Silent Sunday: I love the US because…

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…They really do know how to make life easier. I spotted this vending machine at SeaWorld – definitely a ‘momvention’, it’s filled with all the kiddie essentials that parents on the go might need, from diapers, wipes and cream to formula, bottles, pacifiers, Tylenol and sunblock.

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Desperately seeking diapers? No problem, Nanny Caddy to the rescue (and no junk food in sight). When my children were this age, this handy machine would certainly have helped ensure our survival away from home.

And, while at SeaWorld, I couldn’t help noticing that sea creatures aren’t the only things they keep behind glass.

She's a pearl diver. Several are 'working' the tank and dive for oysters pointed out by visitors

She’s a pearl diver. Several ‘work’ the tank and dive for oysters pointed out by visitors

Note to SeaWorld: How about some mermaids next?

On trying to keep fit on a 6-week holiday

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If you’ve been following this blog, you’ll know that I do – sort of – go to the gym. I’ve been plugging away for a year or so now, although recently, I’ve discovered I can prop my kindle on the treadmill to snatch some reading time while strolling (briskly).

Whenever I come to England, I always imagine myself running outdoors instead – and, again, I do mean ‘running’ in the loosest sense of the word. My parents live a stone’s throw away from the local park, and gently jogging a lap or two around the cricket pitch, under the ever-changing sky with birds chirruping and dogs chasing sticks, sounds like the perfect antidote to the sterile gym.

Except it was too hot. Even at 7pm. My runs turned into a sweaty limp, with me practically staggering past gangs of scantily clad teenagers drinking alcopops and frisky lovers mauling each other in full view, hoping no one would laugh at my excuse of a jog or hear me panting.

Parklife in the UK, I remembered, is dotted with scenes and characters you just never see in the UAE. “Smile love – might never happen,” quipped a Heineken-drinking, paper-bag carrying fella the other day.

All this I actually find really fascinating – and the scenery IS nice – but then my mum told me that the leisure centre had been revamped and the new gym was now very state-of-the-art.

I took a look. I was seriously impressed. There were brand-new machines and contraptions I could only imagine were used to train astronauts, rows of bikes, and treadmills with large, multi-media screens (plus the all-important ledge for my kindle). The Olympic legacy was alive and well – with air conditioning and Costa Coffee next door!

So, now I have a four-week summer membership and I’m back exercising in the gym, keeping an eye on the calorie-count so I can whoop with joy when I’ve burnt off an apple.

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Overlooking the park, It’s spacious, state-of-the-art – and, above all, air-conditioned!

What to expect if you’re an heir

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Last royal post, I promise.

The guessing game is finally over: it’s a boy (those wanting a girl are now, according to Twitter, hoping he might be gay); they left the Lindo Wing with a tiny wave; and He Who Had No Name is called George.

Named after my first cat, I believe.

(Despite sounding like a stripper, Royal Baby will stick in my mind for quite a while longer, though).

But if there’s something we don’t have to guess, it’s that his upbringing will be nothing like that experienced by the garden-variety of child.

Below is my compare-and-contrast with the hoi polloi, and, out of interest, what previous royal generations did …

When all this is trained on your birth, and you start trending within your first five minutes of life, it's unlikely to be an ordinary existence

When all this is trained on your birth, and you start trending within your first five minutes of life, the chances of having an ordinary existence are zilch, I’d say

MEETING THE FAMILY
Circles household: Immensely grateful that DH made it to Son2’s surgical birth (on an overnight flight) with five minutes to spare.
HH: Wills was in attendance the whole time and the royal grandparents were helicoptered in for an unscheduled flying visit.
Previously: Prince Charles was the first dad to see his heir arrive; before that, multiple officials were present and births took place in royal residences, not hospitals.

"AHEM, to the hospital, please!"

“AHEM, to the hospital, please!”

HIS CRYNESS, ALL.NIGHT.LONG
Circles household: Schlepped into our nursery room in a fug of tiredness, eyes clamped half shut; often still on the floor in the morning.
HH: What prosperous parent doesn’t employ a maternity nurse these days?
Previously: Believing breastfeeding was the ‘ruin’ of refined ladies, Queen Victoria handed all nine of her children over to a wet nurse.

FIRST PAD(S)
Circles household: A modest two-bedroom home in Minneapolis.
HH: Apartment 1A at Kensington Palace, although why this is called an apartment is BEYOND me. It’s a four-story, 20-room property. There will also be a 10-bed country mansion in Norfolk.
Previously: Prince Charles lived in Buckingham Palace’s remote nursery, cared for by nannies, governesses and footmen, and only seeing his parents at designated times.

