Category Archives: Work

The (elusive) part-time job in Dubai

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I recently read on one of my favourite websites – Expat Telegraph – that serious part-time jobs in Dubai (which pay pro-rata) are rarer than a lion in a Landcruiser – that is, you do see them from time to time, but you’ll have to really look.

Before I went back to work, I attended a coffee morning for the mums in Son1’s class. As we took turns telling everyone a little bit about ourselves, including what we ‘used to be’, I learnt that among our very chatty group – who’d moved to Dubai from places such as Germany, Australia, Jordan and South Africa – there was a lawyer, a banker, a child-protection officer and a social worker.

Not one of them was working, because they’d all given up their careers to become a ‘trailing spouse’ (husband gets well-paid job overseas, wife and family pack their bags to follow). I dislike the term, imagining myself trailing after DH with a multi-tentacled, octopus-like grip. Instead, the mothers I met were setting up home in an alien environment, caring for children full-time and protecting their young like tigresses.

I nodded in agreement when everyone promised to not outdo each other when it comes to our children’s birthday parties; entered a debate about what kind of cupcakes to send in for the bake sales; discussed organising a BBQ, a Christmas party, fundraisers and playdates for younger siblings, and found myself thinking, “I don’t know how she does it!” Life in an office sounded less complicated, and not long after, my fledgling writing/editing business was born.

Hats off to mums trying this!

Hats off to mums trying this!

But, as all those who’ve been alarmed by the ‘housewife’ status stamped on our visas (along with the words Not allowed to work) know, it’s not that easy to ‘have it all’ in the Middle East.

For a start, a quick scan of job websites reveals that advertised part-time opportunities are limited (it’s all, or nothing). The unspoken rule many workplaces abide by is “If you don’t have a maid, don’t bother applying”. There are few full-time nurseries; the school day finishes early; and then there’s the elephant in the room: the Dubai summer – those long, impossibly hot months with no school, when most families leave. A good friend of mine in full-time employment tells me she always feels down when the summer rolls around and her children leave for cooler climes while she continues to work.

But moving out here doesn’t have to be professional hari-kari. I advertised myself on Dubizzle, and, by complete coincidence, got hired by the Dubai office of a company I used to work for in London. Four years later, I’m still there – mostly happily, but now wishing I could back-pedal to fewer hours, having been sucked into an almost full-time work vortex (I do, however, get the whole summer off, and know not to look a gift horse in the mouth).

There are so many new schools opening here, and if you click on ExpatWoman.com you’ll find numerous ads for jobs with palatable hours, and holidays.

Then there are the limitless chances to reinvent yourself. I’ve watched in admiration as friends of mine have done this: the nurse, who couldn’t take a hospital job as the pay was too low and became a chocolate taster; the (female) pilot who now works for a radio station and photography studio; the toxicologist who last year helped pull off a fabulous ball for the school parents; and the blogger who gave up a management career and has transformed herself twice in eight years into a Montessori teacher and then a writer and actress.

Even if the job you used to do doesn’t exist here, the UAE is the land of opportunity, especially now the economy is booming again. Career chameleon is a much better term than trailing spouse, don’t you think?

And, anyway, for many, the decision to move out here is a lifestyle one. The chance to stay at home with the children, while the husband works his socks off. With year-round sunshine, so many travel destinations within easy reach, and the fact that both parents working can make life feel like a wobbling Jenga tower, one extracted brick away from toppling over, and you might decide not to rush jumping back into a job. After all, when you look back on your expat experience, you’ll never wish you’d worked more.

Good luck, either way. Circles x

Three more days to go!

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While I often feel rather daunted by the 10-week-long school break stretching out ahead of us like an uncrossable chasm, I cannot wait to finish work in three days’ time.

It can feel like a double life. I work in a busy news environment, where, sometimes, my contrasting personas come together with a thunderous clash.

I’ll be head down at my desk, writing a headline for a piece on the insurgency in Iraq, when my phone pings and it’s my other life calling.

“Hi, sorry to bother,” texts my lovely car-pool friend, “but M’s lost his first tooth, I think at your house. Can you look out for it?”

“Sure,” I reply, and fire off a text to our nanny to keep an eye out for a tiny milk tooth, the size of a matchstick head.

“Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty more lost teeth,” I text my friend, who I realise after a couple more messages is upset she can’t put the tooth in a silver keepsakes box. “No need to go through his poo.”

