When the housemaid’s away

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It was a day I wasn’t especially looking forward to: our live-in helper and nanny Catherine the Great was leaving on a well-deserved vacation.

Not for the first time – she returns to the Philippines for a month each year, but usually this is while we’re gone over the summer. This year, she’s going twice because there’s a special occasion at home she really wanted to attend in March.

In other words, it’s the only time in four years she’s left us [hangs her head in shame] to our own devices in Dubai, with one-and-a-half jobs and the children to juggle. [Gasps]

I could tell she was nervous. She had a long journey ahead to Manila, albeit in business class, and a 10-hour coach ride to her village.

pic1We talked about what to wear on the plane, to be wary of fellow, drunken passengers (my main advice was to travel semi-smart – no flip-flops, no shorts – and she took this to heart, looking glam as she left). We discussed how I could contact her. Then I realised what it was she was actually nervous about.

She looked at me sagely: “Will you be okay Madame? With the two boys? All by yourself.”

The worry in her eyes was undisguisable. OMG, I thought, she thinks I won’t cope. She’s sure the household will fall to rack and ruin with me in charge.

“Of course!” I replied, with a squeaky, too-high voice. “We’ll be absolutely fine. But you will come back, won’t you?” I asked with a nervous laugh.

She assured me she would (PHEW!) and I told her to go upstairs and help herself to as many of the baby toys in the cupboard as she could fit in her suitcase.

philippinesHer family lives on a rice farm in an impoverished part of the Philippines. They don’t enjoy all the trappings that we do in the West and anything we can send over really helps. There’s probably a whole island wearing my old clothes from Gap and Monsoon; and much of our baby stuff has already been shipped to her sister, who recently gave birth.

We hauled her suitcases – practically splitting at the seams – to the door and called a taxi. I’d bribed BB and LB with sweets to be extra-nice in the hope she might miss them (one was, the other wasn’t, the little minx) and then it was time: to let.go.

With a swish of her long, black glossy hair, and one last worried glance back, she was gone.

And suddenly I was staring down the barrel of no childcare and a job to hold down for the next couple of weeks. The silence of the abyss she left behind would have been deafening if it wasn’t for the fact I had to put a kicking-and-screaming BB in time-out for bidding Catherine goodbye while STILL on his DS machine – after which he RAN AWAY.

*Good* start.

pic2But, and I know you can’t wait to hear how it’s going, things have gotten a lot better. Day one, to my amazement, was remarkably smooth, even quite blissful. We reveled in the independence, loved having the house to ourselves. I moved things around in the kitchen; reinstated control and was practically doing pirouettes around the broom.

“Wow,” I thought. “This isn’t so bad.”

Fast-forward nearly a week, and the novelty has begun to pall, though to be honest – other than not finishing all my chores until 10pm – I think DH might have noticed her absence more than me. I’m finishing a work contract, so he had to take vacation (not sure he’d exactly call it that) and has been holding the fort at home; yesterday accumulating neighbourhood children as the day went on like a Pied Piper of Dubai.

Help with childcare and chores aside, I genuinely miss her – she’s a true gem, a gentle, kind and sweet-natured person and an adult companion in the house with oodles more patience than me.

I REALLY hope she comes back.

Now, where did she say the iron was kept?

Schmaltz alert: I love you all the way to…

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Several months before BB was born, our realtor in the States gave me a gift: the children’s book Guess How Much I Love You.

It was the first story I read to BB and quickly became part of our nightly ritual – a.k.a., my desperate attempts to get him to go to sleep.

How did we go from this at bedtime to a sneaky go at Minecraft under the covers?

How did we go from this at bedtime to a sneaky game of Minecraft under the covers?

The book still holds a special place in my heart because, just as Little Nutbrown Hare thinks he’s found a way to measure the boundaries of love, the children and I like to fondly one-up each other at bedtime.

“I love you all the way to the moon,” BB will say.

“I love you all the way to Pluto and back,” I’ll respond.

