Unbeliebable!

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Last night, I was rather glad to be the mother of boys and not girls.

Specifically, girls who adore Justin Bieber and needed to be accompanied (at a cost of 1,400dhs/£250 for a family of four) to his much-anticipated, sold-out concert in Dubai. To which he showed up two hours late, on a school night. AGAIN!

My DH and I had been wondering if the tardy Canadian pop diva actually knew where Dubai was. Turns out he did, with rumours he was even looking for a house here.

His entourage reportedly booked out 60 rooms at two different hotels in the city, and were scouting around for things to keep the teenage star out of trouble (at 19, he’s too young to drink in Dubai, a fact one club got round by shipping in a specially made 24-carat gold ping pong table to keep him occupied).

Despite some loud booing, most people stuck it out

Despite some loud booing, most people stuck it out

During the day yesterday, Bieber fever reached a new height, with an unconfirmed sighting at the Dubai Mall resulting in the megamall being mobbed by hundreds of screaming pre-teens, chanting ‘We want Justin’ as they scoured the hallways hoping for a glimpse of their heartthrob.

But, how much the Biebster cares about these adoring fans is what bothers me. Because it seems he learnt nothing from the backlash that took place after he was several hours late to his London show at the O2 Arena in March.

Yes, that’s right, it appears he forgot, once again, that a large part of his fan base are pre-pubescent eight-year-olds and younger, who are normally tucked up in bed by eight on Saturday night. (Sunday being the start of the school/work week in Dubai.) Youngsters who tend to not do so well when kept waiting in a hot, crowded arena for hours.

Doors opened at the Sevens Stadium at 5; from 8pm the organisers told the 27,000-strong crowd that he was ‘on his way’; and Justin eventually came on stage at about 10pm. There were reports of young beliebers fainting at the outdoor venue (evening temperatures in Dubai in May are on the warm side) and others falling asleep on the grass. Poor kids. I can just imagine the disappointment. And the anger parents must have felt.

“The children were tired by 10 and wanted to go home,” said my friend. “When he started, they perked up a little, but my son was asleep for the last 30 minutes on my husband’s lap and my daughter had just had enough.”

I’ve no doubt he put on a great show once it got going, and there will be kids (the ones who managed to stay awake) who want to go again tonight, but let’s hope he shows Dubai a bit more respect at his second concert later today.

TOP TWEET: @arabiaenquirer: EXCLUSIVE: JUSTIN BIEBER blames two-hour delay on “dodgy shawarma”

TOP FACEBOOK UPDATE: “Nuf respect to my DH who has finally accepted that he is, in fact, the best person to escort our daughter to the Justin Bieber concert tonight. She had an eureka moment last week when she noticed how much higher up his shoulders were than mine. … (phew!)”

TOP TIP FOR TONIGHT: If he’s late, just think: the chance to hear 20,000 pre-teens scream at the same time is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Good luck – and don’t forget the ear plugs

Manufactured rain falls in the UAE

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“I’ve found you a new job!” I told DH excitedly the other day. “When you get bored of flying to exotic destinations with an army of attractive flight attendants, you could be a cloud buster!

“Just think, you’d be home every night!”

I’m not sure if it was the latter that was the cause of the nonplussed look, or the fact that in aviation you normally avoid cumulus clouds, but something about his response told me that while he did nearly end up cloud seeding in Texas some years ago, he wouldn’t be applying.

‘Franken-rain’ has been a topic of conversation in Dubai this week, because we’ve been having some really unseasonal, lovely weather. By now, we’re usually holed up in air-conditioned, tightly sealed bubbles, but this week windows have been thrown open to let in cooler air, the sound of thunder and the scent of fresh rain.

Really, really odd for this time of year.

Cloud seeding has been taking place in the UAE with thunderous success. Photo via Gulf News

The UAE dabbles in cloud seeding from time to time, with thunderous success this week. Photo via Gulf News

My suspicions were raised when a friend put on Facebook: “Awesome weather today! Thanks Sheikh Mo for the ionization!” And, if you think about it, modifying the weather in the UAE is something we’d all love to see. Imagine if the pleasant winter temperatures could last just a little bit longer – into mid-May and beyond, giving us extra time to enjoy outdoor activities and extending the tourist season.

My hunch was confirmed when I read in the press that the National Centre of Meteorology and Seismology (NCMS) has been seeding clouds since April 21 to coax the wet stuff out of them. “We are only enhancing the rainfall,” a NCMS scientist was quoted as saying – in other words, the showers are only in part due to the cloud seeding, but manufactured raindrops have indeed fallen.

