The ‘bear’-faced selfie

It was the moment Son2 had been waiting for since the beginning of the school year: The day he got to take Bernie, the class bear, home.

Bernie arrived at our house in a bag, with his scrapbook – a well-leafed diary documenting his time spent with the families in Son2’s class. The pages were filled with photos, hand-written stories, speech bubbles, decorative stamps, evidence of baking extravaganzas and even a bear-class boarding pass.

You wouldn’t believe how creative it gets.

Son2 and I browsed the book together. ‘Oh look, there’s Bernie parachuting into someone’s garden, ” I exclaimed, my wide-open eyes settling on a photo of the bear floating into the family’s backyard underneath a make-shift canopy. “And here he is ON SKIS, in France!”

xxxx

Silently seeking attention

It got even better: Blow me down, but Bernie spent Christmas in Lapland. There were snaps of him playing in the snow, snuggled up in the log cabin and listening to music in his airplane seat. “Let’s take Bernie on a husky safari, then tonight, if we’re really lucky, we might get a shot of him gazing at the Aurora Borealis rolling across the sky,” I could almost hear the enthused parents telling their bemused children.

Our time with Bernie had much more of a homey feel. In the knowledge that on top of all the usual weekend chores, I had to find amusing things to do with a bear, I set up numerous photo opportunities – of Bernie reading books, cosy in his pyjamas, sitting on the kitchen table eating noodles and using his paws to scale the bunk bed ladder. In an inspired moment, he posed for a #nomakeupselfie.

I even remembered to take Bernie with us when we went to football, and in the car, took care to buckle him up in the back.

Son2 looked at me suspiciously as I fiddled around trying to secure the seat belt. It was a look that suggested he thought I’d lost my mind. “Mum, he’s just a toy, you know!” my 5YO reminded me, with a roll of his eyes and a casual glance in Bernie’s direction.

What happened to Flight MH370

Don’t expect an answer in this blog post, as the airline community in which we live is just as baffled as the rest of the world. But I’ve been following this mystery closely, and keep coming back to the same question: How, in this day and age of continuous connectivity, can a Boeing 777 simply disappear?

In the two weeks since Malaysian Airlines flight MH370 vanished, a stream of possible, vaguely plausible and downright absurd theories have been given air time. It was travelling to North Korea, suggested one caller to CNN. Shot down/hit by a meteor, claimed Internet users. Hijacked by terrorists (no, air pirates) to carry out a 9/11-style attack. Conspiracy theorists have blamed Obama and comparisons have been drawn to the television series Lost.

When the fact are lacking, imaginations start to run riot

When the fact are lacking, imaginations  run riot

The media reporting on the fate of the aircraft has varied widely, from knowledgeable analysis to pure speculation. That’s not to say there hasn’t been a great deal of responsible reporting, but what often happens with aviation incidents is that the people presenting the information don’t have the technical know-how to fully understand it.

Most plane crashes occur due to a chain of events, explained by the Swiss cheese model. This model of accident causation likens defences to a series of slices of randomly holed Swiss cheese. An accident or incident occurs in the extremely unlikely event that the holes in these layers align. In layman’s terms, multiple failures at different levels.

But what took place after the Malaysian pilots made their final communication – a routine “All right, good night” – to make the flight fall into total silence and fly for up to seven hours to an inhospitable part of the vast, empty southern Indian Ocean is such a mystery that it’s hard to decipher what is too far-fetched and what might actually have happened.

Under suspicion, although the fact that Captain Zaharie Shah Ahmed had a flight simulator at home (with deleted data) isn’t, on its own, particularly alarming

Under suspicion, although the fact that Captain Zaharie Shah Ahmed had a flight simulator at home (with deleted data) isn’t, on its own, particularly alarming

SABOTAGE: Two possible scenarios are gaining attention, one of which is the human factor, ie, hijacking, sabotage, or a calculated attempt to redirect the aircraft. The fact that the transponder (which signals the plane’s identity, altitude and speed) was turned off and the plane made a sharp left turn at the boundary between Malaysia and Vietnam makes its disappearance sound like a deliberate act. But by whom? If it was premeditated, any theory, no matter how outlandish, is equally valid, be it involving the pilots, crew or passengers.

