Starsky & Hutch security

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For the most part, the compound in which we live is a quiet place.

Apart from occasional activity at the nearby airbase (oh, and the ear-splitting sound of the Russian cargo planes that buzz us nearly every night), there’s definitely an air of calm about our community.

Located out of the city, in a vast expanse of never-ending desert, it feels very safe, family-friendly and removed from the hustle and bustle of Dubai.

The security guards who work here don’t exactly have a hard job. They man the entrance, waving in anyone who looks like an expat, and are seen walking round the compound looking for trouble – of which there’s usually none.

Their biggest excitement took place a couple of weeks ago, when the perpetrator of one of the few petty crimes to have been committed out here was busted. A housemaid, most likely from an impoverished background, allegedly stole a bicycle, somehow chopped it up into pieces and tried to get it out of the compound in a truck.

She was caught in the act and security swooped in Starsky and Hutch style. The police were called and sped into our community at break-neck speed, their lights flashing and a whirl of dust in their wake.

I honestly thought someone must have been shot in an expat gin-fueled domestic bust-up, the police officers moved so fast.

You see, a stolen bicycle is about as exciting as it gets if you’re a security guard working out here – which probably explains why they have to find things to do to keep themselves busy.

Like ambling around checking on parked cars.

My next-door neighbour left her vehicle parked in front of her villa, with the windows down, for an hour yesterday and discovered this note on the car.

In case you can’t read it, it (very politely) says, “Pls close your vehicle window glasses properly. Thank you”.

How I wish I had THAT MUCH time on my hands – but my favourite is number 3.

“……………….is leaking from your car and spoiling the appearance of the parking area.”

One can only imagine what they’ll come up with to fill in the blank.

Silent Sunday: Hello Asia!

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It’s not often that the stars align to allow DH and I to go on a trip sans kiddos, but this weekend they did, and we found ourselves in Hong Kong for 48 blissful, and did I say child-free, hours! (technically, I was tagging along, joy-riding on DH’s flight, while he worked his socks off flying there and back, but a girl has to grab some quality time with her man and the street markets when she can).

I’d honestly never seen such an incredible variety of goods for sale – you can literally revamp your wardrobe, buy a pet goldfish and entertain a child one street at a time

I’ve also never seen so many gaz-illions of people – 63,000 per square kilometre apparently. I must have bumped into at least a thousand of them whilst weaving through the crowds

And ALL connected and tapping away on electronic devices, on the go (even while walking)

With such a dense population it’s not surprising that the spread of infection is a concern, and I saw plenty of people wearing masks (along with signs on the metro saying anti-bacterial coating had been applied to the handrails, in addition to frequent disinfecting)

I loved the teeming metropolis though – from the lights to the shopping to the fusion of Chinese and Western influences, Hong Kong totally rocks

Flying with kids: Risky business

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A highly coveted perk among airline families – the holy grail for many I know – is being able to travel in business class with small children. Yes, your whole tribe, seated at the front of the aircraft, or up top in the case of the superjumbo – with acres of leg-room, fine dining and the chance for some mummy respite in the A380’s on-board bar.

This story was told to me by a fellow pilot’s wife and I’m repeating it here because the incident not only makes me hoot with laughter, but (and I know she won’t mind me telling you this) it was probably THE most embarrassing mummy moment of her entire nine years of motherhood. I think we can all relate, wherever we sit on the aircraft…

And then the day was finally upon us, and we could book seats for both myself and my small children in the business class cabin of the airplane taking us home.

Now THIS is the way to travel

Business class travel is indeed very special. The cabin itself seems to sparkle and twinkle with just enough ‘specialness’ to make anyone smile. But it’s the space that’s the real bonus. Not just the extra-large seats, or the super-big TV screens, there just seems to be enough space around you and your family to be able to settle in comfortably.

And settle in we did; the pillows a little softer, the blankets a little fluffier. I soon had both of my children cocooned into balls of happiness; DS happy to explore the myriad of games and cartoons on offer, DD’s little hands searching out all the extra buttons and switches not previously discovered on any seat before.