So how do you persuade a wannabe rain cloud to douse the dry desert below? (and not sail on to a neighbouring country to shed its watery load elsewhere?) Here comes the science – and bear with me, it’s fascinating. Apparently, they study the weather charts in the morning to work out when convective cloud formation is likely to occur. The pilots are briefed and remain on stand-by, while the scientists continue to monitor radar images to make sure they catch the beginning of cloud formation (known as the initial stage of the cloud).

Once the operation starts, a plane flies into the lower third of the cloud, where the updrafts are more prevalent, and releases a chemical salt that gathers the tiny droplets of water in the air into larger ones. When the air has no more resistance to hold them, rain falls.

Impressive, no? And, in an arid country where there’s a shortage of water resources, giving nature a little helping hand in order to boost groundwater storage certainly sounds a good idea. But it does make me wonder: what on earth is IN those raindrops falling on our heads?

Expat Telegraph: How do we feel about the UAE’s Franken-rain?

Circles takes a turbo-charged taxi

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The other day, I took a taxi home from work and sat back, pinned to my seat, as the six-lane Sheikh Zayed Road turned into a blur of speed.

And that was just the slip road onto it.

We set off at a pace from the Crown Plaza Hotel, narrowly missing some errant tourists trying to cross the street, then weaved out onto the SZ road, veering into the second-fastest lane in seconds. The Lewis Hamilton in him sees a chance to step on the gas and he isn’t going to let rush-hour traffic get in our way.

“Slow down!” I want to exclaim, but don’t, instead asking him to turn the AC up. He fiddles around with an air vent in the back and I thank him, willing him to turn his eyes back to the road.

“I get us to Arabian Ranches,” he says, “then you show me the way, ok. Umm Suqeim or Hessa?” he asks. I pick the slower way, thinking it might help him keep his side of the bargain. He nods and starts chatting about bridges, in taxi-driver English.

This brilliant drawing is by the urban sketcher Omar Jaramillo Traverso. You can visit his blog here and see more of his work here

This brilliant drawing is by the urban sketcher Omar Jaramillo Traverso. You can visit his blog here and see more of his work here

I immediately know this isn’t going to be one of those journeys where you sit in silence, listening to the prayer beads jangle and the bleeper go off as the taxi accelerates through the speed limit (120kph).

“Where you from?” he enquires. “You make this journey every day?”, “How long in Dubai?”, “You have husband?”, “Children?”, “Ah, I’m only 24, I have time!”, “How old are you?” he asks, lurching us forwards as he hits the brakes to avoid the car we’re tailing too closely.

“25,” I joke – and he pretends to believe me (oh, how I warm to him, despite knowing he’s peering at me in his rearview mirror far longer than is safe).

I find out he’s from Pakistan (you’ll never meet an Emirati cabbie; most are from India, Afghanistan or Pakistan), and has been careering round Dubai’s roads for two years.

Then, all of a sudden, we’re the ones being tailgated. A Landcruiser with tinted windows is on our bumper, flashing its lights furiously. We move aside, and the road hog roars right up to the next car (flash-flash), then the next (more aggressive flashing).

“So rude,” we both agree, back in the fast lane by now. “You know why? It’s because they drink the camel’s milk!” he tells me, with an air of authority (goodness knows what they’re taught at taxi school).

Though it’s a friendly chat, I’m glad we’re nearing the end of our journey and fully expect to go flying over the speed bumps on our final approach to the Arabian Ranches retail centre (most drivers do, as the humps are not steep and there are no children playing).

When, wouldn’t you know, he takes each bump (and there must be at least 10 of them), as though we’re picking our way up a mountain in a 20-tonne truck with a burst tyre, nearly causing a pile-up of commuters behind us – their final stretch of road home now a slow limp to the finish line.

I consider it, then think better of encouraging him, because telling a Dubai taxi driver to go faster is probably something you should never say. Ever. If you want to arrive without finding your eyebrows have disappeared into your hairline.

The working mum’s costume fail

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Tomorrow is book character day at school – the day school is invaded by a mini fictional force made up of Harry Potter, Dr. Seuss, Angelina Ballerina and other favourite storybook characters.

Sigh.

It’s all part of book week, during which we’re invited to send in money so our kids can spend it at a book fair (or attempt to buy crisps instead, as I suspect my son might try), take part in the Gazillion Minutes of Reading @ Home initiative (okay, it’s a million, not gazillion) and come up with a costume for the dress-up day.