MECHANICAL FAILURE: The other scenario is that a mechanical incident happened at this exact point – something severe and swift that led to the incapacitation of both pilots. A depressurisation of the aircraft is the most likely explanation and has happened before. In 2005, an Athens-bound 737 suffered such a fate, resulting in the loss of consciousness of both pilots and the eventual crashing of the aircraft after it ran out of fuel.

If a depressurisation did occur two weeks ago, it might explain why the Malaysian pilots initiated a turn but failed to start a descent before succumbing to hypoxia. Another possibility is that the cockpit was filled with some kind of smoke. (Debate will continue to rage about the role of the flammable lithium-ion batteries known to be on board, and which caused the fire that led a UPS 747 to crash in Dubai in 2010.)

COCKPIT SIEGE: Pilot hi-jacking has also happened before. Most recently, last month. On February 17, the first officer on an Ethiopian Boeing 767, flying from Addis Abeba to Rome, shut his captain out of the cockpit while he was taking a bathroom break and flew the aircraft to Geneva, where he requested political asylum.

Sadder, and unfortunately not without precedent either, is pilot suicide. It’s a horrible, unthinkable scenario, and not conclusive in the previous cases – one of which is the 1999 example of the Egypt Air flight from New York to Cairo that crashed into the Atlantic. American investigators pinned the blame on the co-pilot, saying he was suicidal; the Egyptians, however, fight this verdict tooth and nail.

LONG HAUL: Key to finding out what happened to flight MH370 is the plane’s black box; if this is found, it would take just a few days to get an idea of the circumstances surrounding its disappearance from the sky. But the black box is most likely sitting on the floor of the ocean, and while no expense will be spared in combing the seabed, its recovery could take a long time.

After the Air France crash in 2009, it took two years to locate the black box, which had sunk into an underwater mountainous region of the Atlantic. And the authorities knew where that plane went down. (Could it be that the Malaysian plane will never be found? Those who’ve spent time trying to figure out what happened to Amelia Earhart must be wondering this right now.)

While the search for debris continues, I wait anxiously to find out the facts, so we can learn from this accident, like we have from others in the past. In the meantime, my thoughts and prayers are with those involved and the families dealing with the agonising aftermath. Because behind all the theories being bandied around are the faces of the 227 passengers and 12 crew members who boarded the ill-fated plane.

A sighting of Sheikh Mo

Visitors, I’ve decided, are like buses – it’s been a while since any of my friends have visited us here in Dubai, then, this weekend, five came along at once.

Which meant pulling out the stops to show them a good time – while a sandstorm swept through the region, complete with rain, lightning and gusting wind.

On Friday night, with the weather looking decidedly dodgy, I ordinarily would have stayed on the sofa (no babysitter, early start, you know how it goes), but since my visitors didn’t come to Dubai to watch TV, we braved the elements and went on a desert safari.

Yes, during all that rain.

xxxx

Good times in the desert

I was surprised. There were at least 30 cars, hurtling over the sand dunes in a rollercoaster fashion, and while the sunset was hidden by dusky clouds, the desert landscape still managed to enchant.

After the excitement of dune bashing, the Bedouin camp offered a chance to relax, sit back, and enjoy Arabic food, a bellydancer who shimmied like a flame and apple-spiced shisha.

Even with the lashing rain, which came through in waves – and meant the camels were led away to shelter – and despite the travel sickness endured by Visitor 1, it was a great night, filled with friends, a falcon display, Henna tattoos and wine.