Last week of school/work, and I need cocktail sticks to keep my eyes open

Last week of school/work, and I need cocktail sticks to keep my eyes open

I get back to work. There’s a story on Iran I need to read, and our deadline for getting the magazine to press is looming in three hours’ time.

Then an email pops up, entitled ‘Grade 2’s Got Talent’. It’s Son1’s teacher, giving us more detail about the talent show his class is putting on, and I’m reminded that my (shy) son has to perform some kind of all-singing, all-dancing routine in front of everyone.

But before that social hurdle, we really do have to finish this week’s issue, so I stop Googling ‘easy talent show routines’, and lose myself in a commentary on the jihadist forces from the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria – until another text comes through.

It’s DH. He’s at a climbing party, with Son2, who is struggling. Sometimes I feel so bad that I’m not ‘there’ for all these moments – and the kids are growing up so fast – that it’s as though a chute has opened up in my stomach and my heart is plunging through it.

So, as I said, I’m SO ready to finish work. It’s now just a small matter of getting another magazine to press in the next three days; ducking out for the talent show; organising sausage rolls for the end-of-term party, holding the fort while DH is away; and (keep breathing, Circles!) getting Son2 to a Chuck-e-Cheese party.

Then, finally, it’ s time for a break from the office, the traffic jams and the logistics. The 65-day vacation – let’s call it Operation LongVac (for we all know what it really entails) – is in sight!

The digital revolution

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It came to my attention today that I haven’t used a photocopier in about eight years – and in that time, the ubiquitous machines found in offices the world over have become a lot cleverer than they used to be.

I’ve made a zillion copies of our passports and visas on the scanner at home; I’ve photographed important documents with my phone; but because everything I do at work is on my trusty Mac, I’ve never had to photocopy anything. I wasn’t even sure where the office copier was.

Today, I found myself wondering past water coolers and filing cabinets looking for the large white Xerox machine I was pretty sure still existed. I came across it outside the meeting room, and lifted the lid, intending to quickly copy something for my son’s homework.

That’s when I saw the touchscreen, offering me about 30 different options with icons I didn’t understand. It seemed to want to email my page, or at least copy it onto a server thousands of miles away. But, really, all I wanted was a paper copy.

I jabbed at the green button. The machine juddered to life, and made a copying-like noise. But it spat nothing out.

I pressed the button again. More whirring, but still nothing.

I peered at the touchscreen and changed a few settings. Colour: Yes. A4 paper: Yes. Scale: 100%. 4D (just joking!). Where on earth was it emailing my son’s homework to? Could I possibly be circulating it to the entire company? How hard could this be?

Hooray, I didn't email my son's homework to the whole company!

Hooray, I didn’t email my son’s homework to the whole company!

More difficult than I’d thought, it seemed. And perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised: after all, it was announced recently that Dubai wants to become one of the most connected Smart Cities in the world by 2020. It’s even been revealed that drones (remote-controlled quadcopters) are to be used to deliver official paperwork.

After trying to locate from which end of this paperless copier / fax / scanner / drone command centre / tea maker (whatever it was) the whirring noise was coming from, I furtively looked around to see if there was anyone (kind) I could ask. I was in the sales department, though, surrounded by people who’d sell their grandmother to book an ad. Then, of course, a small queue formed behind me.

The pressure to duplicate my page in front of everyone was too much, and I admitted to the lady next in line that I was clueless.

Within seconds, she’d elicited the same noise, and directed me to a tray dovetailed neatly into the front of the machine.

Where there were about 30 copies of my son’s homework – more than enough for the whole class. I swear older, clunkier photocopiers used to churn out copies to a side tray, didn’t they? Far too smart for me, these new digital copiers.

Bouncing back from expat-no-return

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You might remember that a few months ago, I was attending job interviews. I’d reached a point of expat-no-return, in which, to be brutally honest, playdates were beginning to bore me senseless and the freelance work I’d been doing for a couple of years had hit a dry patch.

Is this it, I thought? Have I really sacrificed my former career in glossy magazines to spend my days wiping bums, noses and tears, making boiled eggs with soldiers and listening to my boys talk about their willies non-stop.

In a grass-is-greener-on-the-other-side moment, I decided I needed a full-time job. With colleagues, interesting projects and (remember this) a salary. My next lightbulb moment came during one of my interviews, while sitting in what can only be described as the office’s broom cupboard.