‘What’s this Mummy?’ she asked as she picked up the console that tucks neatly into a pocket on the arm of her seat.

‘Well, you can call the attendant by pushing a button here,’ I explain, ‘But wait, if you press here your seat will give you a massage.’ Peels of delight ensue from DD, already a disciple of the body rub, as she tries out all the different ways she could make her seat tickle and shudder. Was this not heaven? If I have a predictable difficult period with my daughter on flights it’s right at the beginning, getting her to settle down. But, thanks to the wonders of the juddering seat, we’re looking like the perfect family unit and I’m sipping champagne …

During our summer stay, the kids were quick to tell everyone about their trip in business class. ‘Oh!….how lovely’ was the response as most pictured these tiny dots sipping wine and eating caviar – and I would watch as their eyebrows disappeared up into their hair lines.

The cheese platter – and the kids won’t send it flying

‘And what was the thing you liked best about travelling in business class?’ they’d ask.

‘The computer games,’ was DS’s stalwart response. The games are the same, incidentally, wherever you sit on the aircraft.

‘The massage button!’ squealed DD, ‘I had a massage all the way from Dubai to England!’ Now, this was altogether more like the example of over-indulgence that many were on the lookout for. So on several occasions during our stay, DD was encouraged to repeat the story of the seat that gave her a massage and how she was going to have one all the way back to Dubai too.

On our trip home, as we board through doors at the very front of the aircraft, I immediately see that we are travelling in an older plane than the one in which we arrived. Characteristically stoic, DS flops down in to his ample seating, grabs the control and settles down for the long flight. Not so DD.

‘Oh no, Mummy. This is not right!’ She picks at the cover placed over the arm of her seat until it comes away in her hand only to reveal the arm of the chair.

‘But where is the thing? Where is the massage button? I can’t see it!’ Her lip beginning to tremble just as the gangways either side of us fill up with slow moving – hmm, yes, now stationary – economy passengers queuing quietly to get to their seats. I sense the impending storm …

‘Why don’t we see what film we can find for you to watch, or maybe a game to play….?’ My powers of deflection moving up into overdrive instantaneously. ‘Hey, do you want to look at my magazine…..? Have that chocolate bar I bought in the coffee shop just now….. how about my entire handbag? Here, take it. Take a good look……!’ But it was all in vain…

‘But I want a massage!’ DD cries, literally cries. Huge tears rolling down her cheeks as her whole body begins to heave. All eyes are on us. ‘It’s alright darling,’ I croon, pulling her tiny frame on to my lap, ‘It’s not the end of the world. There really are worse things that can happen.’

‘But it is!” she cries, ‘It is the end of the world! I don’t want to be on this plane. I want to get off this plane right now and get on one where I sit in a seat that GIVES ME A MASSAGE!’

Powerless to stop her, I resorted to putting my hand over her mouth in an attempt to muffle what she was actually saying.

Thank heavens for the crew member (who has probably seen it all). ‘Champagne madam?’ she smiles, ‘Or is that a very large white wine?’

Milk teeth are like buses

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I’ve finally been able to play tooth fairy! It’s felt quite a long time coming, because BB, who’s nearly seven, appeared to be holding onto his milk teeth for dear life – until one popped out last week.

It started wobbling a while ago. Then BB was able to swing it precariously with his tongue. He was both alarmed by its looseness, and excited by my reaction. “BB’s got a wobbly tooth!” I told anyone in our household who’d listen. “That means the tooth fairy will visit – if you’re good!” [a Santa twist, but Christmas is coming!]

After several weeks of hanging by a hinge, and BB refusing to bite into anything in case there was blood and gore, the tooth finally fell out – at school.

When he got home, he happily told us what had happened.

“Mummy, LOOK! My tooth fell out in the cafeteria. I’ve put it in my lunchbox.”

Childhood magic: The tooth fairy is a clever little pixie who knows which pillows to visit

We opened his lunchbox and took everything out carefully. We peered inside, then looked through the contents again. But, alas, no tooth.

“Are you sure BB? Maybe you swallowed it?”

“Someone must have stolen it,” he decided, rather forlornly. “Because they want the tooth fairy to come.”

