Escape from Dubai’s lockdown

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With lockdown finally eased, I’m craving a trip to the beach. I need to check it hasn’t disappeared, that the horizon is still there, the waves still rolling in and out.

Perhaps I’m being a Covidiot. The beach is still off limits. And it’ll be a hundred degrees, with burning hot sand that’s probably already too hot to safely walk on. But I need to see the sea. 

I also want reassurance that the existence of the rest of the world isn’t just a figment of my imagination and that life outside the compound we call home, the concrete compound we’ve barely ventured out of for all these weeks, is continuing. 

There’s little scenery to speak of in our compound – just bricks and mortar, and pavement and roads laid out in rows. Pre-pandemic beautification efforts in private gardens and porches add bursts of colour, but the greenery in communal areas is already beginning to wither. It’s almost as though it’s recoiling from what’s to come – the long summer months during which grass, plants and shrubs are scorched by the hottest sun on earth.

If life doesn’t feel dystopian enough now, it surely will by the end of August,

I find myself day-dreaming about walking through a lush forest, under a canopy of trees. The kids kicking leaves, even building a treehouse. Friendly woodpeckers tapping away, and that most English of birds – the Robin Redbreast – ducking and diving through the branches.

Though, if I’m entirely honest, I know this isn’t the reality for most Brits in lockdown. In the neighbourhood I lived in when I first moved to London, if I saw anything green, it was more likely to be a crisp packet floating by, or a discarded beer bottle. 

But I can’t be the only desert dweller craving visiting a beauty spot with room to breathe and listen, with nature all around, and who’s wondering why on earth they chose to live in the desert.

Still, now is not the time to make major life decisions – it is a time to whinge about the ones we’ve made in the past. 

And so it was that, after weeks of me complaining about not visiting the beach, DH finally snapped. 

“Let’s go on a staycation – just for a night,” he suggested.

“But we CAN’T,” I wailed. “We can’t afford it – we should be saving every dirham right now, not spending our money at lavish hotels.”

“Actually, if it cheers you up, it’ll be worth every dirham.”

To be continued

Fatboy Slim in Dubai: The mid-life rave

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It was smilies all round at the Media City megaparty

I’ve always said Dubai is the best place in the world to see live music – with good weather (almost) guaranteed, a venue right outside my office, and, at this particular amphitheatre, my work carpark – meaning I can make the quickest get-away in the Middle East when it’s all over. 

The fantastic Eminem concert the previous week might not have lived up to these expectations organisation-wise – and I won’t be hurrying back to the Du Arena any time soon – but Party in the Park at the Media City amphitheatre promised to be a hassle-free way to see Fatboy Slim in Dubai, and without that nail-biting, stomach-in-your-mouth drive to Abu Dhabi.

I’m so glad I went! There were numerous performances – from Lighthouse Family and Richard Ashcroft among others – as the lead-up to the headline act, Fatboy Slim. Remember him? He’s the superstar DJ, producer and hit-maker (aka Norman Cook) who’s been persuading people to dance their socks off for decades. 

My ticket for Fatboy Slim in Dubai was for entry after 9pm, which meant by the time I arrived many hard-core concert-goers had been drinking for hours. On my own, with a very vague arrangement to meet a friend of a friend, I was immediately apprehended by Mr Off-his-Head from Ireland.

“Where you from?” he asked. His words were slurred, but the Irish lilt was unmistakable.

“Erm, England,” I replied cautiously. I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea, but I also didn’t want to be rude – and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a tiny bit pleased I was still chat-up-able!

Several minutes of drunken lechery later, I gave up being polite and, after he merrily told me how much he hated the English, I attempted to shake him off. I strode away but he followed, stumbling along as though the ground was the deck of a storm-tossed boat.

“St-st-stop,” he called as he lurched forwards. “Get lost!” I wanted to reply, but again, politeness, won the day. He caught up with me, and when he reached me, the rank odour of his booze breath was even more pungent than before.

“I lurve you,” he spluttered and threw his arms around me like I was the last life jacket on a sinking ship. “No I do, I lurve yoouu!”

“You don’t even know me,” I retorted and fled!

At 10pm (and that little incident forgotten), Fatboy Slim appeared on set to rapturous applause and cheering. “I’m in Dubai,” he roared as fire jets let off perfectly timed, giant flames at the front of the stage. “Eat, Sleep, Rave, Repeat” spurred the crowd on even more and, within no time, 56-year-old Norman had transformed the amphitheatre into a thumping rave.