The 'apartment' at Kensington Palace

The ‘apartment’ at Kensington Palace

HIGH TEA WITH FRIENDS
Circles household: Decamped to friends’ homes whenever it felt like the walls were closing in on me.
HH: No shortage of mates with estates and big digs for little George to visit.
Previously: While growing up, the Queen didn’t get to meet ordinary folk under ordinary circumstances, only leaving the palace under carefully controlled conditions.

ON RAINY DAYS
Circles household: Braved the germ-ridden, windowless hellholes that are soft-play areas.
HH: Chelsea’s Purple Dragon, where there’s a pristine indoor play centre, pool, recording studio, etc, and the clocks on the wall tell the time in Narnia, the Shire and Neverland, is surely in his future.
Previously: At a guess, wellington boot activities were popular.

If the blue Bugaboo breaks, one has other options

If the blue Bugaboo breaks, one has other options

FEASTS FIT FOR A KING
Circles household: Had good intentions, but resorted to jars, followed by fish fingers, all too often cooked with my coat on after rushing home.
HH: Any fish fingers eaten are more likely to be made of salmon and coated in gluten-free breadcrumbs.
Previously: Wills and Harry were weaned on organic purees, prepared by Princess Diana’s chef.

EARLY LEARNING
Circles household: Put Son1 in a US daycare centre teeming with snotty children and hoped for the best.
HH: A likely contender is Chelsea Pre-Prep and Nursery, which offers ballet, French and animal care among its extracurricular activities.
Previously: Queen Elizabeth was home schooled for her entire education.

AIR MILES
Circles household: These, we have clocked up a few of.
HH: I don’t see those ski holidays and island-hopping trips stopping, do you?
Previously: As a toddler, Prince Charles’ parents often went on official overseas trips, sometimes lasting months and, as was custom, left him behind. (Keeping routines intact, people – or had they discovered the joys of child-free travel?)

I wish the new royal family all the very best, I really do. They honestly seem like a jolly nice couple.

The posh push day

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Some two decades ago, Baby Cambridge’s grandmother, the late Princess Di, brought her children over. Well, not exactly over to ours, but to the theme park where I worked during Uni vacations.

It was the Easter holidays and the news spread round Thorpe Park like wildfire that Princess Diana was visiting with young Wills and Harry. The park wasn’t closed or anything; they mingled with the crowds and queued for rides along with everyone else, while I stood at a cash register in a frilly Alice in Wonderland costume desperately hoping the royal party would come into my sweet parlour to buy some pick ‘n’ mix.

They didn’t, but one of the press photos taken that day, of the Princess and Princes on the Logger’s Leap water ride, became one of the most famous images of Diana relaxing with her sons.

I've LOVED watching the royal family being dragged into the 21st century

I’ve LOVED watching the royal family being dragged into the 21st century

(My DH claims to have met Princess Diana, too, when she nearly ran him over on a zebra crossing in Kensington. At the wheel of a dark-coloured car, she apparently appeared out of nowhere, sped up to the crossing, looked my DH directly in the eye as he scurried across, and zoomed off. But my story is more relevant here.)

I was glued to the #GlobalCervixWatch Royal Baby Watch as history was made today. I devoured the 24-hour news coverage, the fillers, the interviews with knackered, bemused new mums who’d also given birth today. I laughed out loud at the electrifying false alarm, triggered when a security officer walked out of the hospital with a file, and ‘ahhhed’ at the news the fountains in Trafalgar Square would be filled with blue water if the baby was a boy and pink if it was a girl.

Never mind that when the announcement was finally made (four hours after the birth), the internet ground to a halt as millions of people checked the news, and the TV was being hogged by my boys racing each other on Super Mario.

My point, though, is I’m really glad the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge enjoyed this private, bonding time with their newborn. Tomorrow, they’ll be thrust under the most intense media scrutiny as the public demands images of her leaving hospital, and perhaps struggling with a car seat.

And, as this heir-to-the-throne will inevitably be brought up in the public eye, I hope that Diana’s legacy – the way in which, contrary to previous royal generations, she attempted to give her boys a more normal, grounded upbringing (you can say what you like about her, but she was an amazing mother) – will continue to live on. I’ve a very good feeling that with hands-on parents and the help of Kate Middie’s family, it will.

Silent Sunday: First flight

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This was a day I knew would come sooner or later. “You can stay on the ground if you like,” DH said. “No way!” I replied, not wanting to see my whole family go up in a light aircraft without me. What I hadn’t bargained on was sitting in the back peering out at central Florida below while Son1 received a lesson from his Dad.