On a roll, my visitors and I (in various combinations) also managed to tick the following boxes:

– Cocktails at The Address hotel in Dubai Marina (not too shabby, and the most amazing view from their room)

– A boat ride around the marina and out into the Gulf

– Handbag shopping at Karama

– Lunch at Jumeriah Beach Residence, followed by sniffing the sea air and the most scrumptious frozen yogurt

– The fountains at Dubai Mall (I love these choreographed water displays at the foot of the towering Burj Khalifa – set to music, the high-pressure jets roll and sway in all directions, to make the water, literally, dance)

– Souk al-Bahar to buy stuffed camels

– The Els Club for more drinks

– The Atlantis hotel so they could say they’d done The Palm

There’s really nothing quite like having visitors in town to make you see Dubai through the eyes of a tourist. And to top it all, we spotted Dubai’s ruler Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid al-Maktoum (Sheikh Mo, as he’s affectionately called), strolling around JBR. That, I couldn’t have planned any better.

Summer: The elephant in the room

I was out for dinner the other night with my parents and a lovely couple who’d recently moved to Dubai. They’d swapped everything they knew and loved in Surrey for a new life on the Palm, and had thrown themselves into the frenetic world of work, Middle East style.

We talked about how she’d already taken a (temporary) job that involved commuting to Abu Dhabi (I was impressed, that road isn’t for the faint hearted, even with a driver). And we talked about their daughters, embarking on adult lives on different continents.

Then, all of a sudden, there it was: the elephant at the table. Amid all the promise of beach trips, handbag shopping and desert safaris, there’s a hurdle all UAE residents face: the Dubai summer. “We won’t be able to get back to the UK until much later in the year,” she told us. “We’ll be here all summer.”

My mum looked aghast! I’m sure she visibly paled. (March is their preferred month to visit, and I do understand why.)

She's clinging on to her scarf and boots until sweat patches appear

She’s clinging on to her scarf and boots until sweat patches appear

I immediately tried to soothe things over: “It’s not too bad,” I said. “Honestly.” I attempted to explain that lots more women stay now, the city’s much quieter and working through the summer is no problem. (It’s when you have small children climbing the walls and bankrupting you every day for 10 weeks that you start throwing plates around.)

I’m posting on this subject because those of us who live here are sharing a similar sentiment this week: IT’S COMING!

We’ve entered that murky zone where you’re trying not to turn the AC on, but give in. Firms that offer AC cleaning are working round the clock, and if you pull on a pair of jeans in the morning, by lunchtime you’re peeling them off to don your summer staples of shorts and flip flops (again).

At the school gates, comments are being bandied around to the tune of “It’s warming up” and “Winter’s over”. Unless you’re particularly stubborn or sweat-proof, the scarves and wraps have been put away, boots consigned to the back of the cupboard.

Give it a few more weeks of rising temperatures and we’ll all be asking each other: “So, when are you leaving?”

Silent Sunday: Sand castles

The eye sore that was the construction at The Walk at JBR is no more, and the amenities you’ll find there now – including an open-air cinema screen with a bean bag area and small waterpark – make it all worthwhile. But it was the amazing sand sculptures that really caught our attention…

xxxx

Stay away, kids!

Fog: Dubai’s Achilles’ heel

At 6.45am this morning, I peered outside our bedroom window to see the everyday familiar sights of our street draped in a silky mist; the villas, carports and road hidden from view by a dense, semolina-souper, surely the worst fog of the season so far.

By 7.30am, we’d ventured into the whitened haze, on our way to school. Cars loomed into view at the last second, like images from some half-forgotten dream. Son2 was on the edge of his seat with excitement, loving the inclement weather (beats the continual blues skies in his opinion) and rolled down his window hoping the swirling vapour would enter the car.

“Are we driving in the clouds?” he asked, as I almost closed my eyes with anxiety (I wasn’t at the wheel!). You could just about see the white line marking the lane, but the upcoming roundabout, roadworks and drivers who incredibly had forgotten to put their headlights on were totally obscured by the thick fog. We were driving blind, literally.

This was a relatively clear patch - elsewhere it was white-out

This was a relatively clear patch – elsewhere it was white-out and planes had to circle for up to two hours

“It’s Dubai’s Achilles’ heel,” remarked DH, because when the fog is this bad, the delays at the airport ricochet all around the world for hours afterwards, affecting tens of thousands of passengers (hopefully the problem will be alleviated this summer, after work is carried out on the runway to upgrade the lighting).