Still full of energy, Norman pumped his fists, mimed along to the songs, and kept his audience mesmerised. I was loving it – the half carnival, half superclub experience, the stomping beats, the feeling I was at a mid-life rave, the hands-in-the-air moments, the incredible lighting, imagery, video and graphics. Slim, a seasoned performer and the lip-syncing life of the party, was giving us his best and not about to go gently into the night. It was AWESOME, almost like being transported into another realm!

Until the rave reality check happened. 

Son1, aka The Teenager, called my phone. “Mom, WHERE are you?” he demanded. “I need to borrow some money.”

Eminem ticket holders left stranded in Abu Dhabi

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Eminem Abu Dhabi
When a large crowd assembles for a concert, you’d think the organiser would have figured it out beforehand Eminem and I go back a long way! When my DH was offered a job based in either Detroit or Minneapolis some years ago, I’d just seen Eminem’s film ‘8 Mile’ set in Detroit. Let’s just say the movie made Detroit look rather gritty. Having never visited either city myself, I picked Minneapolis – and absolutely loved living there for a good five years. I’ve always thanked Eminem for that life choice.  When I heard Eminem Abu Dhabi was planned, I snapped up tickets. Then spent several months resisting Son2’s requests to bring him along too (Son2 thinks he’s gangsta – it was right up his street, but something told me it would be a bad idea). I was right. The organisation of the concert was a fiasco! We arrived to find riots were practically breaking out outside the venue. Thousands of people with tickets were locked outside, unable to get in due to a hopelessly inadequate queueing system. They appeared to be letting about a hundred ticket holders in at a time, and each time this trickle through security was allowed, there was a massive surge outside the gate. People jumped over barricades, pushed, climbed hoarding, stampeded – it was INSANE! Dangerous. There was not a single staff member in sight among the vast crowd outside – just a handful of security guards who’d completely lost control. On Twitter, there were reports the security guards had batons, and had threatened to use them. Then the police showed up… in droves. Other than the near-rioters and stampeders, most of the concert-goers were well behaved – just beyond frustrated that they’d paid so much money for tickets for Eminem Abu Dhabi and couldn’t get in. The disappointment was palpable. Think Flash -shame on you. Did you not think about the dangers of waiting crowds? And all the while, a recorded message played on repeat: “Enjoy the concert”. Many of these legit ticketholders gave up, and we would have done too, but something really weird and wonderful happened as we stood in our going-nowhere queue outside the Du Arena  – with, the final insult, no internet access! (For readers outside the UAE, Du is one of the country’s two telecoms operators). Someone (to whom I’m so grateful!) approached DH and I and beckoned for us to follow him with our tickets. There was a small flap in the hoardings that opened up to reveal a holding area, where the line snaked back and forth like a theme park queue. Suddenly, we were standing in the right place, and very quickly, we got in to the actual venue, where there was still plenty of space, and another 20,000 or so people wondering why the start of the concert was so delayed. I’ve no idea how we got so lucky. Maybe it was my sparkly, US-flag shorts, or maybe I looked old or pregnant. Either way, you had to be a real slim shady to actually see Eminem last night – who, I should add, was absolutely incredible – beyond brilliant – once he got started. A true superstar. I might even put Detroit on my bucket-list.  

How to completely ruin your son’s birthday

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Son2 looks forward to his birthday for the whole month before. And as for his party, well let’s just say it was meant to be the highlight of his year. Thirteen boys (it did occur to me that this might be unlucky for some) coming to bounce at a new US-style trampoline park, followed by pizza and ice cream cake. What could go wrong?

The day of his birthday party finally dawned. Son2 came downstairs in the morning a little tired, having had trouble sleeping he was so excited. We sat on the sofa together, watching TV.

I felt a bite, some kind of insect bite – possibly an ant. Wow, that’s itchy, I thought. I put it down to the fact the bug had crawled across me, and bitten me several times. 

Party pooper!

Next thing I knew, I was itching all over. Like my skin was on fire. The intensity of it was astounding – a thousand microscopic knives just under my skin. The urge to furiously scratch was overwhelming and I turned as red as a lobster.

Then I started feeling really ill. Looking back, it’s quite obvious what was happening (I’ve had it before, but never from an insect bite). I was suffering from anaphylaxis, a severe allergic reaction that’s much more common than you’d think. You get this strange sense of doom (often the first sign), accompanied by a cascade of scary symptoms such as wheezing, trouble swallowing, drop in blood pressure and fainting.

