The eviction email

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After months of rumours that wouldn’t go away, my husband’s company hit several hundred staff members with an eviction notice on Thursday. It’s always a Thursday, the last day of the week here. And it’s always a shock when it comes.

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Clouds: I’ll miss this room!

I cried! Yes, hands up, I’m happy to admit it – I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. Angry tears streamed down my face. I love our house. Over the past seven years, the frustrated interior designer in me has painted each room in a rainbow of bright colours. The family room ceiling is a skyscape, with white fluffy clouds and airplanes, and on the garden wall I painted a fairytale castle. It amused the kids for all of five minutes, but I think we’ve all blossomed from the love that’s been put into this house and garden.

I knew where we were headed (for those in the know, Meydan South, and for readers wondering, a massive, identikit housing development in the desert, where the company wants to accommodate all crew). I closed my eyes for a moment and saw several images: the huge highways I’d have to drive on, for miles each day, to get my kids to their respective, now further-away schools. Twelve tarmacked lanes of traffic and stress, with idiot drivers who care not a bit about a mum on a school run with small children dragged out of bed far too early, her knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel and teeth clenched.

I also imagined endless construction, the hammering of machines and the high-pitched whine of drills as the developers work on road access to the community and build the compound’s facilities (community centre, shop, pool, etc). Amenities like these won’t be ready until this time 2017. Yes, they open these places in Dubai before these things are built. I thought about all this, and held my head in my hands. How could they do this to us?

Coronation Street

Three days on from the eviction email and I’m in a much more positive frame of mind. It’s a free house, with bills paid, and inside it’s lovely. While a sandpit now, residents will, in time, get a small garden growing which will green up (heartbreaking, though, that our current spacious gardens will be ripped up).

No-one is being forced – families can take the money and find their own accommodation if they wish, either to buy or rent. Meydan South will eventually have great facilities, and as for the driving, well there’s the option to change schools. There are safe pathways for the kids to explore, on foot or bike; there will literally be hundreds of children living in the community, who can all call on each other and go off to play, like in 1950s England. Or, dare I say it, Butlins holiday camp.

See you at Meydan South!

Postscript: Perhaps the best news for Mums is that a friend has found a great pub/watering hole just ten minutes away, with good food and prices (Qube Bar at Meydan – which might just make the move totally worthwhile!)

Internet Scam Warning: Son2’s £280 iTunes bill

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Parents Beware: My app-ortunistic son managed to innocently purchase adds-on to his FREE game without a password – arrrrghhh!

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Hungry Shark Evolution: There was no indication in the game that he was being charged for any of the clicks

It’s a Dubai problem, I know, but due to our compound pool springing a leak (think: standing in the middle literally paddling) the facility closed just after the Easter school holiday started, and is due to reopen the day after the kids go back.

Timing, eh!

To be honest, my boys weren’t too concerned: they just got busy doing the thing they do best – leaving their smeary fingerprints all over their iPads. Which was all very well until I got an email from my mum saying she’d been contacted by Barclaycard Fraud Squad.

I should explain: my boys and my mother share an iTunes account; it’s her credit card that gets billed. I’m the gatekeeper and my mum is in the lucky position of receiving, overnight, any apps we download. Son2 is convinced that his grandmother must LOVE playing with his Lego Batman app over her cornflakes.

In her email, my mum asked: “Have the boys sussed the password?” The fraud squad were querying two items from iTunes: one to Hungry Shark (Son2’s favourite game this week) for £79.99 and another for £39.99.

A cacophony of alarm bells clashed horribly in my head.

I questioned Son2 immediately. What’s the password, I asked? A tiny, thin line appeared between his eyebrows.

“Is it L – A …” His voice trailed off, and I could tell that was all he knew.

“We know your phone password, Mum,” interrupted Son1, “because you say it when you type it in.”

“OK, something’s not right here,” I said, blowing the air from my cheeks and making a mental note to myself: Change phone password and don’t absentmindedly tell them this time.

Within minutes, the extent of the strange Hungry Shark charges had got worse: there were TWO payments of £79.99 that day, and one of £39.99, plus another £79.99 on 29 March, and I was still questioning Son2 as to how the hell this had happened.

