ll be dragging two small boys out of bed after just two hours’ sleep (if they go to bed at all, that is), bundling them into a car, and onto a plane – all the while hoping that they behave, or at least don’t tantrum too badly, and settle down on take-off for a nice long snooze. Oh, how this could backfire.

When we all fly together, the boys do pretty well, and DH wonders what it is I find so hard. But, somehow, when it’s just me and the kids, all manner of things go wrong. Here’s some examples. I think you’ll see why I get so nervous.

AIR RAGE: Flying from America to London a while ago, BB, aged two at the time, threw the most terrible tantrum because he wanted the stroller to come up the aisle with us. For some reason, having to gate check it sent him wild. He then tantrumed about putting his seat belt on and I actually feared they’d halt the take-off. The 45-minute wait on the ground at Gatwick while the plane waited for a gate unleashed one last round of toddler fury that led to a stampede-like clamour to get off the plane.

MISSING PASSENGER: More recently, I managed to lose him on a flight. They even put an announcement out, asking if anyone was missing a small boy. While getting on, I’d been so distracted with his little brother and getting our bags stowed that I failed to notice he’d legged it up the other end of the plane.

LITTLE TERRORIST: Waiting at the gate for a flight to London last year, BB came out with: “We’re going to go up, up, up and then we’re going to C.R.A.S.H,” announced loudly, repeatedly and with suitable sound effects. No amount of shushing would stop him and nearby passengers started looking really scared.

BORED BOYS: On every flight I’ve been on with my two, they race through my carefully packed bag of tricks in no time at all. Games, toys and books I’ve spent months collecting are dispensed with in minutes – and their excitement at being on an airplane lasts about the same length of time.

So they start seeking fun in mischievous ways: Tray up/Tray down. Light on/Light off. Window shutter open/ shutter closed. Call the flight attendant. Call the flight attendant again. When all the un-dinging I have to do gets too much, we go for a walk, go to the toilet, check the flight map to see exactly how many hours and minutes are left, check it again half a minute later.

VANDALISM ON BOARD: The new airbus superjumbo, I’ve discovered, makes flying with young children a little easier, as there’s more space to move around (the plane even has a flight of stairs you could use as naughty step, though the first-class passengers might not appreciate the noise).

My boys still managed to get into trouble on an A380 flight back to Dubai last year, however. I’d made a break for the loo and while gone, the boys covered the TV screen with stickers. Bad idea – an annoyed flight attendant told me the heat from the screen can turn the adhesive on the stickers into industrial-strength superglue. Imagining the entire aircraft being decommissioned while engineers scraped Lightening McQueen and his friends off 35F’s TV, I peeled away until there wasn’t a single trace of sticker left. A happy coincidence was it used up a good 20 minutes of flight time.

WEIRD THINGS: I swear this happened, though DH says it’s impossible. On a trip to the bathroom with BB, I pushed the flush button and the ‘whoooosh’ was so powerful, it even sucked up a tissue on the floor. BB thought he was going in too. OK, so there’s a chance I was just hallucinating, it was a long flight, but whatever happened, BB is now terrified of the flusher.

On this flight, I’ll be armed with the new I-pad, loaded with games, and I’m hoping that flying with a two-and-three-quarters year old will be easier than flying with a one-and-three-quarters year old. The boys have packed their bags already – full of useful things I’m sure, like the empty toilet rolls and glitter sticks for drawing over the seat that I discovered they’d packed for our last trip.

I just have to get organised, get packed, and get to Tips and Toes to have my gellish nails removed (not sure if gellish has reached the UK yet?) Oh, and find our passports.

Bye, bye Dubai … the green and pleasant land, here we come!

We are now the owners of a new car with the required acceleration for Dubai: 0-100k in three seconds flat. I have to say I love it. Having spent the past three years sharing the 4×4 (a.k.a. gas guzzler) with DH – and all the complicated arrangements this entailed, ie, taking taxis to pick up the car when parked elsewhere, squabbling over whose errands were the most important – being a two-car family is wonderful.

Newcomers to Dubai often find the roads here chaotic. I’ve since learnt that they’re not as bad as many other countries in the Gulf and Asia, but nevertheless, compared to back home, Dubai drivers do some REALLY STUPID things that scare the hell out of me!

Last year, a wannabe stuntman in a 4×4 was caught driving on two wheels down the emirate’s busiest road, while his pal in a pick-up truck performed handbrake turns (click here to watch – wheelie bit starts half way through, it’s truly shocking). On the road from Abu Dhabi earlier this year, there was a 127-car pile-up due to drivers going too fast in foggy conditions.

Thankfully, these are extreme examples. But we do encounter motoring menaces on a daily basis here. Crazy manoeuvres we see include reversing down a slip road because a driver took the wrong exit, weaving in and out of lanes and extreme tailgating, where motorists, usually with tinted windows, drive right up behind you in the fast lane and flash their lights until you’re intimidated enough to move over.

And you have to be really careful not to let road rage get the better of you: Rude hand gestures can land you in court or even jail.

I’ve made good progress: when I was a newbie to Dubai, with my newly acquired UAE licence in my purse (no test required, but I did need a letter from DH giving me permission to drive!), I honestly thought I’d never be able to go anywhere. It took me four months to leave Mirdiff (the area our first villa was in).

If someone had offered me a secondhand tank to drive around in, I’d have snapped it up no questions asked. Now, I can get to work, get BB to school, and drive to most of the places I frequent, as long as I’m on one of my ‘established routes’. *

While I may never be the most confident driver, I am conscientious. I rarely talk on my mobile while driving (way too much multi-tasking and the noise from the kids in the back makes it futile anyway). I’ll indicate even if no one is behind me, unlike some people here who seem to think flashing indicators are only for Christmas. And I never, ever go in the fast lane on the six-lane highways.