“The hours are 9-6, and we work six days a week. Saturday to Thursday,” the Turkish interviewer with a dark floppy fringe told me, looking at me intently as my eyes darted to the floor in search of a trapdoor.

Kids, shhh! (I need earplugs, don't I?)

Kids, shhh! (I need earplugs, don’t I?)

“And it’s all office based.” Which surprised me somewhat as to get to the broom cupboard, we’d practically had to climb over at least a dozen workers crammed into a space no bigger than my kitchen.

Armed with the knowledge that publishing sweat shops packed to the rafters and operating on a six-day week do exist, I gave up the job search.

And decided to go it alone with my own little venture (big plug here).

It was fairly quiet to begin with, but then, just like buses, three jobs came along at once. And, all of a sudden, my little dipping-of-the-toe in the shallow end of the mumpreneur pool turned into a thrashing, front-crawl Channel swim, against the tide.

But, complaining I’m not. The mix of office work, work from home and playdates is suiting me nicely, despite being totally run off my feet at the moment.

The only thing is, during my days working at home, I’ve noticed that the boys have moved on from talking about their willies. And have, instead, started photographing their bum cheeks and front bits with my iPad.

Lord, help me.

Working for the woman with no children

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I vaguely recall being in my mid-20s, working as an editor on a magazine and having no children barnacled to my ankle. There were several working mums in the company, and rather than thinking ‘how do they do it?’, I would wonder to myself, ‘why do they do it?’

It just looked so exhausting; all that juggling, constantly being on pick-up deadlines, and trying to have it all. They also seemed, dare I say it, pleased to be at work. I remember one going on holiday with small children and coming back looking more tired, ragged and hollow-eyed than before.

Fast-forward 15 years, and the tables are turned. At one company I work for, there’s a 50:50 split between parents and non-parents, and while everyone, for the most part, jollies along together, the divide occasionally widens into a gaping canyon.

Just before Christmas, a children’s afternoon was arranged, in which an onslaught of small kids arrived to wreak havoc in the office. As they drank apple juice in the boardroom, smeared sugary donuts all over the furniture and hid behind the filing cabinets, I sat back and enjoyed the whole thing, mainly because my boys weren’t there to have to supervise.

I loved watching my colleagues – steely journalists – in Dad mode (not many of the mums brought their kids in, can’t think why), but it didn’t go down well with everyone. One young fella, about as far off reproducing as I was in my mid-20s, looked visibly pained by the chaos, and eyed any toddlers who approached him as though they might be carrying explosives.

Before sidling off home early, I heard him say: “They did this last year too. One kid ate so much junk that she was SICK everywhere.” [almost shuddering as he recalled the horror!]

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I’m the one (happily, depending on the day) in the shadows now!

For me, the mix of parents and non-parents is a refreshing change, but at another place I work, it’s a different set-up: the staff are all younger and it’s here that I came across her:

The 20-something career woman with no children, bucket-loads of ambition, two Blackberries and dry-clean-only clothes.

And I found myself working for her.

At about 5.40pm, she (nicely) asked me to make some fairly extensive changes on the project I was working on.

“Ok,” I said, nodding, and because she needed them that evening and DH was already on his way to pick me up, I offered to email it later.

“What time?” she asked, a little sharply.

I made a mental calculation: get home [45mins]; see kids [1.5 hours]; bedtime routine and reading [1 hour]; do work [1.5 hours] … it would be at least 10.45pm.

“Um. About….” I couldn’t say it. “9?’

We locked eyes. I could feel tension. She wasn’t impressed.

Ouch.

“Alright, I’ll stay now and get it done,” I relented.

“Good,” she trilled, and turned on her heel to get back to her desk to start her evening shift.

One day – if she has kids, that is – she’ll get it.

Dubai’s most prestigious private club

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In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m sometimes a bit jealous of my DH’s lifestyle. All those trips to exotic locations, restaurant meals that don’t deteriorate into feeding time at the zoo, sightseeing outings and hotel rooms.

He’s even picked up for work in a private car – the airline has a fleet of ‘silver dream cars’ that spirit our husbands away from it all, at any time of day or night, and deliver them home a few days later.

You get the gist. I could point out the hard parts of his job too. But I won’t. Suffice to say, if the Travel Channel is on, I’m never too surprised to hear him say, “Oh look, I was just there the other day,” or “I walked past that yesterday.”

“Really?” I’ll reply, raising my housewifely eyebrows and trying not to turn lime green with envy.