I watched as his face quickly ran through a gamut of emotions, the initial denial giving way first to guilt – Am I in deep trouble? – and then to indignance. His eyes darted round the room as Son1 helpfully mentioned that his brother had indeed acquired every single shark in the sea: magalodon; hammerhead; mako.

“But how?” I asked.

Son2 shrugged. “I clicked on 20 gems, and it gave me 2,000,” he said quietly, and then burst into loud, upset tears.

And, you know what, as I hadn’t put the password in for him, and I’d confirmed he didn’t know it, the damn game must have racked up that bill all by itself, whether due to a scam or a bug. £279.96! Wtf?

The good news is iTunes refunded the lot (three cheers to Apple!) and Son2 is now the envy of all his wide-eyed friends for having got to the highest level of the game, with the highest number of sharks.

But you can imagine my horror, when the next morning Son1, ever the tittle-tattle, told me: “Guess what Mum!” He grinned widely. “… All his sharks have had babies!”

TIP: Go to Settings, iTunes & App Store, Password Settings and Always Require should be ticked. (Do it now! Son2’s iPad was already set up like this, so we’ve still no idea what happened…sigh!)

Yin and Yang: Expat paperwork and the Italian Alps

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Renewing your driver’s licence. How hard can it be? Well, when you live overseas and your US licence needs to be processed over the other side of the world, things can get complicated, as any expat will know.

My DH was adamant he wasn’t going to let his US licence expire. “It’s a right pain if it runs out,” he told me. With some vacation coming up, he started making travel plans and my mind began to boggle at the distances involved. As I write this, he’s lying on the sofa, head tilted back, eyes shut, mouth slightly parted, recovering from his ‘holiday’.

In numbers:

Nautical miles flown: 14,400
Airplanes flown in: 5
Hotels stayed in: 3
Rentacars hired: 2
Time taken to renew licence: 3 minutes

In days:

Day 1: Fly to New York from Dubai, 14 hours. Attempt to catch connecting flight to Minneapolis. Miss first flight due to plane being full. Wait another two hours at JFK. Catch next flight, 2hrs 45 mins to Minneapolis. Rent car, find hotel.

Day 2: Wake up. Go to Department of Motor Vehicles. Renew driver’s licence in, did I mention? Under three minutes.

Day 3: Get connecting flight back to JFK, while navigating heavy security checks due to the tragic Brussels bombing. Arrive in New York and spend 12 hours wasting time before nine-hour flight to Milan.

Definition of a family ski holidayDay 4: See family, and take them on promised ski trip. Rent a Skoda. Drive family to small Alpine Italian town we’ve only seen online. Supervise two days of skiing, including following crazy Evil Kneivel son down black slopes. Fall down in a flurry of powdery snow and scything skis, thankfully not breaking anything (just!)

Day 7: Last five-hour flight from Milan to Dubai. At immigration, visit small, windowless room, with a high desk and a faint smell of body odour crushed into the plastic chairs and lino, due to a problem with son’s US passport. Agree to the cancellation of his resident’s visa – sending the paperwork merry-go-round spiraling into further ever-decreasing circles as our attention switches from driver’s licences to visas and passports (could expat paperwork be any more infuriating?)

Am glad to report that DH can now spend the rest of his vacation relaxing, and it was all SO worth it, just to see spectacular views like this:

Skiing in the Italian Alps

Skiing in the Italian Alps2

Emirates first-class: My shower phobia (at 40,000ft)

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“Have you flown in this cabin before?” The flight attendant smiled and handed me a glass of bubbly.

“No, I haven’t,” I said. “First time.”

“Well, let me give you a tour,” she replied, flashing another megawatt smile. I suddenly wished I had more make-up on, and imagined her applying her curvy, crimson pout, mushing her lips together to press the lipstick in, and blotting the excess with a tissue. The result – a sharply angled Cupid’s bow and bold pop of Emirates red that matched her shoes and the details on her creaseless uniform.

She leaned towards me and began her tour of the armchair of a seat, pointing out the panel of buttons, vanity table, sliding privacy door and personal mini-bar.

I nodded enthusiastically at everything, gripping the thin stem of the champagne glass a little too tightly in case it was all a dream. The details, the fresh flowers, leather chair that reclined to a bed and acres of walnut trim, almost felt unreal.

“And would you like to take a shower before landing?” she asked. “You know we have a spa on board.”