Later on, as the fog lifted, it felt like we were in a blue movie as the sunshine filtered through the wispy mist, burning it off to nothing. I breathed easily again – both children were safely in school and we had a busy day ahead, ending with the Eric Clapton concert tonight.

Then DH’s phone rings. It’s scheduling. He’s not meant to go to work until tomorrow, but due to the fog and all the delays, he has a car coming to pick him up in 45 minutes. My best-laid plans scuppered by my DH being sent to the end of the world (New Zealand).

Darn fog.

Still, the lucky recipient is my Dad! My parents are staying, and he’s agreed to come with me to the concert. Rock on, Dad!

A brush with Bobbi Brown

Makeup and I have always had a fairly functional relationship. But when my good friend asked me if I wanted to join her for a free makeup lesson, I immediately said yes. I think the words mummy makeover might have sprung to mind.

It turned out my friend couldn’t make it, but I decided to attend anyway, despite the little voice in my head that whispered: “Those makeup girls will eat you alive! GOBBLE you up whole!”

“We’re just waiting for a few more people to arrive,” the doll-like receptionist at Dubai Mall’s Bobbi Brown tells me on arrival – the first clue that the other attendees aren’t attempting to sandwich the lesson in between a morning’s work and the afternoon school run. “The last two are in the car park,” she announces after 30 minutes has ticked slowly by.

“It’s our fault,” they tinkle, when they finally show up, their makeup already cover-model perfect and their blow-dried hair coiffed neatly into place.

The makeup guru appears from behind a closed door and a minute or two of air kissing follows. They all know each other, I realise; they’re all of exotic descent, and I’m quite sure already own overly large Burberry toiletry cases the size of carry-on baggage.

Our host for the afternoon turns to me and asks with a megawatt smile: “What are your expectations today?”

“Erm, to look nice,” I reply. I wonder how to vocalise that I’m hoping he’ll make me look at least a decade younger and do it fast enough so I can get to the other side of Dubai in time to pick up my son – but it’s looking like I’m the only person watching the clock.

Smokey eye. Pout. At 6am. In my dreams!

Smokey eye. Pout. At 6am. In my dreams!

As the 10-step lesson gets underway, I learn just how much prepping is required to keep skin in tip-top condition. Cleanser, tonic, serum, eye cream, face cream, overnight cream; it all makes my once-daily application of moisturiser with SPF look rather paltry.

His fingers deftly massage my ‘problem areas’ with gorgeous-feeling products (yes, I’m perched on a stool in front of seven sets of eyes, being used as the ‘model’ at this point). “See, if I apply the serum to half zee face, look at the difference!”

Heads nod enthusiastically as half my face wakes up from years of neglect (it’s as though my skin pores are drinking thirstily from Bobbi’s fountain of youth and are doing a merry jig). “And don’t forget zee neck,” he reminds, with a final smoothing flourish.

I return to the table, taking my place opposite a young Emirati lady with unblemished, milky skin (skin whiteners, she tells us), groomed eyebrows and aquamarine nails, and the lesson moves on to concealers and correctors. An assistant helps me find a foundation better matched to my skin tone than my own skin, and I start to really enjoy myself as I eye up products with a colour scheme more sophisticated than a painter’s palette.

“Blending is your friend,” proclaims our make-up guru; “Bobbi never says camouflage – we naturalise,” he tells us, and with the number of references made to Bobbi herself, I start to wonder if they’re all best friends.

Just as we’re being taught how to stop lines showing in the under-eye area (gasp!), I notice the time. If I don’t tear myself away from the unlimited access to expensive products that highlight, pout, plump and pale, I’ll be late for Son 1.

One of the makeup assistants flanking the table finishes off my makeover at speed, and I rush from the room, leaving all my classmates there for, I suspect, a leisurely afternoon.

“We’ll call you,” they tell me as I swing on my heel to leave the store. “For your next lesson.” And, given that it was free and really worthwhile, it’s a mummy gift horse I won’t be looking in the mouth.