Holy guacamole, the seven-year-old is flying!

Holy guacamole, the seven-year-old is flying!

Why the British heat wave is my fault

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“Oh THAT’LL be over well before we get back,” I thought to myself on the plane to Florida, as the news spread through the aircraft that Andy Murray had won Wimbledon on the hottest day of the year so far.

“Heat waves in the UK never last more than four or five days,” I told DH. “A week tops.”

Famous.Last.Words.

I take it back, I do, because to my utter amazement, we find ourselves back in baking Britain, watching the news in disbelief as we hear about bush fires tearing through the country’s commons, train tracks buckling and roads melting in the heat.

Brighton beach: The British seaside gets a little crowded during heat waves

Brighton beach: The British seaside gets a little crowded during heat waves

And, you know what, I’m beginning to think: [lowers her voice] it might be MY fault.

You see, when I come back to the UK for summer leave, one of the things I really look forward to is cooler weather. The kind of weather where I can actually wear a long-sleeved top. Maybe even get a goose-bump or two in the evening. And certainly not have to worry about sunscreen for a few weeks.

But, with the exception of our homecoming last year, when the UK was experiencing floods of biblical proportions meriting an inland lifeboat rescue, what tends to happen is this: I get off the plane and the temperature rockets by at least 10 degrees.

It’s like the Dubai heat comes with me, loses much of its intensity on the journey, but then bursts out of my suitcase along with our six-weeks’-worth of clothes to breathe hot, humid air on greener pastures.

(I’m available for hire if you’re planning an event requiring freakish temperatures. And, I know. I know. Folks in the UK have waited months, even years, for weather as warm as this).

Of course, it’s not as hot as Dubai. Nowhere near. It’s just that you feel it more in Britain. With plenty of experience under my belt when it comes to living under a blazing-hot sun, I feel reasonably qualified to comment on why this is so.

Without much further ado, here are my top 10 observations:

1. Hot houses: British homes are designed for cold, damp weather, and are increasingly being built with heat-retaining insulation. Draughts are the enemy, whereas in the Middle East, houses were traditionally built around a central courtyard to promote air flow. Wind towers also provided ventilation.

2. Air conditioning: Modern homes in Dubai don’t have wind towers anymore of course, because there’s air conditioning absolutely everywhere. Fake air, yes, but I bet the owners of the 0.5 per cent of British homes that have AC aren’t wiping their brows right now.

3. Drinking fountains: Something I noticed while living in the US is that you’re never too far from a water fountain. In Florida last week, we carried a bottle around with us and re-filled it (albeit with egg-smelling swamp water) frequently. It was at least drinking water, which is more than you can say for most public facilities in the UK.

4. Curtains closed: On entering our rental property in Florida, all the drapes were shut, to stop the sun beating in. In Britain, however, we’re trained to expose ourselves to sunlight the moment it makes an appearance.

5. Ahh, that’s nice: At the US theme parks, there were undoubtedly moments when we all felt hot and irritable, but cooling mechanisms, such as giant fans that spritzed you with cold water, helped a lot.

6. Whirling fan: Our bedroom in Florida was equipped with an energy-efficient ceiling fan (as well as AC) and I loved falling asleep under its whirling blades. If these became popular in Britain, you could reverse the direction in winter to draw warm air from the ceiling.

7. Hot metal: Chaos unraveled at London’s Waterloo train station on Monday due to a track that buckled in the heat. In other parts of the country, speed restrictions have been enforced to prevent hot rails from being damaged. In some countries with persistently hot weather, rails are laid on reinforced concrete (known as slab track) and won’t buckle. But with a price tag that’s four times higher, slab track is unlikely to take off in Britain and Network Rail has instead started painting some sections of rail white so less heat is absorbed.

8. Cooling centres: In US states such as Illinois, New York and Minnesota (where we lived for several years), cooling centres with air conditioning, drinking water and often medical attention are set up to offer relief from the heat. If these took off here, I’m guessing the number of heat-related deaths would be less.

9. Outdoor pools: Some municipal swimming pools in the US offer discounted admission during heat waves and extend their opening hours. In the UK, however, the number of open-air Lidos, built from Victorian times until the 1960s, is dwindling.

10. And finally: While I’m not suggesting these measures are needed in Britain, other things that help beat the heat in the Middle East are tinted windows on cars; paints, coatings and glass that reduce heat; and a midday break rule enforced during the summer to keep workers out of the sun between 12.30pm and 3pm.

