There’s definitely something about taking the Christmas decorations down that makes decluttering seem like a good idea. At my office tower, too, there’s been a bout of spring cleaning. They finally got round to washing the windows – no mean feat when you work on the 24th floor.
You need a head for heights for this job
It’s all relative, I know, but it really is quite chilly in the desert right now. And for the few weeks each year that this happens (Winter light, as I call it), it’s as though my children think we’re living in Alaska.
“I’m cold,” is the first whine of the day, followed by a big song and dance over putting their clothes on and exposing their bare skin to the bracing air (15 degrees this morning, and that is, erm, centigrade). “Still cold,” pipes up Son 2 on the school run, despite the heater – or “heat machine” as he calls it – being turned on in the car.
“You have no idea what cold is,” I try to explain to them (where we lived before, in Minneapolis in the Midwest of America, it’s been -45 with the windchill recently and the schools had to close for a few days).
In anticipation of the dramatic change in weather, Dubai Confidential compiled a survival guide
I’ve tried to tell them that if we still lived there, they wouldn’t be able to leave the house without bundling up in layers of clothing, and donning fur-lined boots and bobble hats. They’d have to pick their way over ice, there would be snow-ploughs clearing the snowdrifts, and frostbite warnings.
“Honestly, it’s not that cold,” I repeat, as we put jumpers on and head out the house, unencumbered by coats and other weighty items (my sweater dating back to about 2006 as, since moving to the UAE, I’ve entered a winter fashion time warp due to only buying summer clothes).
Our Filipino nanny, too, seems to think it’s biting cold and has taken to swaddling herself in a hoody, scarf and socks round the house. I’m thinking I’d better buy her a hot-water bottle quick, or the snuggle blanket with sleeves on sale in New Look.
And spare a thought for the camels in leg warmers (joke).
I do wonder if living in a desert climate for the past five years might have thinned our blood, although to be fair, the fact that our homes have no heating, are draughty and have floors made from marble does mean you feel it when the temperature plunges from the 35 degrees or so that we’re used to.
So, there you have it: a few years of desert living and you’ll find your family becoming quite reptilian, minus the dry, scaly skin. Not only that, but you’ll also take great delight in sipping steaming hot chocolate and wearing tights (even if, by midday, it’s on the warm-side again).
While not as draconian as in countries like China or Iran, censorship of certain materials is carried out in the UAE. Try opening the websites for the men’s titles FHM or Maxim here, and you’ll find they’re blocked, even though the magazines themselves are available in the UAE (with some parts of photographs blacked out).
I was reminded of the UAE’s censorship policy this weekend when we went to see the film The Wolf of Wall Street at the cinema.
In total, 45 minutes of content was deemed unsuitable and cut from Martin Scorsese’s film. In places, it didn’t even make sense!
You’d think a six-day mini-holiday to the UK shouldn’t take six days to recover from, but somehow this whole week has been all about getting back into the swing of things.
The time difference and arriving back in Dubai on the milk flight at 5am meant the boys then slept until past midday, setting me up for a particularly trying problem in small children: INSOMNIA. The Scrooge of Christmas travel.
Because it’s not like you can just tell them to count sheep, is it?
No, no, that would be far too easy. Instead, for several nights, between the hours of 9 pm and 1 am, the boys pummelled me with all kinds of strange symptoms, from “I’m scared, stay Mummy, please!” to “I’m going to vomit!” (Son 1), singing for two hours straight (Son 2), hunger pangs and even sleep walking (Son 1).
Trying to count sheep with Son 2 just turned into bonus stimulation time
Son 1 would have re-set much quicker if it wasn’t for the fact that Son 2 was adamant his insomnia should be shared.
“Are you AWAKE?” he’d bellow at his brother, nearly raising the roof of his bunk-bed (and I couldn’t separate them because they’re really dependent on each other and hate to sleep alone).
“WAKE UP!”
Then Son 2 got his hands on the duck clock in their room and set the alarm off: “QUACK, QUACK, QUACK, QUACK QUACK!”
I’m surprised you didn’t hear the racket going on in their bedroom.
DH was safely ensconsed on the other side of the world (in Australia and New Zealand) for the first two days of their nocturnal shenanigans. Happily, he returned on the third day, only to fall fast asleep at 8.30 pm with jet lag of the polar-opposite kind.
Oh the glamour of our jet-setting ways!
I mentioned that the UK was wet and wild when we visited over the holidays. You’ll have heard that the country is suffering from flooding at the moment, and my parents’ garden was no exception. You can just see Santa, with his head barely above water, and the reindeer is clearly swimming for his life..