And so on, until we find ourselves doing circles round the Universe.

Recently, though, there’s been an uninvited guest at bedtime: the iPad. BB has managed to sneak it up to his top bunk a few times now to play games under the covers (and with a BYOD – Bring Your Own Device – programme at school, it won’t be long until it finds its way into his school bag too).

My 4yo is fast following in BB’s electronic footsteps, and took our little game to a whole new dimension tonight.

“I love you Mummy,” he called out in the dark. “I love you all the way,” he said, pausing for a second to think how to outdo me…“all the way to the highest level.”

Silent Sunday: The fate of the QE2

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Ever wondered what happened to the QE2? Here she is, seen from a sightseeing seaplane ride we did a little while ago. She’s been moored at Dubai’s Port Rashid since November 2008. Plans to turn the ocean liner into a floating hotel docked beside the Palm Jumeirah unfortunately never came to fruition, but despite sitting idle for more than four years, she has apparently been well looked after by a 38-strong crew.

Departing Dubai’s waters: Her future has been the subject of intense speculation, but it now looks like the world-famous ocean liner is to set sail again – to Asia. A deal has been struck to refit the ship as a 500-room hotel, docked at a port in China.

Departing Dubai’s waters: Her future has been the subject of intense speculation, but it now looks like the world-famous ocean liner is to set sail again – to Asia. A deal has been struck to refit the ship as a 500-room hotel, docked at a port in China.

“C’mon! MOVE!”

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A little problem developed this week – just of the frustrating variety, so nothing serious, but I think we’ve ALL been there.

It started on Mother’s Day. Sunday is a school/work day for us and it began like any other, with the addition of my parents staying.

I’d parked the car to drop LB at school, and that’s when it hit me between the eyes: A Mother’s Day special.

head-strong someecards“I’m not getting out,” LB huffed.

“Oh yes you are,” I replied.

“Oh no I’m not!” “Yes you are”; “No”; “YES” [possibly said with a hiss]. Back and forth we went, like a game of ping-pong.

I won this battle, but it was just the prelude. He refused to walk through the mosque (strange phobia about only taking this short-cut if no-one else is there), then stopped at the edge of the sizeable, grassy field we have to cross to reach the right side of the school.

He crossed his little arms, and planted his feet firmly in the grass: “Too far. NOT walking.”

And, believe me, I tried everything. I talked nicely. I got cross. I gave him an evil look (apologies: way too early, knackered, lost the will to parent). I walked all the way across the field myself, thinking he’d follow. He didn’t.

After being locked in Round 2 for five minutes or so, and getting late by now, another mum, who happened to also be a teacher, came to the rescue and distracted the inner monster LB enough to allow me to drag – yes, drag – him to his classroom.

The next day was of course groundhog day (as was the next day). But, happily, this morning, I found the solution! And it was nothing more than parking next to the big yellow school buses, which not only meant a slightly shorter walk but also made it fun – for the four-year-old, at least.

Who knew? That, as a parent, you’d have to conjure up fun and games at 7.45 in the morning. Talk about absolutely.blimin.clueless!

The route he has to walk: I know his legs are short, but seriously, it can't be more than 250m

The route we walk: I know his legs are short, but seriously, it can’t be more than 250m

Dubai Miracle Garden

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I’d seen the sign in the corner of my eye while driving home from work last week: Dubai Miracle Garden. Hmm, I’d thought, I wonder what on earth THAT is?

You spot signposts laden with superlatives all the time in Dubai. On the last stretch of main road on my way home, you’re directed to an incongruous-sounding place known as Endurance City, and as you wind through the desert to our compound there’s a mysterious sign for somewhere called Lifestyle City – pointing, quite literally, to the barren middle of nowhere.

Judging by all the construction activity, I presume this ‘city’ of gym-loving, organically self-sufficient lifestyle disciples will soon rise from the sand, like the rest of Dubai.

The promise of a ‘miracle garden’, however, conjured up fleeting images of a children’s crystal garden chemistry experiment that were promptly erased from my mind in my rush to get home.