My best advice, though: Enjoy! What absolutely amazing weather!

Operation Longvac

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This is a stolen term, from a writer in the Times newspaper, but I’m borrowing it because she was talking about a six-week British school holiday. Anyone reading this in the US or expat-land will be thinking, ‘Six weeks? PAH! That’ll be over in the blink-of-an-eye!’

Try 27 June – 2 September for size, presently yawning in front of us like a gaping hole – a mind-bending vortex that needs to be filled with activities, every.single.day, to prevent my children’s boredom from toppling us.

Happy (long) holiday, kids!

Happy (long) holiday, kids!

And because Dubai is as hot as Hades at this time of year, many of these activities need to be planned in another country, maybe even two or three different countries, if you’re going to get anywhere near the romantic notion of happy, rosy-cheeked kiddies hanging off the farm gate.

So, right now, we find ourselves in the UK – then tomorrow, we head off again, for our annual trip to the US. This year, to Florida, where we lived as newlyweds.

Something tells me we’re destined to meet Mickey Mouse and his motley crew, and obv. this means peaking far too early in the holiday, because when we return to the UK, and DH disappears off over the horizon to the blue yonder of Dubai, there’s still another six weeks to go. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Grandparents rock!

There’s also the small matter of keeping my newly founded Writing Inc. going – it has to take a back burner, of course, but still demands attention, at times like a hungry child. So, I’ve packed my career in my suitcase and, this week, worked remotely from my parents’ dining room.

With this as the view (mum’s garden, a 20-year project that was a field when we moved here), and sausage rolls in the fridge, it’s been such a lovely change. Best of all, the ankle-biting whippersnappers can be thrown outdoors for lengthy and wholesome, energy-burning games of hide-and-seek.

And by the time we get back from the States, the British schools will nearly have broken up - so we'll find playmates at last!

Office with a view: And by the time we get back from the States, the British schools will nearly have broken up – playmates wanted.

A cold call from the world-wide web

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If there’s something that strikes the fear of god in me, it’s a Trojan horse, trotting round my computer and grazing on the contents of my hard drive.

It’s probably because I know it would leave my computer, a lifeline in both my expat and professional existence, with an electronic version of the bubonic plague, that would signal the death knell to every single file stored on my laptop.

When I overheard my mother on the phone today, talking about Trojan horses in a raised, slightly alarmed voice, my ears pricked up.

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Trojan horses, malevolent worms – the stuff of nightmares!

“Which computer?” I heard her say, irately. “We’ve got at least four here.” (My mum worked in computers from day one, when they were so big they filled an entire floor and had to be fed with tickertape).

But, it turns out, spending decades as a programmer isn’t enough to make you 100 per cent sure that the disembodied female voice on the line, telling you there’s a malicious virus she can fix, is actually a hacker.

My mum put the phone on speaker volume so I could hear.

“I’m calling from the world-wide web,” said the woman.

“The main server. Have you heard of www?” she asked. (Erm, yes!)

I know it sounds obvious now, but at the time, there’s a little bit of you that thinks, goodness, the world-wide web is actually calling us! (It’s a very clever piece of technology, after all.)

The woman, who even appeared to have my mother’s computer IP address, told her to switch the PC on so she could save vital software from being damaged.

Thank goodness my mum didn’t, and at this point I started waving my arms frantically, then practically yelling, “Put the phone down!” – which she did.

It rang again.

The caller tried one last time to persuade us, then didn’t bother us again. But, you can really see how some people would be taken in, and either end up getting hacked, or parting with money to fix the fake ‘problem’.

Be warned – it’s a scam lots of people have fallen for, and the hoaxers, usually with Indian accents, sometimes claim to be from Microsoft, or Windows – slightly more convincing than the world-wide web’s main server, wherever on earth that is! (Does anyone know, out of interest?)

On jet-charged children

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I discovered a while ago that the A380 is the best plane to fly on with children, not just because there’s more space to move around, but because there’s even a staircase you could use as a naughty step.

Whenever we fly back to London for our annual leave, I always make sure we’re booked on a superjumbo, and it definitely helps the ole pre-flight nerves to know that the boys and I will be able to have a little wander around after hours of being wedged into our seats.

Of course, as all mums who have to fly solo with their kids know, there are other things that would help too – like a third or even fourth arm to carry all the luggage; the physical stamina of a pack mule; a basic aviation knowledge (so as to answer questions such as How does the wind move?); and double-jointedness to make assisting a child in the bathroom easier.

If only!

If only!