Dad’s lawn turned into a lake, thanks to the river at the bottom of the garden
I was one lucky expat this holiday and got to go home for a whirlwind trip – six days (three of them travelling) overflowing with family, food and surprises. I could wax lyrical about that home-for-the-holidays feeling, the novelty of winter and the precious time spent with loved ones, but I don’t quite know where to start. So, instead, here’s my numerical recap (SUBTITLED: Travel with kids never did run smooth) …
Distance travelled: 8,650 miles (in 2 planes, 2 trains, 1 tube train, 2 cars and 2 taxis)
Family members visited: 24, including DH’s 95-year-old Grannie
Visas forgotten (due to being in old passport): 1, causing immigration officials to shake their heads and tell us we couldn’t travel (in the end, they took pity on me)
Visas reunited with: 1, thanks to two special people: C who searched our house to find it; and DH who discovered that overnight FedEx delivery doesn’t apply when there’s bad weather in the UK
Skipped heartbeats: 3, when the concierge at the hotel the visa had been delivered to by a fellow pilot mistakenly presented me with a box of jewellery instead of an envelope
Waterlogged UK, but wonderful nevertheless
Passports lost: 4 (Yes, seriously. I think I was cursed)
Passports found after 45-min panic: 4. They’d dropped into a black hole in my suitcase
Children lost: 1, before the pantomime at Birmingham’s Hippodrome, triggering a full-scale search for Son 2 via walkie-talkies. (I know, I know, we’d only been out of Dubai for five minutes)
Children found: 1, in a deserted area of the theatre, clutching the booster seat they give kids like it was a life raft
Christmas dinners eaten: 3
Floods (or water ponds as they’re called in Dubai): Too many to count
Fish rescued: 2, found in a puddle, as floodwater receded from my parents’ garden; they were returned to the fishpond they’d escaped from
Minutes stayed up past midnight on NYE: 7
Speed of gusting wind as plane sat motionless on taxiway: 40mph
Memories made: Priceless
HAPPY NEW YEAR! (and thank you for reading Circles in the Sand in 2013) x
Twas Christmas morning, when all though the house, there was the most almighty din.
As the morning mayhem ensued, I braced myself for what I knew was coming next: “Dad, can we set up the Xbox? Now, now, NOW – pleeeeeeease!”
Expecting Son 1 to just look at the box was a far-fetched notion, so we started in earnest. I mean, how hard could it be? Surely easier than flat-packed Ikea furniture. Once the Xbox was done, we could move on to setting up the wii, then head out to eat and relax later while the children played each other (Santa had wisely brought two Xbox consoles to avert WW3).
DH plugs it in, disappearing in a puff of dust as he moves things around behind the TV. The Xbox springs to life, and immediately tells us:
Updates required.
What? It’s brand new. How can it possibly be out of date already? (damn you, Microsoft) So, we wait patiently, watching the bar nudge its way across the screen as the first lot of updates are installed. And then the second lot.
Longest wait ever for two small children on Christmas morning.
The machine seems happy now it’s been fed with the latest software, but I suspect couldn’t care less about us getting Christmas dinner. It starts calibrating.
Then it needs to run some tests. On the background noise in our house. Now, remember, we have two boys – both of whom are loud at the best of times, let alone after a visit from Santa.
It soon becomes apparent that we’ve failed the test. “Your house is too noisy,” it states, or words to that effect. And I could hardly argue otherwise.
We’re given a second chance (it’s Christmas, after all). “Shhhh,” I tell the overexcited boys. “Don’t make a sound.” And, miraculously, you could have heard a pin drop in our house.
Finally, it looks like we’re getting somewhere – escape out of the house, to a Christmas brunch, is shining like a light at the end of the tunnel. We shove a disc in and hope for the best.
“The system does not support PAL50,” it flashes back at us. “Go to settings… [And, while you’re at it, forget about getting dressed up – why not go in your PJs, no make-up, messy hair.]”
“OK, OK,” we muster, scrolling through various menus, somehow pressing the right combination of buttons and unleashing a game, which (small mercy) the boys already knew how to play.
A few minutes later, DH and I are lying on the bed upstairs, snatching a few minutes of respite – as the unassembled wii machine winks at us from the corner (Round two, ding ding).
“It was much easier in 1996,” says DH. “When all you had to do was put a cartridge in.”
“I know,” I nod, wearily. “It’s all so kids can have uncommunicative playtime with gamers all round the world, hiding behind avatars. Maybe they can hook up with their cousins,” I add brightly. And then we head out, taking my new Sat Nav with us and plugging it into the car.
It defaults to Arabic – and can we change it? No, of course not. Fifteen minutes of fiddling with it proves fruitless. “You know what DH,” I sigh. “I think we might have to read the instructions.”
Happy days!
With Christmas Day brunches in the UAE costing as much as 610AED (£100) an adult – and the top-end ones including acrobats and petting zoos on top of a visit from Santa – I’m always on the look out for some down-to-earth (read: cheap) entertainment for my children over the holidays.
After all, there’s only so many ‘How many days/hours/minutes till Santa comes?’ that a mum can take.
This year, I do believe I found the best bargain in the UAE: Santa at Dubai’s Oasis Centre.
He’s a nocturnal chap – when darkness falls, he plods over to the 10-metre-high, snow-covered Santa Castle in the middle of the mall to do meet-and-greets, until as late as 11.30pm on weekends and 10pm on weekdays. (Children from some cultures are often kept up late here – not mine, I’d add, I reach my limit at 8pm.)