Puts my row of bougainvillea to shame

Puts my row of bougainvillea to shame

Then, the garden, which has sprouted just five minutes from our house, was featured on one of my favourite blogs. “By amazing garden, I don’t mean that Fatima round the corner has planted some new geraniums,” the author promised. She was talking about a site that claims to be “the most beautiful and biggest natural flower garden in the world.”

We were intrigued enough to pay the garden a visit this morning. My parents are staying and long-time readers will know my mum’s a gardener – I’d go so far as to say she’s a horticulturalist. “It won’t be like England, Mum,” I warned. “But this could be interesting.” And who wants to see the Burj when you’ve seen it hundreds of times already.

Opened on Valentine’s Day, Dubai Miracle Garden contains an incredible 45 million flowers, growing on land that was previously parched desert. The 72,000-square-metre site is a mass of colour, with traditional flowerbeds and topiary-style displays fashioned into hearts, pyramids, maypoles, igloos, birds and stars. In true UAE-style, there are cars with petunias and marigolds growing out of them, as well as a huge falcon covered in red and white blooms.

I’ve quite honestly never witnessed anything quite like it. If you’ve been to the UAE, you’ll have seen the pretty roadside displays of flowers that adorn the city’s junctions and roundabouts – the Miracle Garden takes these to a new and grandiose level, with an amusing twist.

Female Emirati students on a field trip

Female Emirati students on a field trip

Against a backdrop of arid desert, cranes and the replica space shuttle and rollercoaster that tower over Motor City, it’s a brilliant and expansive kaleidoscope of colour that brightens up the dusty, half-developed, suburban landscape no end.

So what did my green-fingered mother make of this explosion of flowers in the desert?

“Unique,” my mum ventured, “but not exactly natural,” she added, referring to the fact that not one flower is native to the region.

It takes a mind-boggling amount of water to establish a desert oasis like this – and keeping it alive in hostile conditions requires huge quantities every day. It’s made possible, the developer says, “through judicious re-use of waste water, through drip irrigation.”

But despite the lack of native plants more suited to the climate, we thoroughly enjoyed strolling around the Miracle Garden and walking under pergolas decorated with garlands of flowers. With plans to add retail outlets, restaurants and shops, and to change the floral displays each season, I’ve a feeling we’ll be back the next time my parents stay.

For further information, please visit the garden’s website.

Whatever you do, don't pick the flowers - there are security guards who appear to jump out from behind the petunias with whistles

Whatever you do, don’t pick the flowers – there are security guards who appear to jump out from behind the petunias with whistles

While the word 'natural' raised an eyebrow, it was certainly real enough to give me hay fever

While the word ‘natural’ raised an eyebrow, it was real enough to give me hay fever

Silent Sunday: Humps ahead

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The camel – an iconic symbol of Emirati culture and a topic of conversation among our neighbours this weekend. On Friday, four kamikaze camels were spotted meandering along the major highway that runs past our compound – giving a new meaning to the phrase ‘speed bumps’. Drivers beware!

At least this one (which I photographed at Bab Al Shams) isn't going anywhere fast...

At least this one (which I photographed at Bab Al Shams) isn’t going anywhere fast…

Whinging holidaymakers

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We see our fair share of tourists here in Dubai – in winter, they’re the ones in the sea or pool, frolicking in the chilly water while those of us who live here year-round don’t even put our big toe in.

In summer, holidaymakers are the ones who totally underestimate the heat, and set out on foot only to return 15 minutes later drenched in sweat, the colour of beetroot and with a mild case of heat stroke.

I’ve passed many a happy few minutes observing the habits of visitors to our glittering emirate – from the beautiful Russians who strike model-like poses for their holiday snaps to the Gauloise-smoking French who wave my children away on the beach with a flick of the hand.