That night, I suggested tentatively that we write a note to the tooth fairy to explain.

“Dear Tooth Fairy,” wrote BB, in his best left-handed scrawl [he tends to write backwards, but not this time]. “I lost my tooth. Please come anyway.”

The note was pinned on his bedroom door and BB drifted off to sleep safe in the knowledge that the tooth fairy wouldn’t give the money to whoever had stolen the tooth because the thief was sure to be a snorer who sleeps with his mouth open. The tooth fairy would see there wasn’t a gap – and anyway she just knows.

I slipped 10dhs under his pillow and crept away, knowing I probably wouldn’t see his reaction as it was my 5k race in the morning and I had to get up before sunrise.

But, my desire to actually see a tiny tooth nestled in tissue came true the next day, because – like buses – another rootless, pearly white dropped out that he managed not to lose. I have to admit I pored over it, turning it over like a precious stone and feeling quite emotional. It feels like yesterday, after all, that those teeth were just poking through, and now, here he is, getting all big and grown up on me.

So the tooth fairy has been twice, BB now loves to pull a gappy grin to show off the hole, and I’ve started a milk tooth collection in a silver keepsakes box.

The only upset person is BB’s little brother who now desperately wants to lose a tooth too. “When will my teeth wobble?” he’s been asking every night.

And, yes, I can’t help but wonder if the first tooth was in fact stolen – from under our noses, by LB.

Silent Sunday: 5k race day

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You might remember that a couple of weeks ago I blogged about regretting signing up for a 5K race on the Palm in Dubai.

Well, I did it! I’m quite proud actually, because I’m honestly not a runner, this was my first race and I truly thought I might be trampled under foot by a pack of joggers.

My DH, who was in charge of the camera, even took a picture of the ambulance, in case I got carted off in it and wanted to blog about it later!

Nearly 4,000 women from 71 different nations took part in the 5km and 10km races, creating a sea of pink along the Palm Jumeirah on Friday

Neck and neck with my mother-in-law: I wasn’t a happy puppy at 5.30am in the morning when the alarm went off, but on the home straight – with the finish line in sight – I managed a smile, despite the humidity

“My status updates are lies”

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Actually they’re not (that was just to get your attention!), but expats in Dubai are in pole position to win a Twitter or Facebook boast-off, it seems.

Three out of five adults in the UAE have lied on social media websites to sound smarter, according to a global survey. About the same number even confessed to tampering with photos to make themselves look more attractive.

I’m sure people do this all round the world (and who wouldn’t want their eyebags airbrushed, their fine lines smoothed?), but in this corner of the globe, we’re apparently particularly good at creating online personas as shiny as Dubai’s Gold Souk.

We’re so good at it, in fact, that two-thirds of the adults surveyed in the UAE wished they were more like their stage-managed online versions.

Twitter trumpet: “Dinner at the Burj tonight, champers tomorrow at brunch! #BeachLater #LifeIsGood”

So what is it that drives UAE residents to tell more fibs than those living across the rest of the Middle East and Europe? Why have more than half of us told ‘social lies’ to impress others?

The answer could be the lack of a support network. People move here away from their families and friends who know them well – and who would usually be the first to spot a lie.

Then there’s the pressure that exists to be successful in a city such as Dubai – and to show friends and family back home how supposedly glossy and exciting their new life in the UAE is.

How many desert-dwellers, for example, are guilty of putting photos up on Facebook of a smiling family in front of the Burj, with a bright-blue, cloudless sky in the background and the caption, “Beautiful day in Dubai today”, when in reality it was hot and humid?

The survey results got me thinking about some of the little white lies that mums in Dubai might tell … here are a few examples:

– “I was so lucky – my baby slept through the night from 10 days old”

– “I’d never let our housemaid get up in the night if Veronica was wailing!”

– “My daughter did her homework all by herself. Really.”

– “I never thought of looking on Pinterest for my son’s school project!”

– “Oh this old thing! [touches fuchsia pink Whistles dress] …I just found it in the cupboard”

– “My children would never eat chicken McNuggets!”