Don’t get me wrong. I do think all this is great – I absolutely love reading, and trying to impart a love of reading to my sons has been really rewarding, as has watching BB learn to read.

It’s the dress-up part that’s bothering me. Because tomorrow BB will go to school wearing a pair of too-small yellow plastic trousers (part of an old fireman’s outfit), a T-shirt emblazoned with a train and a kids’ pilots hat – the dishevelled assembled sum of which is meant to make him look like a steam train driver from his Flying Scotsman book.

Not an accurate depiction of the blogger

Not an accurate depiction of the blogger

Even he knows it’s a crumb-y costume. And I know there will be outfits that mums will have spent ages making. Costumes that originated from Pinterest and were then lovingly hand sewn and accessorised.

Still, it’s not that I didn’t try. I’m just having a crazy busy week, with a new freelance job (ironically, for the PR company handling the Sharjah Children’s Reading Festival, which we dragged the boys to this weekend and STILL failed to come home with a suitable book) and I haven’t had a spare minute.

After work today, I sped into our local bookstore, practically setting the paperbacks alight, to try to buy a Fireman Sam book, to go with the old fireman costume I knew was hanging in the cupboard (they not only have to dress up, but also take the book in).

“Do you have Fireman Sam?” I asked the man in the bookshop hopefully.

“No,” he replied after glancing briefly at his computer screen.

“How about any book about firemen, perhaps?” I tried.

“No, nothing,” he said, shaking his head (and I’m sure he laughed, sensing my desperation).

I tried to persuade BB he could wear his Halloween costume instead. “Look, we can use a pen to colour in the skeleton so it looks like a normal pirate’s outfit,” I trilled, as he looked on glumly.

“Or maybe your brother’s spiderman top will fit.”

“That’s a film, mum.”

“I want to go as a dog,” he finally said, getting excited at last. “Floppy the dog from my phonics book. Can you make a dog costume? Please, mummy, please make me a dog suit?”

And mums who work and also leave things like this to the eleventh hour will know exactly what the answer to that request is.

Silent Sunday: So what do you DO all day?

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Ask any stay-at-home mother this question at your peril! My experience of SAHM-hood was a challenge, and certainly jam-packed with chores, errands, running the household and, the part that makes it all worthwhile, spreading the love around.

So I really laughed when my friend K, a fellow pilot’s wife, showed us her five-year-old’s adorable drawings, depicting what she thinks her mom and dad do all day.

So I really laughed when my friend K, a fellow pilot’s wife, showed us her five-year-old’s adorable drawings, depicting what she thinks her mom and dad do all day.

In the 5 minutes between school runs, grocery shopping, food prep, organising maintenance, yelling at the bank, parents’ meetings maybe!

In the 5 minutes between school runs, grocery shopping, food prep, organising maintenance, yelling at the bank and parents’ meetings, maybe!

Run-ins with UAE police

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I was filling DH in this morning on everything that had happened while he was away – a catch up that takes place regularly in our household as we mesh our lives together again after his trips.

“And there was some excitement at the gym,” I suddenly recalled (it’s a fact of life that while he’s traversing the earth, the furthest I often get is to school and the gym).

“It was vandalised,” I said, probably putting a bit too much emphasis on the word, because the damage was very minor.

“It looked like a tiger had been working out,” I added for good effect.

“What do you mean?” he enquired. “There were dead goats left lying around?” (not quite as far-fetched as it sounds, as down the road from our first villa in Dubai there was a house where goats were kept).

“No,” I replied. “Someone broke in during the night and ripped the material on the work-out benches. The police came and everything.

“And took FINGERPRINTS, ” I finished with a flurry.

It was a good story, because this sort of thing doesn’t happen very often in Dubai (punishments are harsh). And it’s not every day you find yourself bouncing up and down on the step machine with an Emirati policeman prowling around.

But, later that day – still on a police theme – I read a brilliant post from a blog I follow based in Abu Dhabi, the capital of the UAE. The blogger writes The Reluctant Emigrant, inspired by recession in Ireland and emigration to the Middle East, and had just experienced a run-in with a UAE squad car – something I try very hard to avoid out here.

I hope she doesn’t mind me recounting her story.

In her words, she was ‘driving at the speed of a 10-year-old people carrier in need of a service’, when she was surprised to see the flashing lights of a police car in her rear view mirror. He tailed her, pulled in right behind her and engaged even more flashing lights to get her to stop.