But tourists round the world, I’ve realised, share many similarities – one of which is a tendency to moan. I’m sure all nationalities do this, but I did find this list, from Thomas Cook Holidays detailing some of their UK clientele’s genuine complaints (and doing the rounds via email), especially hilarious.

"The beach was too sandy!"

“The beach was too sandy!”


Enjoy!

– “I think it should be explained in the brochure that the local store in Indian villages does not sell proper biscuits like custard creams or ginger nuts.”

– “It’s lazy of the local shopkeepers to close in the afternoons. I often needed to buy things during ‘siesta’ time – this should be banned.”

– “On my holiday to Goa in India, I was disgusted to find that almost every restaurant served curry. I don’t like spicy food at all.”

– “We booked an excursion to a water park but no-one told us we had to bring our swimming costumes and towels.”

“We found the sand was not like the sand in the brochure. Your brochure shows the sand as yellow but it was white.”

“No-one told us there would be fish in the sea. The children were startled.”

“There was no egg-slicer in the apartment.”

“We went on holiday to Spain and had a problem with the taxi drivers as they were all Spanish.”

“It took us nine hours to fly home from Jamaica to England. It took the Americans only three hours to get home.”

“I compared the size of our one-bedroom apartment to our friends’ three-bedroom apartment and ours was significantly smaller.”

“There are too many Spanish people. The receptionist speaks Spanish. The food is Spanish. Too many foreigners now live abroad.”

“We had to queue outside with no air-conditioning.”

“It is your duty as a tour operator to advise us of noisy or unruly guests before we travel.”

“I was bitten by a mosquito. No-one said they could bite.”

“My fiancé and I booked a twin-bedded room but we were placed in a double-bedded room. We now hold you responsible for the fact that I find myself pregnant. This would not have happened if you had put us in the room that we booked.”

A walk down bad-fashion memory lane

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You’re going to think I’m a bit of a raver (which I’m not really), but at the weekend I went to my second concert in just over a week – this time, rewinding back yet another decade, all the way to the ’80s.

If you don’t remember the ’80s – and plenty of the girls at work claim not to (“It’s not my era,” said one PA, clearly born in about 1992) – it was a time when we thought stone-washed jeans, leg warmers, big hair and shoulder pads were seriously cool. I’m sure I recall sitting in the bath with my drainpipe jeans on, convinced this would shrink them even more.

Ah, remember the look? The pink-mesh leggings, pearl beads and fingerless gloves. Or best forgotten?

Ah, remember the look? The pink-mesh leggings, pearl beads and fingerless gloves. Or best forgotten?

But, among my friends and work colleagues, there are also those who, like me, remember the decade very well – and so we found ourselves hunting around online for discounted tickets to the ’80s concert (at 295dhs – £53 – a pop for the ‘pleb pit’, and 495dhs – £89 – for the golden circle, entrance wasn’t cheap).

After The Stone Roses the week before, it was a hard act to follow. The Stone Roses were proper Manchester cool, and you just couldn’t help but rock out under the stars. The 80s festival – featuring T’Pau, Heaven 17, ABC, Howard Jones and, ahem, Rick Astley – had a totally different, retro feel and, yes, there were people dressed up, in pink wigs and bad clothes.

DH dropped me off (flying later that night gave him a good excuse), and feeling a bit like the time traveller’s wife, I prepared myself to make the leap from the indie-filled ‘90s to the naff ‘80s.

I wasn’t disappointed. Years ago, I went to see T’Pau at Hammersmith arena and Carol Decker came on, coughed, and croaked: “I’ve got laryngitis, I can’t sing!’ We were all left in stunned silence as she ran off the stage and the lights came on (she did reschedule). This time around, she was a sweetheart, with a powerful voice that hit the high notes.

“Who lives in Dubai and who’s on holiday?” the flame-haired singer asked the audience (I swear she could pass for Sarah Ferguson). The response overwhelmingly suggested we were a bunch of (40-something) expats on the razzle. “No point plugging my UK dates then,” she conceded, before launching into China in Your Hand.