– “It was on sale”

– “The mummy tummy will be as flat as a washboard in six weeks”

– “My eyebrows are naturally high”

– “I’m sorry I can’t be class mum..I’m thinking of getting a job”

My brave superhero

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If there’s a time when you wish it was yourself who was being prodded, poked and scanned like a barcode, it’s when your child is undergoing unpleasant hospital tests.

We’ve known for a while that my oldest son has – and this is going to sound odd – an extra ear. Not on his head. On his bladder (a diverticulum is the proper name). It’s likely to need a fairly major surgery to prevent kidney damage and so we’ve been making a few trips to City Hospital recently for various tests.

The first of which I’m still traumatised about, because it involved the eye-watering insertion of not just one, but THREE catheters – with no pain relief or anaesthesia. But I’m blogging about the test he had this week because it opened my eyes to a branch of medicine I knew nothing about.

Nuclear medicine.

On the morning of the nuclear scan, I felt so bad telling him the good news – and then the bad news.

“BB, mommy and daddy are coming to pick you up from school today – early.”

“Really!” he grinned.

“But then we have to go to the hospital again, for another test. Nowhere near as bad as the last one, ” I added quickly.

“Awww,” he replied, a flicker of fear passing through his eyes, followed by silence.

Radioactive Man: BB gets special powers

Later, at the hospital, DH and I tried to remain jovial despite wanting to chew our fingernails off. We filled in the paperwork, tried to ask the technician in charge (who clearly didn’t speak English as his first language) a couple of questions and quietly reminded ourselves that this had to be done.

BB, who seemed far less worried than us, kept busy playing Angry Birds (don’t you just wish you could distract yourself that easily?)

He was totally unfazed, until the Filipino nurse inserted the needle – and then all hell broke lose.

“He will keep still, won’t he?” asked the technician, as the nurse injected the radioactive fluid that was to go round his body. “For 30 minutes.”

THIS was the part I was dreading. If he moved, the test would have to be done again. I just couldn’t imagine my darling boy not moving for a whole half hour – not my active 6YO, who doesn’t even stay still while asleep (he sleep walks, even!)

And so started the bribery.

“BB, you have to stay still. If you stay still, we’ll take you straight to Chuck E. Cheese’s afterwards. AND the toy store. You can buy whatever you want.

“How about that 135-piece 3D Titanic model you really wanted? Mommy will help you make it.” [boy, did I regret that one!]

“And Global Village – we’ll go there too. Tomorrow.”

It worked – his panic subsided, his breathing slowed.

“And BB, you know what? This test is going to give you superhero powers! You’ll be like Radioactive Man – for the rest of the day. How cool is that?”

Very, apparently. Enough to keep my little wriggler quiet and as still as a statue – almost – for 30 long minutes while the scan was successfully carried out. Phew!

He may not have glowed green that afternoon, but he is my superhero.

24-hour Sherpa shopping

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Dubai is known for its swanky malls and shopping festivals, and over the past three weeks it’s even been possible to indulge the habit at 3am on weekends.

Shopaholics, insomniacs and jet-lagged tourists were treated to round-the-clock shopping at several malls across the city as part of the Eid celebrations – though I hear it was mainly the food outlets that visitors flocked to in the small hours rather than the stores.

I wasn’t one of them – NOTHING, not even a night shopping deal would drag me from my bed and to the mall in the middle of the night, but we did end up at Mirdif City Centre on Saturday, where I found myself browsing the shop windows with a mixture of frustration and envy.

The stores are crammed with swathes of winter clothes – jackets, sweaters, faux furs, scarves – of the Sherpa variety.

I mean, have I missed something over the past four years in Dubai?

Like a big snow.

Cutsie winter clothes that my children will never wear in Dubai. When I popped in to look for a UV sun top, the assistant told me, “Sorry Ma’am, the season’s over.” Over! It’s only just begun!

I’d love to be able to wear this jacket, but if I did I’d feel like a boil-in-the-bag dinner. I know items like this are targeted at the tourists (despite surely not being any cheaper), but couldn’t stores like Gap, H&M and M&S modify their winter collections for Dubai? Per-leez?