For 35AED (£5.80), we enjoyed a visit with Santa (a lot of ho-ho-ing) and received a present, a photo, a free kids’ meal at Max Burger, cotton candy, a free ride in the play area and even an adult’s gift (a USB or headsets). Best 35AEd I’ve spent this Christmas.
There was no holding Son2 back – he leapt straight onto Santa’s lap, peered at his spectacles closely, decided he was legitimate and had a little chat about what he’d like Santa to bring (a red bike with a speedometre on it). Then, in a fit of generosity, Son2 announced he’d be flexible: “But if you can’t make it in red, any colour will do.”
Son1 is already somewhat suspicious of Santa and hung back – finally going forward to request an Xbox. I suspect that next year, the man in red will be well and truly rumbled.
So here’s to enjoying the magic while it lasts.
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WISHING EVERYONE A VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS! Love, the Circles family x
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After the debacle with the pet hamster, I vowed we wouldn’t have any more pets for quite some time (other than our long-time-resident cat, Chandelle, named by my DH after an aircraft manoeuvre).
I’ve stuck to this vow for a good eight months now – right up until yesterday, when the boys came home from the desert with a scorpion.
The first I heard of their new pet, Sandy, was on my way back from doing the Santa shopping at the Dubai Mall. DH’s phone rings and it’s his brother. “By the way, there’s a dish on the table with some sand in it – don’t throw it away. The boys found a scorpion in the desert.”
After lugging Santa’s loot into the house and hiding it, I go over to the table to take a look.
“Oh good Lord, shouldn’t this have A LID ON IT?” I practically shriek, peering at the little creature scuttling around the dish. Ok, so he was only tiny, but it was unmistakeably a scorpion – with two pincer-like front claws and a curved tail.
From under a rock to our dining room table
“No, he’s fine,” says DH. “Look, he can’t get out.” And, it was true, every time Sandy the Scorpion tried to run up the sloped side of the dish, he’d slither back down – his little legs unable to propel him to the rim.
“Mum, don’t get rid of him, pleeeeease,” begged the boys when they got back from dinner with my in-laws. “He can’t get out! He’s our new pet.”
That night, I pushed the dish into the centre of the table and took one last look at the segmented tail – curled defiantly upwards at the end.
Forward-wind to this morning, and we’re dragged from a blissful state of slumber – as all parents expect to be when it’s school holidays and there’s no reason for children to be up so early.
I hear the pitter-patter of feet getting louder as Son 1 crosses the landing, then within seconds he’s standing by our bed, and, in a raised voice, he says:
“WHERE’S THE SCORPION? He’s GONE!”
“Gone!” I yelp, my brain beginning to muster and imagining that, over night, Sandy had achieved the herculean task of scaling the side of the dish and had scampered off to the sofa – or my shoes.
Turns out, Sandy hadn’t made a break for freedom. Catherine the Great, our helper, had found the dish, and cleared it away – not knowing what lay within the sand.
But it got me sitting bolt-upright in bed faster than you can say ‘sting in his tail’.
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On this hump day, I’m posting about some speed bumps that have appeared on our access road – and I don’t mean small ones; I mean steep, mini hillocks that almost stop your car in its tracks.
Those who know where I live will be well aware of the unique challenges we face out here in our little patch of desert. Challenges like getting home, and leaving the house.
There was the enormous roundabout that vanished overnight, probably while luckless drivers were on it – leaving us with a traffic vortex that funnels you towards Abu Dhabi, rather than home.
We’ve endured the bumpy, pot-holed track that led to our compound – which 4WD’s could just about handle without the exhaust pipe falling off, but meant cars had to pick their way along, dodging craters, at a snail’s pace.
We’ve made sharp, right-angled turns off a busy 6-lane highway, with cement trucks bearing down on our rear-end; and we’ve ploughed through a debris-ridden desert shortcut across sand (when the police weren’t looking). And let’s not forget the number of U-turns it’s possible to make on a daily basis to get home – enough to make you feel like a Weeble with an inner-ear infection.
A far better solution – although Dubai’s dress code could be a problem
But, then, after six months of dusty construction work and vibrations that I once mistook for a minor earthquake, we were presented with a shiny new, tarmaced access road. A road you could sail along, and a proper entrance and exit off the megahighway.
An exit that confused divers started driving up the wrong way – but, I guess, you can’t have it all.
Anyway, to cut a long story short – the other week, six speed bumps appeared on our new road, far bigger than the ridges inside the compound (where children play). The equivalent, I’d say, to traversing over a hippo’s back. Added to all the other speed bumps in our neighbourhood, they mean an average school-run day involves clunking up and down more than 50 humps.
And would it surprise you to hear that these new sleeping policemen weren’t painted straight away. On that first dark night, a pizza delivery man on a moped was sent flying after failing to see the bumps, and ended up being carted off in an ambulance – poor guy (he was ok, nothing broken, thankfully).
I’m not saying the humps weren’t needed (quite the contrary, many drivers in these parts totally disregard speed limits, making traffic calming measures important); just that we’ve come full circle and appear to be back to a bumpy road. Progress indeed.