But, the single most important thing, I now realise, that makes a big difference is the passage of time. And by that, I don’t mean the slow, ticking of time that extends every drawn-out minute on the actual flight. I mean your children getting older – and easier to fly with.

While queuing at security, I got chatting to a mum with a seven-month-old baby, and as she struggled with all the baby paraphernalia, juggled her little one, took her belt and shoes off, then, at the other side of the x-ray machine, pulled it all together again like a 100-piece jigsaw puzzle, I have to admit I felt like punching the air with joy that I’ve left that stage well and truly behind.

This flight, I didn’t even have the usual two-tonne carry-on luggage – my laptop case, filled with my MacBook, an iPad, a DS machine and a Kindle, sufficed. And saw us through the flight. Just.

What I hadn’t bargained on, though, was the overexcited, unsuppressable second wind that my boys would enjoy on their jet-charged arrival. At 10pm (1am Dubai time), and after a 12-hour journey from door-to-door without a wink of sleep, they were almost impossible to get to bed (“But it’s still light outside Mummy!”)

Thank goodness for grandparents, who like highly trained reinforcements, had taken over well before I hit the wall.

Travel post: Therapeutic tourism

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Numerous spa hotels have set up shop by the healing waters of the Dead Sea, offering visitors pampering packages and the chance to find out what the other-worldly experience of floating in the salty water feels like

The Infinity Pool at the Kempinski hotel Jordan, on the Dead Sea

Luxe on the lake: The infinity pool at the Kempinski hotel Jordan, by the Dead Sea

There’s something in the air down by the Dead Sea. You can feel it as you inhale; as you climb stairs with a spring in your step. You’d even be forgiven for believing the extra room in your lungs might make running seem like a walk in the park.

Of course, it wasn’t that I’d suddenly reached a new level of fitness without even trying. We were staying on the shores of the Dead Sea in Jordan, where the air contains 18 per cent more oxygen than at sea level.

When the mud slinging started, more health benefits revealed themselves. The hotel spa’s main ingredient – sloppy mud – was being dredged from the salty sea right on our doorstep. We slathered ourselves with mineral-rich gooey muck, until our skin pores started gasping for fresh air. Then stepped into the serene water to marinate and bob like a cork.

Up to 10 times saltier than seawater, the Dead Sea derived its name from the fact nothing can live in it due to its extreme salinity

Up to 10 times saltier than seawater, the Dead Sea derived its name from the fact nothing can live in it due to its extreme salinity (and yes, that’s me fulfilling a lifelong ambition)

I had wanted to visit the Dead Sea since seeing photos of people floating on top of it, clutching newspapers, years ago. And I wasn’t disappointed: you really are unsinkable. Each time I moved, the buoyancy created an upward pressure that kept me afloat like a rubber ring. I wrapped my arms under my knees and laughed aloud – it’s the most peculiar, memorable experience.

At 400m below sea level, the lake marks the lowest point on the planet. Each day, millions of litres of water evaporates from the surface, creating a thick, atmospheric haze overhead. Noises are soaked up by this haze, leaving little to hear but the sound of lapping water, and dangerous UVB sunrays are filtered out, so you tan but don’t burn.

Therapeutic tourism has been big business for centuries, with visitors flocking to the area to take advantage of the seawater’s healing properties (King Herod was a regular apparently). Dead Sea water and mud contain high concentrations of minerals including calcium, magnesium, bromine, sulphur and bitumen, which can relieve skin conditions such as acne and eczema, ease the pain of arthritis, beat allergies and boost circulation.

the-dead-sea mapThese healing properties come at a price, though: even the smallest of nicks start stinging when you enter the water (don’t shave first!). Bobbing around in liquid that kills all marine life also has a slightly eerie feel. DH didn’t stay in for long, citing a tingly sensation that saw him slipping out the warm sea faster than you can say pass the salt.

Just one splash in the eyes or mouth is also enough to send bathers scrabbling for the shore. I was enjoying myself far too much to be too worried, however, and after a good shower, my newly exfoliated skin felt as soft as a baby’s cheek. Nature’s loofah comes highly recommended.

The Anantara Spa at the 345-room, five-star Kempinski Hotel Ishtar is the largest spa in the Middle East, with 20 spa suites offering a host of massages and treatments. An oasis of gardens and lagoons, the hotel is designed to be an affectionate tribute to the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Other five-star properties that have opened their doors at the lowest point on earth include the Movenpick Resort & Spa Dead Sea and Jordan Valley Marriott Resort & Spa, as well as the four-star Dead Sea Spa Hotel.

Adapted from my column in The Source magazine. Other posts in my travel series: Hong Kong and Beirut