Silent Sunday: Office in the sky

I’ve posted one or two photos on the blog of the view from my office tower, but I am rather outdone by my DH, who hurtles past some of the world’s most spectacular landscapes. “So what did you see out the window today, hon?” “Oh, you know, just the Himalayas.”

Even at 39,000 feet above sea level, the Himalayas look mighty close! K2 is down there somewhere.

Even at an altitude of 39,000 feet above sea level, the Himalayas look mighty close to me! K2 is down there somewhere.

Breakfast with a son

One son had a whole week off for half-term; the other only had a day. I felt bad for Son1, so on his day off, I decided to take him out for breakfast.

“Where shall we go?”

“Subway!”

“Well, that’s really a lunch place. Let’s go to Arabian Ranches, the new restaurant.”

“Awwww.” [Cheers up when he remembers what’s there.]

“Mummy, can I go and play?”

“Okay, but come back when the food arrives, yes?” [Scampers off to play in the little playarea by himself, while I sit by myself at the table.]

Breakfast arrives – boiled eggs for him, an omelette for me. The soldieurs on his plate aren’t exactly fighting for space, given the mouse-size portion (hardly enough to feed a boy who can almost wolf down a loaf of bread) – and the buns in the basket are too fancy for him.

“So how’s school?”

I had time to photograph the view, watch the golfers and twiddle my thumbs

I had time to photograph the view, watch the golfers and twiddle my thumbs

“Good.”

“I’m cold!”

“That’s why I told you to wear your sweater this morning!”

I run through some other conversation openers with him.

“I thought we might be able to talk at breakfast – you know, chat!”

“I didn’t.” [Looks at me as though I’d suggested dragging him through the bushes on the golf course backwards.]

“I’m REALLY cold Mum.”

“Okay, well finish bashing your egg shells into the egg cups and we’ll get back into the car. You’ll warm up on the way home.”

“I forgot the iPad.”

“No, you didn’t. Here it is.”

I hand it over while I finish drinking my tea.

“Five minutes, then we’ll leave.”

A chat – what was I thinking? Who’s coming with me next time?

School narcolepsy

So from the high that was Amsterdam, comes the bump of real life, and dealing with a problem that presented itself just before half-term.

You know something’s not right when you get a call from school asking you to pop in. I duly did so, the very next morning. And while everyone I spoke to couldn’t have been nicer (or more helpful), the writing was already on the wall.

My son fell asleep (twice) at school.

He denies it, of course. Son2 is not stupid and knows sleeping at school is frowned upon. He has an elaborate story about his friend L telling him to lie down on the grass outside and close his eyes. When the teacher found him snoozing on the little, landscaped hill, he was actually awake and just playing a game, he claims. Hmmm, nice try!

It’s possible, I suppose (a pig might have been flying past too), but I happen to know that the teachers are right; my 5YO is too tired for school at moment, because HE WON’T GO TO BED.

He resists sleep like there’s no tomorrow. Like he’ll get kidnapped in the night by the bogeyman and injected intravenously with vegetables. However tired he is in the late afternoon, at bedtime his eyes snap wide open, as though propped apart by matchsticks. He clamours for attention: “Just one more book!”, “Stay with me, pleeeeeease!

What should be a fairly quick routine turns into a marathon, and it’s little wonder that there are many bedtimes where I feel like this afterwards…

The school wants him in bed at 6.30pm: I wish!

The school wants him in bed at 6.30pm: I wish!

Sometimes, 45 minutes later, I’ll creep past the boys’ bedroom, treading with a feather-light step so as to make no sound, and notice that Son2 is STILL kicking his duvet around.

What happens next is, because the schools start early here, his owl-like ways catch up with him: we have to literally drag him out of bed and prop him up downstairs. He’s caught up on some sleep over half-term, but mainly by sleeping later in the mornings, which doesn’t bode well for tomorrow, his first day back.

When the alarm goes off, I’ll be yanking him from a deep slumber again – what he doesn’t need to know is that I’ll be as good as sleep walking too.

Wish me luck!