Abu Dhabi residents face fines for having dusty cars

Abu Dhabi residents face fines for having dusty cars

“During the 24 steps it took him to get to my driver’s mirror, the world slipped into slow motion,” she writes. “I pictured myself being cuffed while face-down on the bonnet for some minor road offence. The children taken into care and the car confiscated, all because I didn’t use my indicators on the roundabout or some similar mistake.”

The young Emirati officer tapped his stylus on his electronic notepad and told her: “Madam, in order to maintain the aesthetic appearance of the city, I will have to issue you a warning to go home and wash, otherwise there will be a fine.

“Under UAE law, it is a crime to have your car this dirty,” he continued. “Please wash immediately. Also, I will warn you it is illegal to wash using water outside your home, so you must visit service station.”

Seriously, you can’t make this stuff up!

RIP Hanny-Wanny

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The hamster is no more. I can’t even begin to tell you what happened. Let’s just say, I’ve vowed that, other than our cat, we won’t have any more pets until after the summer.

Summer 2018.

Our astounding failure at rodent petcare aside, I’ve been answering some tricky questions about hamster heaven.

“Is it on a cloud?” (yes, very high up); “What do they do up there?” (they’ve got wheels, tunnels, exercise balls and all sorts); “How do they get there?” (erm, fly); “Can you see them go up?” (no, it’s too fast).

Hamster heaven: The fun never ends

Hamster heaven: The fun never ends

And the question that had me stumped: “Which was the first hamster to go to hamster heaven?”

Then there’s the difficult, thorny issue my older son is really angry about: “Why did the vet kill Hanny-Wanny?”, followed by a dramatic outburst of tears.

He was surprisingly attached to his hamster, despite the brevity of it all (two weeks!), and even my DH wouldn’t sign the euthanasia paperwork, leaving that one on my conscience.

But it was the kindest thing after the unspeakable, and the vet (who was gorgeous!) was very understanding.

“It’s a good idea to replace the hamster,” he mentioned helpfully as we said goodbye to dear Hanny-Wanny, “for zee emotions.”

“And, for boys of this age group,” he said, glancing at BB and LB standing silently and solemnly by the examining table, “I suggest a guinea pig. They’re a lot more robust.”

Silent Sunday: The waiting room

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When we moved to the UAE, I realised our days of sitting in NHS doctor’s surgeries reading tatty magazines and looking at the pot plant on the windowsill were over (and believe me, I have mixed feelings about this).

This is one of the places we go to for healthcare. The 60,000-square-foot state-of-the-art centre is located in a shopping mall. You go to Fashion Parking and can valet park if you like. This is the airport terminal-style waiting room where you can people watch on stylish seating, before being led off to one of the 50 consultation suites. In all honestly, I still haven’t quite got used to seeing the doctor at the mall.

Here’s one of the places we go to for healthcare. The 60,000-square-foot state-of-the-art centre is located in a shopping mall. You go to Fashion Parking and can valet park if you like. This is the airport terminal-style waiting room where you can people watch on stylish seating, before being led off to one of the 50 consultation suites. In all honesty, a fan of the NHS, I still haven’t got used to seeing the doctor at the mall (and having a laparoscopy or MRI while you could be shopping for shoes, I’m just not sure!)

Not a sponsored post, but more info at Mediclinic Dubai Mall.

Earthquake: Part II

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The earth moved again yesterday, causing more evacuations and panic than last week’s shake and sparking a flurry of media reporting on how tremor-proof Dubai’s high-rise buildings are.

There were initial reports that the world’s tallest building, the Burj Khalifa – nearly 1km (828m) high – had been evacuated, but this actually wasn’t true. However, across the city, lines of workers filed down stairs and poured out of buildings to mill around outside, jamming the phone networks as they called family and gazed up at their office towers.

I say ‘filed’ down – but in many cases it wasn’t exactly a leisurely stroll downstairs. “There’s nothing like a bit of an earthquake to make you run down 19 floors,” wrote a friend on Facebook. “Scary as hell!” Another friend and work colleague texted to say she’d legged it from our 20th floor office (I would have done too, wouldn’t you?).

While authorities urged everyone to remain calm, a BBM message half an hour later started a rumour that another aftershock was coming, leading to a number of buildings to be re-evacuated

While authorities urged everyone to remain calm, a BBM message half an hour later started a rumour that another aftershock was coming, causing a number of buildings to be re-evacuated. Images via Emirates 24/7

But before telling you my earthquake story, I want to point out I’m well aware we’re fortunate. The UAE isn’t a high-risk earthquake zone; we merely feel the tremors and aftershocks that stem from major earthquakes in Iran.