Ever wondered how celebs get off planes looking as fresh as a daisy? Here's how …

Ever wondered how celebs get off planes looking as fresh as a daisy? Here’s how …

I’d taken a peek inside after climbing the stairs to the A380’s top deck with my roller-luggage banging against my leg. My eyes had widened as I took in the enormous teak-and-marble shower suite, bigger than your average bathroom with two dedicated attendants, shiny taps and no shortage of rolled, fluffy, white towels and bottles of sweet-smelling lotions. The scent of Bvlgari perfume hung in the air. I knew I wouldn’t be taking a shower, though – however inviting the clever back-lighting and full-size window on the world were.

“That’s okay,” I said, a hint of regret in my voice.

She raised a thin, finely arched eyebrow.

I decided not to explain, thinking my fear of hitting turbulence – or, worse, an emergency – while wet and naked in the shower might sound silly.

“Well, just let me know if you need anything. It’s dine on-demand,” she said, passing over a menu and bestowing on me a final red-lippy beam that didn’t quite stretch to her eyes but lit up her young, dewy-skinned face in a flourish.

Left to my own devices, I wanted to giggle uncontrollably that I was sitting in first-class, after ten years of hollow-eyed travelling with young children in economy. I drained my champagne, feeling the bubbles hitting my bloodstream in an effervescent rush, took my shoes off, and got comfy, which wasn’t difficult in the expansive seat. After take-off, I was offered pyjamas to change into. Pyjamas! Flying really didn’t get any better than this.

I decided to try to see who else was in the cabin. My husband has told me of all kinds of celebs who have been on his plane in first – some of whose names/films/music he even remembers (he doesn’t get to meet them). I peered out of my cabin, but it was impossible to see who my companions were – Emirates first-class is all about privacy, peace and quiet. You’d be forgiven for thinking you were on a private jet. Determined not to waste a moment of this precious seven-hour flight by sleeping, I slid my door shut and watched movies on the huge, flat-screen TV.

Knowing exactly how lucky I was to experience first (and feeling rather out of place!), I was a model passenger. I didn’t bother the flight attendants once. If truth be told, I hadn’t quite ‘got’ the dine-on demand thing. I was expecting meals to be brought round on a trolley and didn’t think to ask for food. The staff leave you alone; responding to passengers’ whims via call buttons; privacy, as I mentioned, being king.

With about 35 minutes to go, I opened my door, and a flight attendant asked with surprise, “Did you want anything?”

“No, thank you,” I lied.

“You sure? Tea, coffee, a croissant?” (I’d missed the caviar!)

My stomach betrayed me with a growl so loud I thought she might have heard over the sound of the engines. A passenger – the only one I’d seen all flight – got up to change out of his pyjamas, and my hunger got the better of me.

“Oh, okay! A croissant please.”

(“That’s all you had?” my husband asked, incredulously, afterwards!)

Of course, we started descending all too soon, and, of course, I wanted to do that Jennifer Aniston thing and ask the pilot (DH) to ‘fly this thing around for a bit longer’.

Armageddon on Al Qudra

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It’s been an unusual day, to say the least.

Children in the UAE might have squealed with delight as they paddled up and down the street in inflatables and sailed boats to the supermarket (no joke) …

kids having fun in rain

Lucky kids: School’s out again tomorrow

But me – well I lost my mojo somewhere on Al Qudra street – about an hour into the apocalyptic traffic jam attempting to inch its way through biblical floods last seen by Noah.

It all started at 4am, with an enormous crash of thunder. Lightning sliced the sky. But even then, the morning school run was fine – just a disappointed son to contend with following the cancellation of his school trip. Actually, he was more worried about the fact his lunch was in a plastic Spinneys bag (as requested by the teacher). “Mummy, go home and get my lunch box!” he pleaded while I tried to stop him lobbing his sandwiches away.

The sky quickly turned a scrubbed pigeon grey then a really ominous granite colour, sort of slated and solemn. Daylight made only a feeble attempt to break through the billowing cloud cover. The rain, when it came, drummed wildly on our roof. It lashed the windows, cascaded off our garage in a waterfall, and collected in huge ‘ponds’ that within an hour or so all joined up to form floods the size of lakes.

The schools closed, I can’t even begin to imagine what happened at the airports. Buildings flooded, structural damage occurred and the traffic snarled up until it grid-locked so badly I took a big chance and swerved onto sand in the hope of ploughing my way through a building site to escape the Armageddon on Al Qudra (I made it!).