But the highlights for me – together with the dodgy lyrics on the ‘Lucky Voice’ karaoke we had to do – were Heaven 17’s rendition of Temptation and synth-pop trailblazer Howard Jones. In command of the keyboards (with an Apple Mac laptop perched on top, in case you’d forgotten what decade we were actually in), his songs really resonated.

So I did take a photo of Rick, before slinking out to the taxi tank

So I did take a photo of Rick, before slinking out to the taxi rank. “Give me a wiggle to remember on the plane home,” he said, cheekily. Moi?!!

I have to admit, I was never a Rick Astley fan, and couldn’t quite understand why everyone was so excited when he came on stage, with the words: “Get down, housewives!” I actually had to leave at this point, as once again DH was departing just after midnight, but I could see that you’d be forgiven for thinking he was singing directly at you.

And that, I realised, is the beauty of seeing bands in Dubai. It’s all on a much smaller-scale than in the UK or US, and so you feel very close to the stage and the acts themselves. Better still, you might even find yourself standing next to your favourite singer.

At The Stone Roses, Liam Gallagher, of Beady Eye, and Chris Martin, from Cold Play, were watching. A star-struck friend, just inches away from their VIP box, told me people were trying to take photos, and the singers’ kids helped by grabbing fans’ phones and taking close-ups of their dads.

Beat that, London’s O2 Arena, for letting the audience get up close and personal with super-star rockers. And as for the Dubai Rewind, if the number of teased-out mullets and muffin tops squeezed into spandex mini skirts was anything to go by, the night was a huge – and hilarious – success.

Silent Sunday: For meat-eaters only

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If you’re vegetarian, click away now! Still here? Then this week’s Silent Sunday is a photo of something I bought in our local supermarket at the weekend. I wasn’t sure if the ‘Cheep! Cheep!’ label on it was trying to tell me it was the best-value chicken in the store, or if it was a ‘sound effect’ to go with the ‘too-real-for-my-liking’ package design. Either way, I felt sorry for the bird!

Admits: My kids are still learning that chickens don't look like a chicken nugget, so this at least should help

Admits: My kids are still learning that chickens don’t look like a chicken nugget, so this at least should help

The bunk beds

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When siblings born not too far apart reach a certain age, the question often arises: Should they have bunk beds?

I first thought about bunk beds for my boys a year or so ago, but decided it would be bedtime hara kiri. Images of them jumping off the ladder and diving from the top onto the hard, marble floor quickly filled my mind.

Twelve months later, at 4 and 7, I revisited the idea, because the lovely Dubai Mum over at Dubai Mummy told me there was a sale at Kids’ Rooms with up to 75% off.

I’ll admit I also had an agenda. Years ago, on holidays in North Wales each year, my brother and I experienced the joys of wooden bunk beds with a rickety ladder and chicken-wire base. I’d take a torch up to the top, while my younger brother made a den below, and I distinctly remember wanting to go to bed so we could whisper in the dark (very clever, Mum).

Worth every dirham!

Worth every dirham!

At Kids’ Rooms, they showed me some colourful bunk beds that matched the paint in the room, and before I knew it I was spending DH’s hard-earned cash on not just the beds, but on pirate duvets and cushions, a drawer to go underneath and a thick-pile rug that looked like it would make a good crash mat.

Delivery wasn’t smooth, of course. There was a whole day waiting at home, at the end of which they told us they’d meant the next day. And when the truck did arrive, they’d forgotten all the bedding and managed to knock over a post just outside our villa, leaving a pile of crumbled concrete behind.

But it was all worth it: the boys love the beds and so do I, especially because it means, after reading their stories, they no longer expect me to lie down with them until they fall asleep.

There was a moment’s hesitation when this dawned on them: “But Mummy, how will you take us to bed?” asked BB, the penny dropping.

“Oh, I don’t think I can darling. Mummies aren’t allowed on the ladder,” I replied, peering through the rail at his top bunk.

And he was okay with that.

That, dear readers, is progress.