Yesterday’s, which measured a powerful 7.8 on the Richter scale, hit border regions between Iran and Pakistan; while some say it was the strongest quake to hit the region in 35 years (on par with the earthquake that killed an estimated 68,000 people in Sichuan province, China, in 2008), the number of casualties keeps changing, from at least 40 last night to ‘several’ today, if Iranian TV is to be believed.

The truth is they probably don’t know, because rescue teams were still on their way to the remote regions that were affected, but it’s thought the depth of the quake (50 miles down) may have saved many lives.

In the UAE, by the time the tremors reached us, they were small (between 4 and 5 on the scale), but still shook buildings across the emirate. Tower blocks swayed, books fell off shelves and cars wobbled.

“While stopped at a red light, we felt our car shaking,” a friend said. “My husband and I both looked back to see if our daughter was kicking the seat, then we decided it must be windy.”

“My husband thought someone was outside the SUV messing with him because it was rocking so much,” another friend added.

So did I feel anything this time?

Nope, not even a judder. And I was down in Media City, which judging by the number of evacuations that took place was something of a mini-epicentre. I was doing a half-day at work and had just left my desk, literally five minutes before. I rode the elevator down 20 floors, grabbed a tea in the Bakemart and that’s when it must have happened – as I sat sipping my drink under the eaves of our tower block.

How I managed to not feel a thing, I have no idea.

The first I knew of the earthquake: workers being evacuated from our building

The first I knew of the earthquake: office workers being evacuated from our building in Media City

On finding out your kids know nothing about pet care – a.k.a. parent FAIL

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“NOOO, don’t drop her,” I yelled, steam coming out my ears. “Put her back in her cage THIS MINUTE!”

The boys had been mysteriously quiet upstairs for over an hour, and I thought I’d better check on them. Turns out I was right to be concerned. They were on the top bunk, about to let their new hamster kamikaze over the edge onto the rug below.

(The equivalent of jumping off a 20-storey building, I’d imagine).

O.M.G!

For some reason, I’d thought it would be in-bred in my children to be kind to animals. Surely? I mean, I can’t even kill an ant without feeling guilty – that must have rubbed off?

Last week, when the hamster arrived, the boys’ excitement knew no bounds. Here’s a photo. BB likes using my phone to take ‘jail bird’ pictures of her behind bars.

They’d already been through stages of wanting a mouse, then a rat (spare me, please!), so fulfilling their rodent-owning desires by adopting a hamster seemed a great idea in comparison

They’d already been through stages of wanting a mouse, then a rat (spare me, please!), so fulfilling their rodent-owning desires by adopting a hamster seemed a great idea

Before you tell me to start saving now for the years of psychotherapy BB’s probably in for, I should add that this was a much-wanted pet.

And, as members of the rodent family go, she’s really very cute, snuffling her way around and propping herself up onto her back legs to sniff the air.

For the first four or five days, the children treated her like royalty, carrying her cage downstairs every day and setting it in the middle of the living area as a centerpiece. They renamed her Hanny-Wanny and made her a selection of toys to swat out of pieces of cardboard and string.

The only time they suddenly weren’t interested in her (and disappeared, in fact) was when it was time to clean out her cage (“We don’t have gloves, mummy!”)

But, then, I realised they might be getting a bit carried away. A never-ending procession of friends were invited over for a meet-and-greet, and they started doing more than just putting her in her exercise ball.

What I’m trying to say is they didn’t flick through a book on Keeping Pets to find some hamster-friendly ideas. They looked on YouTube, where they found video clips of hamster mazes made out of Lego. And then copied what they saw.

DH and I put a stop to the hamster maze game, and thought everything was under control. Until we caught them red-handed on the top bunk, the fun gone way too far, about to send her on a cordless-bungee jump.

We were furious, believe me. I attempted to teach them about empathy, while DH raged: “She’s NOT a cheap Chinese toy. You HAVE to look after her. If anything happens to her, you won’t get another one.”

BB started crying, big fat tears rolling down his cheeks, his lips quivering – at least showing some remorse – and begged us to believe he’d look after her better. “I promise,” he whimpered. “I’m the hamster’s daddy, we won’t do it again.” [his eyes welling up once more]

Then, to our dismay (revealing he thought she would be replaced), whispered: “But won’t she lay an egg soon?”

Quite honestly, I wasn’t expecting any of that. I’m now doing all I can to make sure this hamster isn’t the brightest two weeks of my children’s life.