This Dubai driver didn't make it

This Dubai driver didn’t make it


The children, meanwhile, went out in their swimming gear. A neighbour took his canoe for a paddle round the compound. Ironically, the water cut off in our villa – I did see the funny side of this, given that outside it was knee-deep, with waves rippling up the path every time a car swished by, wheels hissing. The lights started flickering … “Picked a great week for our winter-sun holiday, didn’t we?” said my Mum as she Facebooked photos of the rain for the amusement of British friends and family.

Her last photo, of tankers vacuuming up the rainwater through giant straws, was captioned: “Now we’ve seen it all!”

Dubai really doesn’t do rain.

Keep safe tomorrow everyone.

What’s the first line of your novel?

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It’s a big week for books in the UAE – the Emirates Airline Festival of Literature has started, with more than 140 authors in attendance. I’ve booked all kinds of workshops and talks to learn more tricks of the trade and can’t wait to get stuck in.

Whether he likes it or not, Son1 is coming with me this year – I’ve found him a session entitled Unofficial Minecraft and the Quest for Justice. Seems right up his street.

See you at the LitFest!

See you at the LitFest!

My excitement about the LitFest peaked a few days ago, on the school run, when my fave DJ Catboy ran a segment on Dubai92 Breakfast inviting writers to send in the first line of their novel. I couldn’t resist, and fired off three texts as soon as I got home.

Well, my words got on the radio! They even called me a ‘serial writer’. It was such a feel-good moment, especially when, as wordsmiths, we spend endless hours hunched over our keyboards, tapping away, in isolation.

Here are the lines. They’re from a book of short stories I’m writing about Dubai, a sort of best-of-the-blog mixed with some humourous fiction that (inshallah) I hope to bring you soon! Watch this space – and if you’re a budding novelist, please tell me your first line in the comments section, or on this blog’s Facebook page. I’d LOVE to hear from you, even if your book isn’t finished.

Snatched
I’d just dropped my kids at school when I bumped into her; standing half-hidden behind a palm tree, sobbing into her hankie, big fat tears and Bobbi Brown mascara streaming down her crumpled face.

The Robot Help
“Over my dead body,” Marcie cried, fixing her eyes on her husband’s face to see if he was serious about replacing their housemaid with a robot cleaner; behind him the shadows thrown from the palm tree outside cast long, spindly fingers on the newly painted walls.

The Pearl Divers
Amir peered into the seawater – a shadow caught his eye, a murky flickering with indistinct edges at least fifteen feet down, but it was gone before the smudge became a man.

Your turn!

Black Pajeros come in threes

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When you’ve been in Dubai for a while, there comes a time when you realise your ageing car doesn’t cut it anymore. This moment came for us (well, DH at least) when our 4by4 started leaking brake fluid on Sheikh Zayed Road.

This came after our housemaid slammed her foot onto the accelerator rather than the brake, and crashed it into a tree – but more about that later.

I should add, as an aside, that if you do break down here, someone nearly always helps. It’s the Arabic culture to do so, perhaps because it’s a country where, as soon as you leave the major urban centres, you enter a middle-of-nowhere landscape where in summer it seems incredible that anything could survive. Staring through the car window at endless sand, littered with dunes, scrubby shrubs and giant electricity pylons whose wires stretch for as far as the eye can see in each direction, you might wonder how humans have thrived in the desert for the last 2,000 years or so.

Another day, another school runNow, our ailing car probably wouldn’t be considered especially old in most other countries, but in the UAE we drive hundreds of kilometres a week (and that’s just carting the kids to school and their various activities). Add to that the sand, heat and – in some cases – aggressive driving, and it’s easy to see why wear and tear is so rapid here.

Motorists in the Emirates keep a car for, on average, about 5.2 years, less than half the 11.5-year average for vehicles in the US, but much longer than drivers in Saudi Arabia who keep their cars for 3.8 years before selling them, according to The National.

Anyway, seduced by the easy financing options on offer in the UAE, we’re now the proud owners of a brand-new Pajero – as black as a moonless night (the only colour left) with dark tinted windows to screen out the sunlight. It was an exciting moment when it rolled up outside, all shiny and clean with plastic covers on the seats and that new-car smell.