Membership of the Capital Club, which is frequented by some of the city’s top businessmen, government officials and royalty, is strictly by invitation only

Frequented by some of the city’s top businessmen, government officials and royalty – and a mum trying desperately hard to not talk too much about the children

Anyway, the other week the tables turned! I’ve been doing some work for a new client – a PR company run by an Iraqi entrepreneur, and he asked me to accompany him to a press luncheon at the Capital Club, Dubai’s premier private business club, catering to the top echelons of enterprise, finance and government.

A whole different UNIVERSE from Chuck E. Cheese’s.

A driver took us there in a corporate car; the silver-service lunch comprised three mouth-watering courses of French cuisine; I met some really nice, experienced journalists, and got to nosey round four floors of elegant lounges, ambient dining options and wood-panelled meeting rooms.

I could have settled in quite happily at the club’s outdoor shisha terrace and tent (or even in the cigar room), but it was when we were shown the boutique hotel facility that my mind really started racing. DH was safely ensconced at home with the children, and there I was, staring at a beautifully appointed, 700-square-foot bedroom, with what looked like 1,500-thread-count Egyptian comfort sheets on the bed and butler service, 24/7.

I wonder if they’d notice if I stayed, I thought. Just overnight. After all, I’m sure my invite to become a member is on the way. Must just be lost in the post.

Send CV with pretty photo

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It’s well known that in the UAE, companies can be quite specific about the nationality of the staff they wish to hire. A recent job advert, for a receptionist, specified that “only attractive women from the Philippines, Russia or Arab countries need apply”. But job ads on Dubizzle get quirkier than that:

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Odd-sounding words galore! If you can conduct interviews with ‘the big persons’, you’re in

The interview fail

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It was my first interview in years and I was running late – not seriously late, but time had marched forwards, leaving me with about 30 minutes to get dressed, shovel on some make-up and find my portfolio at the back of the cupboard.

I may have put a little more mascara on than usual, because my pink-rimmed eyes looked like I’d been up all night (which is not surprising, because I had). I’d landed back in Dubai at 6am that morning, slept a little and was heading down to Media City for an interview on a fashion magazine.

It had to be that afternoon; it was the only time they could do. And, while a part of me yelled, ‘You’re a mum now. What do you think you’re doing? You left the high-profile stuff behind years ago,” I was excited – the thought of working once again on a beautiful glossy magazine setting my brain alight with possibilities.

As I waited nervously in the foyer, I marvelled at the rows of magazines on display, the glamorous receptionist, the fake-smile PR girl flicking her blonde hair and the overall swishness of the place.

The editor appeared, looking trim and trendy in a metallic skirt, and led me to the canteen. Decked out in white, my eyes were drawn to the green, grass-like herbs on the formica counters, the ping-pong table and the view outside.

You could even get a massage upstairs (I’m not kidding). It beat my kitchen, where I boil the kettle and battle endlessly to feed my children, hands down.

I must have ended up in the right-hand tray

She put me in the right-hand tray!

We seemed to get along; she was nice, interested (and at least didn’t take one look at my hurriedly thrown together outfit and rather dated boots and step back into the elevator).

But there were some stumbling blocks.

“We sometimes have to work at the weekend,” she told me, eyeing me squarely. “I realise you have children, but I need to know you wouldn’t let us down.”

“Umm, that should be okay,” I faltered, “although if my husband and nanny are gone, I’m really stuck,” I blurted.

“I’ll be in touch later,” she said at the end. And sure enough she was – with a writing test she wanted by the next day.

I did the test and sent it at 1.30am, ploughing through severe fatigue, but jet lag at least working in my favour (the position, covering a two-month absence, was to start on Monday, hence the urgency).

And you know what? They haven’t even been in touch. I don’t need to tell you that it’s Tuesday today, and that the deafening silence obviously means I was rejected.

But it would have been nice to have been told [she says, in a depressed little voice].

My DH tells me not to worry, that something else – more family friendly – will come along if a proper, more regular job is what I want, and can’t fully understand why I’m so upset. “I’m a mummy, not an Airbus,” I tell him. “There’s no quick-fix for a mummy who’s conflicted about her career being in tatters.”

And then my mum’s words (of reason) come into my head. “These things, they tend to work out for the best, you know,” she says.

She’s right, isn’t she?

EDITED TO ADD: I finally heard from them – still a big fat ‘no’, but feel so much better to know the reason!