Scratching frantically at my scalp, I found DH and told him something was wrong. “I think you’d better take me to hospital,” I cried, panicked.

It took him totally by surprise, and not quite able to comprehend, he replied, “I think you’ve got head lice!”

“No, really! I haven’t!” I countered. “C’mon, we’ve got to go now.”

Fortunately, to cut a long story short, we easily made it on quiet roads to City hospital where I was treated for anaphylaxis with adrenaline and the reaction was stopped in its tracks – as was Son2’s party.

Sorry Son2 – you’ll enjoy the party re-do in two weeks’ time!

The best-laid plans and all… Damn ant.

Also read: The ninja lunge (and food allergies)

Meanwhile, look what’s opened at Dubai airport!

Hurrah for the happiness centre!

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The night before my parents arrived, my list of niggly, not-yet-got-round-to maintenance issues became impossible to ignore.

The hole in the garage wall wasn’t the problem – it was more the flickering lights downstairs that had turned the living room into a discotheque. It was a choice of sitting in the dark with the lights off, or under a strobe light. Which, knowing my boys, would hype them up so much we’d all end up looking like a series of crazy stills from some epic, horror movie.

My over-active imagination pictured all kinds of voltage surges, circuit overloads and faulty connections, so I got on the phone.

But who to call? Our compound’s maintenance services have changed hands several times and all the numbers I had stored on my phone were old. The portal for logging problems needed a password, which we didn’t know.

That’s when I found out we now have a Happiness Centre.

Yes, a happiness centre! Except it closes at 2.30pm, after which time it’s just an answering machine.

Undeterred, I called the happiness centre the next morning.

A quiet female voice answered. I explained and after several minutes of ‘circular’ conversation (very common in Dubai when you’re trying to be understood), I decided not to expect too much.

Low and behold (and credit where credit is due), the happiness centre worked a treat! A man turned up!

He stood in the doorway, his eyes wide and frightened. A bead of sweat dripped down the side of his face, forcing him to wipe it away with his hands. 

I know what you’re thinking – our household must have looked like a horror scene after all.

The maintenance man shifted his weight from foot to foot, still refusing to come in despite the heat outside.

“Dog,” he said and pointed at our pet desert mutt – who was swiftly sent out to the garden so our lights could be fixed.

Once he’d got over his terror at the dog, our maintenance man was an absolute sweetie, promising to come back to fix five other lights upstairs – once they’d been properly notified and the jobs were on his to-do list.

Next, between the hours of 7.30-2.30pm, and not on a weekend or public holiday, I’m going to hit the call centre for help with the hole in the wall.

Hurrah for the happiness centre!

“Mum was on the radio today!”

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I’ve always said that, given half a chance, opportunity knocks in Dubai – especially for those who, having given up a career and life in their home country, are forced to reinvent themselves. I’ve known so many friends who have discovered that pursuing their existing career in Dubai isn’t straightforward, and instead have taken up all sorts of new professions, from chocolate taster (after signing a diabetes waiver), mystery shopper and film reviewer on the radio to teaching assistant, maritime law specialist and interior designer. One minute you’re wondering what the hell to do with yourself, the next you’re designing cushions for the Sheikhs. Okay, that might have made it sound a wee bit too simple. There’s also a lot of hard work involved, but if you’re prepared to go for it, there can’t be a better city in the world in which to reinvent your life. Opportunity knocked for me this morning, in the form of a (mildly terrifying) invite to appear on Dubai Eye’s terrific Saturday morning show Talking of Books. I said yes, while thinking, “Me, really??” then consoling myself with the thought that, being radio, at least I wouldn’t have to worry about my hair or what to wear. (How wrong I was! Turns out these things are all live-streamed these days – hence the screenshot above from Facebook!) My boss at work, who frequently appears in the media, was delighted when I told him. It’s easy, he said, bestowing a confident smile on me. “Don’t take notes in – just speak off the top of your head!” I inhaled a sharp intake of breath. Let’s just say I’m glad HE was full of confidence. The thought of going in cold like that sent a panicky shiver through me like the start of panic attack.   And so I prepared beforehand as though I was about to sit an exam. Except it was a whole lot more fun than revising for exams. My task was to review Cecilia Ahern’s new novel Postscript, the long-awaited sequel to her best-selling debut PS I love you, and I loved the book. I also enjoyed swotting up on little nuggets of information about Ahern – such as the fact she was only 21 when she wrote PS I love you, and fresh out of college (How impressive is that?). DH helped with a practice run to the Arabian Radio Network building in Media City, and by the morning of the radio show, I figured I’d done enough prep to get me through.