DH had to leave on a trip straight away, so I was the first to take it for a spin – well, to transport the kids to baseball anyway. And I realised there’s nothing quite like gingerly driving a new car to make you feel like you’re negotiating Dubai traffic for the first time. White Van Man, Mr No Rules, The Flasher, Mr Road Hog and The Slow Poke were all out to get me (press here for more detailed descriptions of the characters on Dubai’s roads), and it was with some relief that I arrived at our destination without incident.

Only to find that the car we were so thrilled with is, quite literally, everywhere.

Black Pajeros are like buses

Fascinating glimpse of a Dubai school in the 1970s

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Jess under construction
Son2’s school is turning 40, which in Dubai time is quite ancient! Anyone who lives here will know this age is impressive and deserves to be marked, especially as four decades ago the school was just a small huddle of buildings in the middle of the desert, with staff and pupils trekking across the sand to the nearest shop during break-time.

Intrigued by all things ‘old’ in the UAE, I helped out at the most wonderful exhibition commemorating JESS’s big birthday this morning, and learnt so much I’ve been inspired to put together a blog post on what school life was like in the desert all those years ago.

Doesn't it look a little bit like they're playing on the moon?

Doesn’t it look a little bit like they’re playing on the moon?

The facility was planned when Dubai English Speaking School, the first British curriculum school in the emirate, could no longer cope with the rapid increase in the expatriate population.

JESS quote 2The school’s story began in a small flat in Deira, before its relocation to a villa in Jumeirah, which was generously gifted by his Royal Highness Sheikh Rashid bin Saeed al-Maktoum, Ruler of Dubai. The school moved to its present Jumeirah site in 1977, where it consisted of one villa, 75 pupils, six staff and three portacabins. The size of the classes depended on the size of the bedrooms.

Desert surrounded the school for miles; there were no villas in sight, and the buildings which now line Sheikh Zayed Road had not yet been constructed. Safa Park didn’t exist. The only thing that could be seen in the distance was the newly completed Metropolitan Hotel.

The track leading to the school from Al Wasl Road was just a dirt road and on foggy days it was easy to drift off course. Flooding was a problem and after heavy rain the entrance area would be completely under water.

These days there are 169 private schools open in Dubai. JESS was the second British curriculum school in the emirate.

JESS Jumeirah in the deserted desert. These days there are 169 private schools in Dubai.

“In those early days, one had to be very flexible and unflappable and able to take things in one’s stride,” says JESS’s original headmistress Rita Biro. “When we first occupied the site, the electrical connection had not been completed and the power was produced by a massive generator. My first daily task was to make my way across the sand to this great beast and use all my strength to throw the switch and I still have the muscles to prove it!”

Children joined JESS when they reached 4.08 months

Children joined JESS when they reached 4.08 months

Paul Austin, currently director of PE at JESS Ranches, arrived in a very barren Dubai in 1976. “All I remember being able to see was the desert and the Trade Centre. Sheikh Zayed Road was the Abu Dhabi Road and there were still camels walking around everywhere.”

He started at JESS in 1977, just before his sixth birthday. There were no sports facilities at the time, and he remembers doing a football club on the sand outside the school, the area now used for parking. He recalls just one fixture during his five terms at JESS, against the only other international school at the time. “I was the goal keeper, and although I’m told I played well, we lost 0-10.”

1975-1976

1975-1976

Academically, he remembers trying to make himself invisible during maths class. “In fact, my maths was so bad that when asked what my tables were like during an interview for Prep School, I confidently replied that we had desks at JESS so I wasn’t sure.” Like many of the children at JESS at the time, he went on to boarding school.

Since its humble beginnings, JESS has stood strong through two regional wars (with contingency plans for evacuation via Fujairah in the Gulf War) and the global economic crisis of the 00s.

A second branch opened in Arabian Ranches in 2005. Memories of this new development include travelling to the under-construction Ranches site and wondering why they were driving out to the middle of nowhere; having to use the toilets in the shopping centre; no playgrounds to start with; repeated closures due to water pipes bursting; and Costa Coffee deliveries.

Some things never change!

