Loves kids but couldn’t eat a whole one

We’ve had a tsunami of visitors over the past few weeks – and the great thing about having friends and family to stay is you get to do some of the touristy things in Dubai, which usually come third or fourth fiddle to the mundane everyday stuff.

And, of course, when home comes to visit, it’s the most wonderful chance to spend time with loved ones – in the sun, on the beach, at the pool and out at dinner. Until the time comes for them to leave, and you’re left sobbing on the sofa that it went so fast.

As well as my in-laws and my parents, my BF came to Dubai. I’ve blogged about her before as her life is more interesting than the grittiest soap opera.

She might not think so but, to me, hearing about her dating adventures is like a dose of reality TV starring my favourite character – and anything can happen!

Take her visit to Dubai’s Gold Souk to do some handbag shopping.

“We have Louis Vuitton, Prada, Mulberry, we give you good price,” called out a handsome fella with dark eyes and a chiseled jaw as she got out the taxi. BF couldn’t resist and followed him down a dark alley, up another one, through the winding streets until they reached a doorway.

There he led BF up some stairs to a thick bolted door, on which he knocked twice and then waited.

When the door opened, she was led into a room wall-to-wall full of copy bags. She bought four Mulberries and went to leave – but not before the handbag seller thrust his phone number into her hand, saying if she wanted to meet up he’d come running.

Then, in the taxi on the way home, she found herself deep in conversation with the driver about all sorts of ‘taboo’ subjects, from religion to marriage.

But her most promising ‘holiday romance’ was the good-humoured man she met on the airplane on the way home, who kept her entertained the whole flight and has since texted BF to see if they could meet up. BF has always harboured a desire to join the mile-high club, but promises me she passed up the opportunity, fearing the consequences on the Royal Brunei aircraft would be too great to bear.

Aside from providing a steady stream of hilarious stories, the thing that struck me about BF’s visit was just how much fun you can have with kids when you’re not the one responsible for feeding them, keeping them alive, dragging them to bed and clipping their toenails.

BF doesn’t have children of her own and admits that the older she gets, the less appealing she finds the idea – but she’s the most amazing Godmother and auntie to at least nine kids.

My boys and BF ran round like lunatics, squirting water at each other on the beach, and making each other laugh hysterically. She didn’t mind when BB puckered his lips as though to plant a kiss on her cheek and blew a huge raspberry – or when he held onto her in the swimming pool calling out ‘Giddy Up’ like she was his personal pack horse.

BF took it all in such good spirit – even when BB cheekily pulled her tankini bottoms down as she was getting out of the pool.

We all had such fun in the sun – and I miss BF (who blogs at lujat71) terribly now.

There is, of course, the possibility that BF, who spends her working life protecting children, will become a parent in the future – if she chooses to – perhaps not through conventional means. But for now – to use BF’s words, it’s a case of loves kids but couldn’t eat a whole one!

Would you like to be 20-something again?

“He said he could give me a J.Lo – for £5,000 extra,” my best friend told me excitedly over curry one night while I was in England this summer.

“A J.Lo, really?” I gasped, in amazement.

“Yes, but it’s too expensive. I’m just going to stick with the body lift!” said BF, explaining the procedure her cosmetic surgeon had in mind – her not-so-hushed tones causing the people on the table next to us to nearly choke on their tikka masala.

There was a very good reason why BF and I were so excited about her upcoming transformation, with or without a J.Lo butt. It would mark the end of a life-long journey for my friend, who, two years ago, underwent radical weight-loss surgery after battling obesity for as long as she could remember.

In the 48 months following her gastric bypass operation, BF more than halved in size. We called her the Incredible Shrinking Woman. She ate like a sparrow, and even came to Dubai to do all sorts of water activities that she would never have done before due to not wanting to be seen in a swimsuit.

While her weight loss has been nothing short of miraculous, the thing that’s been most wondrous to see is the way it’s ignited an interest in dating, something she didn’t have the confidence for when she was a larger lady. So, all of a sudden, in her 39th year, BF started seeing various men – it was like she was living her entire 20s, in the 12 months before turning 40.

This has all been quite illuminating, because when I had kids – and especially after moving into a compound in Dubai made up entirely of families – I became a fully paid-up member of the mummy mafia.

The advantages of membership include lovely DH, BB and LB, of course, a never-ending supply of neighbourhood playmates to distract the kids with and some great mummy friends to talk to while watching our off-spring play. I wouldn’t change a thing, but imagine my delight when I discovered I could re-live the thrill of dating via BF without actually being on the roller coaster myself.

Bloke1 came round to fix her computer a while ago and is still asking her out. Bloke 2 was in America so too far away. But it was Bloke 3 who stole her heart as they bonded over online Scrabble games. Until the despondent text message popped up on my phone.

“He’s dumped me,” it read, the let-down almost palpable.

It turned out he’d been to the dentist and the dental nurse had flirted with him, looked up his details on the computer and called him to ask him out (isn’t that unethical, not to mention rather forward, or am I really out of touch with this dating malarkey?)

We talked about kissing lots of frogs and BF drowned her sorrows – then made the most magnificent comeback.

“They say to get straight back on your horse,” she told me two days later. “I’ve got a date with a fireman on Friday.”

And now he’s Bloke number 4 and her new rough diamond (while Bloke 3, whose dental nurse proved to be no more than a fill-in, is back in touch wanting a rematch).

I’m so happy for her, I really am. She so deserves this. And I’ve also been reminded that, while things may feel a bit Desperate Housewives at times, I find the mummy mafia to be a far less bumpy ride.