I asked Son1 (from here on in known as The Teenager) if he was interested in listening. “Naah, it’s okay Mum,” he said from the sofa, where his PlayStation controller was sat in his lap. Headsets – similar to the pair I was soon to wear in the studio (left) – cupped his ears as though he worked in ground control. 

“Really? You could just listen to a few minutes,” I retorted indignantly.  He yanked the headphones off and gave me a glazed-eye glare. “You can watch it on Facebook!” I helpfully suggested. The Teenager spends HOURS, and I mean DAYS, glued to YouTube, so why not watch his mum on Facebook. “Maybe you could take a screenshot?” “Facebook? I don’t know how to use Facebook,” he replied, in the manner that 13-year-old kids adopt whenever anyone mentions this particular form of social media. Facebook, The Teenager believes, is for oldies.  So much for impressing the kids. When I got home, The Teenager asked what was for lunch, and had I ordered the groceries yet? But he did watch a clip of Talking of Books, in the end, with an agonised, embarrassed smile on his face, the blood rushing to his cheeks at the sight of his mum being live-streamed! And, just a few minutes ago, I heard Son2 pause whatever nonsensical jibberish he was watching on YouTube and tell his friend: “My mum was on the radio today!” 

Back to school – it’s complicated

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At breakfast on the first day of school, the smell of toast and sight of shiny shoes and packed bags reminded me of that bittersweet feeling from childhood, when you’re excited to see your friends but don’t want the holiday to be over. I remained cheerful as Son2 stared at his Coco-Pops. “It’ll be fun,” I said brightly. No reply. The corners of his mouth were turned down. His face looked like noodles sliding off a plate, all droopy and dripping and sad. “You’ll see everyone again – that’ll be good, won’t it?” I gave Son2 another overenthusiastic smile. Although actually I was feeling wobbly too. I was thinking about how fast time was passing. Taking the obligatory back-to-school photo had triggered waves of nostalgia about years gone by when my boys wore pint-sized uniforms and looked so cute and small in their Facebook photos. On the other hand, I felt like doing a happy dance and was ready to pop the Prosecco  – because, HALLELUJAH, school was back!
Back to school

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Meet Brittany Blum, a desert-dwelling mother of three who resolves to throw off the ‘trailing spouse’ label she hated anyway and reinvent herself in the sandpit. Having followed her husband to larger-than-life Dubai and lost him to another woman, Brittany decides to shake things up with the support of four very different friends: Adrianne, Natasha, her first ‘ex’ and a bottle of Prosecco.

Tony Robbins rocks Dubai (even the sceptics like me!)