Life’s a beach (if you’re new!)

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The other day at work, there was a new lad sitting next to me. He was there the day before too, but because we were so busy getting four publications to press, we hadn’t had a chance to talk.

We’d said hello over the filing trays and wished each other a nice evening, but that was it.

So the next day, when I noticed he was still there, I greeted him with a good morning (with the hot-desking that goes on, I half expected him to have vanished).

He smiled back, then asked:

“Do you live in Dubai?”

I was a little surprised. I’d just assumed he lived in Dubai too.

“Do you know where the Burj Khalifa is?” he enquired next.

“Yes, I do,” I replied – still confused, because you really can’t miss it.

I took him over to the window to show him and realised the tall, pointy tower was completely hidden in the haze.

“Well, that’s where it normally is,” I explained, peering through the dusty sky.

We went back to our desks and talked a little more. I found out he lives in Abu Dhabi and is commuting to Dubai, does something in marketing and had only arrived in the UAE on Sunday.

A few more weeks, and his desk will look more like this, unfortunately

Straight off the plane, literally.

I felt guilty I hadn’t welcomed my desk buddy earlier (although, honestly, it was like drinking from a firehose at work this week).

Plus he was cute in a boyish, amiable way!

He had an air of excitement about him. If it’s possible to be star-struck by a city, then that’s how I’d describe it. As he told me how he’d been swimming four times that week after work, and had discovered the aquamarine-sea-lapped beach, his face lit up with wonder – which does tend to happen when you’re newly arrived from a country heading into a cold, dark winter.

“Don’t you feel like you’re on holiday the whole time?” he laughed.

“No,” I smiled, thinking about the school runs; the homework. Driving to the office, on congested roads. The 14-hour days I’ve been putting in this week dropping LB at school, working and then rushing home to get the children to bed.

Because contrary to what the Daily Mail would have the rest of the world believe, living in Dubai isn’t all about champagne-swilling, wave-frolicking, sand-between-your-thighs abandon. There are tens of thousands of housewives going about the minutiae of daily life.

But, it’s ALWAYS good to be reminded, to have your memory jogged that Dubai IS a really fun, glitzy, sun-soaked place, and that, for eight months of the year at least, it’s a fantastic city to live in.

Something that stayed with me as the silver silhouette of the Burj Khalifa started to take shape as the haze cleared a little later.

Now, if someone could just pass me a cocktail please…

The job I won’t be applying for

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Amid mixed emotions, the school summer holiday is over!

I must admit, when it started, 10 weeks ago, this weekend seemed a distant, almost far-fetched prospect.

Thousands of miles later, we’ve made it through to September, with our sanity intact (laughs skittishly). We’ve been to theme parks, palaces, museums, railways, state parks, lakes, beaches – you name it. All heaving with families in the UK and surprisingly hot and sweaty in the US (who would have guessed there’d be Dubai-like weather in the mid-west of America?)

Me, soon – if I haven’t been completely forgotten, that is

There’s been a great deal of joy. A lot of laughter. Special times with loved ones and friends I don’t see enough of.

The happy stuff precious memories are made of.

But, inevitably, we’re also had our fair share of cranky kids, time-zone changes, food thrown back in our faces, sibling spats and over-tired tantrums [whispers: this mommy might actually go on strike if anyone suggests another ‘fun-filled’ outing to a family attraction].

So, while sad it’s all over, I can’t wait to get back into a routine – which also means putting out feelers to see if anyone who I freelance for actually remembers me after such a long break.

With the thought of an air-conditioned office with minimal noise and everyone’s bums firmly in their seats sounding quite appealing right now, I found myself browsing some media jobs online – and clicked on this ad that set out the following (ideal) requirements for the ‘superstar’ they hoped to employ:

● You write articles that make people laugh hysterically. Even you don’t believe how funny you are.

● People around can’t stop appreciating your creativity, wit, passion, imagination and how wonderfully you articulate your thoughts into words.

● Your pen is your magic wand, and you can take simple ideas or boring dry facts and effortlessly convert them into exciting, engaging and humorous articles with your magic powers.

● Your proactivity makes people around you seem very lazy.

● Your command over spoken and written English would give Shakespeare a complex.

● You know the effort it takes to be part of a winning team and if it wasn’t for this job you would be running for the American presidency.

That’s a tall order, for a superstar with bells on. Suddenly my life of mainly mummydom sounds so much more do-able.

And fun!