All this led me to hunt around on the web for some driving anecdotes and I stumbled upon some great photos at Seabee’s blog Dubaithoughts.blogspot. She kindly agreed to let me repost them here. If you regularly drive around Dubai, you’ll love these UAE ‘road rules’. And if you’re planning to visit Dubai and drive on our roads, I hope you find these useful.

Rule 1. Like in the States, we drive on the right here.

However, in Dubai, if there’s a line of traffic waiting and you believe you are more important than the other drivers – that your time is more valuable than theirs – please feel free to drive on the left.

Rule 2. We have roundabouts on various roads and drive round them to the right.

This does not, of course, apply to self-important drivers, who may feel free to drive to the left through roundabouts.

Rule 3. Like other countries, we have hard shoulders for emergencies, breakdowns and so on.

Their intended use may be ignored if you are a driver of the self-important variety, in which case you may feel free to use the hard shoulder to get to the front of the queue.

Now to road signs.

Rule 4. In Dubai we use the standard international road signs with which you may be familiar.

For example, a large arrow pointing right means you MUST go right. A red circle with a white horizontal stripe means NO ENTRY.

However, in Dubai these may be ignored if you feel they inconvenience you in any way or you simply don’t notice.

Rule 5. A left pointing arrow with a red diagonal line through it means you MUST NOT turn left. Often this is used together with the ‘must turn right’ sign.

In Dubai you may ignore these if you find them in any way inconvenient.

A word of warning, though: if you do ignore these signs, you are likely to meet oncoming traffic head on.

On no account should you reverse, turn round and drive the correct way along the one-way road. The correct course of action in Dubai is to pull to the wrong side of the road and insist that the cars driving in the correct direction squeeze past you.

Oh, and parking.

Rule 6. There are clearly marked designated parking spaces, No Parking signs and so on.

However, in Dubai you may feel free to take up two parking spaces, or park at any angle in any place convenient for you.

Rule 7. And finally, the minimum age for driving in the UAE is 18.

But in Dubai, if your four-year-old would like to sit in the front on your lap, feel free to let him come forward. There’s only so much jumping around the backseat an unrestrained child can do.

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* I could also tell you about the trials and tribulations we go through navigating around Dubai! With all the construction work going on, roads change overnight and, sometimes, while you’re actually on them … but that’s a whole new blog.
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This blog is dedicated to my crazy friends who came here on holiday, hired a car and drove themselves all over the place, without incident or accident and just the one meltdown when they thought they’d never ever find their way back to our place. You know who you are, you brave ladies!

Little boy, oh little boy!

Why won’t you sleep through the night?

There was a time eons ago when I went to sleep and stayed asleep, without being disturbed, punched, kicked, jabbed in the ribs, poked in the eye. I even kept the duvet on until morning time. That was before children, of course.

I know you’re only two and three-quarters, but having been through all of this with your older brother, it’s been nearly six years since I’ve slept properly – and I’ve accumulated quite a sleep debt (far bigger than what I owe on shoes and handbags).

I know I’ve made mistakes: Spent hours lying next to you to help you sleep, when you should have been ‘crying it out’. Let you sleep in the big bed, when I should have marched you back to your room.

Quite frankly, it’s like sleeping with an octopus when you jump into our bed. You jab me with your feet, elbows, hands and knees as you spin round the bed! By morning, I’m left with a strip of bed some 4 inches wide. For such a little person, you take up such a disproportionate amount of bed. And your sleep requirements mean you need me to face you, with my arm over you at a certain angle. It’s a little like doing yoga, without the relaxing effect.

Can’t sleep, won’t sleep
If it was as simple as taking you back to bed, giving you a quick pat and returning us both to the land of nod as quickly as possible, I’d never have let these bad habits develop. But it’s not that easy. It can take up to an hour to get you back to sleep, and in the dead of night, it’s all too easy to take the path of least resistance and let you clamber in.

The night before last, I took you back to bed twice before 2am, but caved around 4.30am, when you appeared for a third time. Just as we both fell back to sleep, there was an unmistakable sound:

“Mummmm-meeeeeeee!”

The other one. The Big Boy’s distress call able to penetrate the deepest, most hard-to-reach stage of sleep (but not if you’re a man*).

“I had a bad dream!” And with that – and the first signs of dawn giving the room an eerie glow – I acquired another bed fellow.

The morning after
Somehow we muddle through the next day. I haven’t yet done things that other mums report, like loading the dishwasher with dirty clothes (ok, Catherine the Great takes care of that anyway – and no, I’m determined not to become like a local, despite the temptation!**). It’s more of a long-term fatigue problem.

Little boy, if you let me sleep, I’d be a nicer person, honestly. Be more patient when you tantrum. Play with you more. Pay your dad more attention. Do you not realise that sleep deprivation is an essential part of the torturer’s toolkit – favoured by the Japanese in WWII and used by the KGB as an interrogation tactic? Discovered by a woman – a mother to be exact – I reckon.

During your two-and-a-half hour bender last night – your eyes wide open, your body fidgeting with restlessness – I nearly resorted to calling your dad in China. Under the pretext of support – or was it ….. sleep envy? Jealousy that DH was slumbering away peacefully and without disruption in a hotel room far away.

For sleep envy really can turn a relatively nice person into a monster.

I know. Because I am that monster when I’m sleep deprived!

* How do men sleep so well? I heard about one husband on a trip who woke up on the hotel floor. Turned out there had been an earthquake, which had caused him to roll out of bed. He’d slept through the whole thing.

** A cultural nuance in the Middle East is that it’s common for nannies to get up in the night with kids – and even sleep in the kids’ room sometimes.

UPDATE: Guess who is up with me at 1am and the reason I’m on the computer so late? The little pickle. Here we go again …