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Picture courtesy of Najahi Events
How I had no idea who Tony Robbins is still astounds me (especially as my husband knew exactly who he was, referring me to an episode of Family Guy featuring Tony and late-night US TV). “He seems to be holding some kind of event in Dubai,” I said, “but don’t worry, I won’t be going – far too pricey.”  Well, it turns out I must have been the only person in Dubai, possibly the world, who hadn’t heard of Tony Robbins. When the publicity for his first-ever event in Dubai reached fever pitch, I turned to Google to find out why he was so famous: a motivational mogul, the internet told me, who has provided life advice to some of the most famous people in the world from Mother Theresa to Bill Clinton and Princess Diana. Not bad credentials. I started getting FOMO (fear of missing out), and before I knew it, I’d purchased a ticket. Let’s just say this wasn’t cheap, and I might have been better off buying a plane ticket and taking a short, exotic mini break. But, hey, the event promised not just great things, but life-changing, unimaginable things. Why, it might even teach me how to actually sell a couple of my books (love writing, monumentally rubbish at selling them!) The day dawned and off I went, by myself, a little unsure about what to expect by now (“Don’t drink the juice,” were DH’s parting words.) But I needn’t have worried about going solo as the moment I sat down, my neighbours greeted me with the enthusiasm of overexcited Labradors. “What brings you here today?” asked the man seated next to me, an overbright smile on his face. “What do you hope to gain?” Oh Bejeezus, I panicked, it’s one of those carey-sharey things – and I absolutely AM NOT into that. “Erm, just curious,” I replied, hoping he wouldn’t press me on the point. I tried to hide the cynic within me.  “You’re a little late,” said my new, super-keen friend (who, incidentally, told me he was there because his friend, a die-hard fan, had travelled all the way to the US from India just to see Tony Robbins, and he’d noticed how it really had changed her life). “Yes. Well …” I looked at my watch. I was indeed half an hour late because the event organisers had told me the WRONG TIME (typical Dubai, three different start times were given). “There’s another ten hours to go, right?” I laughed nervously.  To cut to the chase, it was a LONG time before Tony actually came on stage, with several support acts including Nick Vujicic, who has overcome life’s challenges despite being born with no arms or legs, Alicia Keys (nice female energy, but not really my cup of tea) and Prince EA, a US former rapper turned influencer/activist who struck me as the kind of person my kids watch on YouTube. My main takeway from his motivational speech was that you can download an app on your phone that will remind you three times a day that you’re going to die …  FINALLY, after about five hours, and the most enormous queues for any kind of food and drink, Tony Robbins leapt on stage, under strobe lights and booming speakers. He was greeted by the ten-thousand-strong crowd who jumped when he said jump, clapped with him, screamed, cheered, and generally got whipped into a hyped-up frenzy more wild than any DJ or popstar could achieve.
Tony Robbins in Dubai
Sheikh Mo in the audience
The final part of the day even saw H.H. Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid al-Maktoum and Crown Prince Sheikh Hamdan bin Mohammed bin Rashid al-Maktoum make a surprise appearance – an exciting moment that saw the entire crowd respectfully get to their feet while also craning their necks to get a glimpse of the royal drop-in.  Tony Robbins, we learnt, is a huge fan of Dubai, referring to it as “one of the finest cities on Earth” and estimating that this was his seventh or eighth visit to the emirate. In his signature gravelly baritone, Tony told a fully engaged, spellbound audience that he “often brings people to Dubai to show them what’s possible”. The self-proclaimed “success strategist” held court for the next four hours with the energy of a wildebeest in heat, and whatever you make of him, there is no denying he is an extraordinary speaker who knows exactly how to work a crowd of fanatical fans with precisely timed anecdotes and positive reinforcements.  Fire-walk, anyone? Aye!

“Motivation is like a bath – you need to take one regularly, but it’s not enough. You need a strategy.” – Tony Robbins in Dubai

When the school calendar is governed by the moon

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UAE school calendar governed by moon
What a start to the school year it was today! A day earlier than expected thanks to the vagaries of the UAE school calendar – and much to the kids’ dismay (hehe). I’ll explain.  On Thursday last week, everyone in Dubai knew there was a holiday coming up – Hijri New Year (Islamic New Year). The exact day of the holiday was subject to the sighting of the moon, however. And for several weeks it was thought that the first day of the working week (Sunday in the Middle East) would be called as the holiday.  On Thursday evening, office workers left in high spirits, fairly sure there was a three-day weekend ahead. The mood was tainted slightly by the office-wide email stating that we were all to keep an eye on our email over the weekend. The bosses still had to confirm whether Sunday was a holiday and, if not, it would be business as usual with normal office hours. But to be honest we all thought the holiday was in the bag (somewhat difficult to plan though, just in case). Anyway, you’ve guessed what’s coming… the Moon Sighting Committee spotted a crescent moon on Friday night. Saturday was called as the holiday. And Sunday was to be back to work as usual. The hoped-for day off work wasn’t going to happen. Sigh! But the real surprise was yet to come. Schools were due back on Monday 2nd, until the KHDA, the authority in charge of all Dubai schools, tweeted:
And so at 9am on Saturday, our school (and also other Dubai schools but not all) announced that the first day of term would be – surprise, surprise – the next day, and not the date originally on the calendar. You can imagine the furore that ensued!   Responses from baffled parents ranged from “But we’re not ready”, “We had plans”, “We’re not even back in Dubai yet” to “Well, they’ve been off long enough”, “D is excited – he’s had enough of me”, “G is just desperate to see his mates” to “Gotta love the UAE school calendar”. As for my own children, they didn’t even believe me. Son1 stared at me as though I’d just told him we were having boiled brain for dinner. Then he blinked, once, twice, like a badger caught in the sunlight and said, “You’re joking right?” “Nope,” I replied, deadpan. “Look …” I showed him the email, my nose twitching in an attempt not to laugh. A slow realisation dawned on Son1’s face, and I might have let out a sound that was half-snort, half-chortle. I felt a little bit sorry for them – but, honestly, not that much! Two months off was plenty for my noisy – and, by the end of the holiday, totally bored – duelling duo. Happy back to school kiddos! #SeeYa
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