And this shop window just takes the biscuit: HELLO! Do you know where we are? THE DESERT!!

Halloween in the desert

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Halloween is HUGE in our compound. It started on October 1 with spooky decorations on a few doorsteps, gathered pace as more households draped cobwebs over the bushes and strung up witches, and culminated last night with our community’s collective descent into trick-or-treatery.

To say the children were very excited is an understatement, and having lived in the States for five years, I can honestly say ‘we do’ Halloween* [whispers: I love this holiday! The children will gorge on bucketfuls of candy, I’ll help myself to copious amounts too – and that’s okay!]

Ready to scare: My littlest skeleton

The kids were dressed and ready by 4pm for a Halloween party next door, then, as night fell, we joined the droves of children outside and trooped from door-to-door under a full moon.

And, I have to say, as I accompanied my two skeletons on a balmy evening around streets aglow with jack-o-lanterns, I was really impressed by the wickedness some of our neighbours had dreamt up.

Not everyone takes part (and the rule is you don’t knock at villas with no porch light on), but many families who did get into the spirit had turned their doorsteps into mini Halloween dens – complete with scary sound effects and fiery torches in some cases.

A few highlights for us were:

– The household with the distressed maiden upstairs who dropped water bombs from the window – with a deathly scream

– The wobbly eyeballs (made from jelly and icing sugar) that were handed out in paper cups and made me whimper

– The dog dressed in a skull-and-crossbone outfit

– The drive-by trick-or-treaters sitting in a six-foot trailer pulled by a quad bike

– The ghoul standing in the dark who honestly looked like he could be fake, but then jumped out on me with an axe [insert horror movie screech]

– And the flying witch rigged up high above G street

* It took a couple of years in the US before I got it. Whilst still a learner, I sat at work one Halloween until 5, wondering why everyone was leaving early. Missed a trick there!

Best-dressed dad: We’d only got about 50 yards or so up our road when my friend informed me: “Just to warn you, all the kids are coming away from that house crying!” Our curiosity piqued, we nudged the kids in that direction, told them to be brave and watched (because after someone’s told you that, you can’t walk away without finding out why, can you?). Lurking in the shadows by their front door was the dad, dressed as a four-legged, long-haired monster, and as the trick-or-treaters filed up the path to line up at the door (yes, line up, there were that many out last night), he’d lurch forwards with a growl. Gotta love the crazy things people do on Halloween!

Rough nights

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I have to admit, I started the Eid half-term in a not-so-bright mood.

“When do I get a holiday?” I harrumphed to DH in a small self-entitled voice, before threatening to check into a hotel to have some ‘me time’ and a lie-in.

These outbursts are nearly always linked to tiredness, I’ve realised. And DH, who’s heard it all before, knows exactly what to do: he takes charge of the children and sits it out.

Then, the cooler Eid weather worked its magic. Suffice to say, Dubai’s blue skies are casting their spell over everyone again, tourists are flocking back in their droves and Eid turned out to be fabulous – almost like being on holiday in Dubai.

DH’s change of scenery – though I’m sure he wished he’d been able to see Noddy at the theatre with us!

But, parenting, it’s never smooth sailing, is it? Just when you think you might actually have cracked it, that it may even be getting a little easier, doesn’t something always happen to keep you on your toes?

Last night, as I settled in on the sofa, I heard the sound of little feet padding down the stairs. BB appeared, with glassy eyes and a vacant stare. Sleepwalking again! We’ve found him draped across various pieces of furniture in the middle of the night a couple of times now.

He’s pretty easy to settle when this happens, but what followed definitely fell into my ‘things I detest about parenting’ category: Projectile Vomit. EVERYWHERE. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, BB then slipped and fell facedown in it. Oh, the shrieks.

Oh, the MISERY.

LB, of course, woke too, and put on an Oscar-worthy performance pretending to be sick (never one to be outdone). And so there I was, wading in vom, trying to coax two boys back to sleep, when my phone pinged.

A text from DH: “Everything OK? I’m in Paris.”

Let’s just say that, after two really rough nights with zero bonhomie, the hotel stay is back on the agenda!