The exhibition is an incredible illustration of the JESS journey through time. Some things never change, though, and I wanted to highlight several snippets that made me smile:

Springtime in Jumeirah: The British Consul-General in Dubai judges the Best Hat competition

Springtime in Jumeirah: The British Consul-General in Dubai judges the Best Hat competition

Shoes & driving: I’m not sure what year, but during the early days, one of the mums, wearing very high platform-soled shoes and driving a 4×4, pulled in to park, not knowing where her feet began and ended. She accelerated instead of breaking and ploughed into a breeze-block wall, demolishing it.

Demand for places: Waiting lists have been a problem right from the start. When the school reached several hundred students, the headmistress had to call a stop to expansion, citing the difficulty of teaching amid rubble and construction noise.

Parent involvement: This tradition began from the get-go, with parents in Dubai more actively involved in school than in Britain. Parents ran sports clubs during their lunch breaks before returning to work at 4pm; mothers came in with younger children to assist with activities; and it was through an action group that the swimming pool was funded.

Spring in the sunshine: The annual spring fair is a long-running institution, including, back in the day, a decorated Hat Parade with Easter Egg prizes; a display by the Dubai and Sharjah Morris Dancers; an attempt to break the non-stop skipping world record; traditional stalls selling home-made cakes, marmalade, etc; a tombola, lucky dip and Guess Your Weight (!). More British than Britain!

Here’s to the next 40 years!

The touchy-feely wrong number

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I fired off a party RSVP today – yet another social engagement for Son2, not me. I didn’t think too much of it, and made a mental note to put the date on the calendar.

My phone rang, loud and shrill.

“Hello,” said an unfamiliar male voice. “Is that Sarah?”

I braced myself to tell him he’d got the wrong number. You know when you can already tell he’s not going to believe he’s got the number incorrect, and you’re going to have to convince him you’re really not the person he thinks you are. I had that feeling.

So I was surprised when the conversation took a different turn. “I’m getting all these texts about a party,” he said. “It’s the wrong number.” He was very sweet about it, a lovely chap, and we shared a laugh. He sounded like he worked in a restaurant, and there he was getting texts from all the mums in the class about Lasertag. His name was Ali.

A minute later, Ping! He’d sent me a text.

“I just spoke to you. I’m the manager of kabab rolls al barari.”

I peered closer at the broken English on the screen. I’d already guessed he was going to try to sell me something. A bit of opportunistic salesmanship must always be expected in Dubai.

“May b u can touch with me in future if want some catering or food etc.”

You know what Ali, you were such a sweetie, I will save your number just in case the need arises for kebab rolls, but the touchy-feely bit – maybe we could skip that?!

I made a new friend in Ali!

I made a new friend in Ali!

It’s Valentine’s Day! 💕💕💕💕💕

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♥ Every summer, I walk by the spot where I met my DH, twenty-seven years ago! I was sixteen – hard to believe I was only six years older than Son1 is now. Each year, a travelling fair used to visit a field near my parents’ house. Today, the space is mostly a car park, the field nowhere near as wide or open as it was in my sixth-form-college days. Portacabins hint at more development to come.

I was introduced to DH-to-be by the Teacups, by a friend of a friend, and can remember small details as though it were yesterday: the cacophony of sounds and music, all clashing horribly; the bright lights glinting in the night sky; the acrid taste of diesel fumes; the jerry-built rides.

DH-to-be in 1989. Knot finally tied 15 years later!

DH-to-be in 1989. Knot finally tied 15 years later!

We rode the Waltzer at least twice. Spinning faster and faster, neck tossed backwards, I think I screamed, only for a Cockney-sounding voice to boom, “The louder you shout, the faster we go.” The operator threw a lever and the ride exploded with noise, twisting, twirling, lights blinking. We staggered off, swaying, and lurched to a van selling food, enticed by the scent of hot dogs, burgers and onions.

Each ride and stall was abuzz with excitement and so was I! I’d noticed his American twang first, so exotic to my provincial ears. Then I fell for his dark looks, his jet black hair with a hint of a curl. A leather jacket hung from broad shoulders, denim jeans covered the other half of his skinny height.

On the big wheel, shining bright and vivid like a circle of diamonds in the sky, he told me he lived in Kuwait (I’m not sure I even knew where that was!) and wanted to fly planes. Amazing how things have come full circle: from those early days when he was at a British boarding school to our lives now, with two kids, in the Middle East.

Happy Valentine’s Day DH and all my lovely readers! ♥ Circles x