A revelation: On discovering that people can be any age, shape or size

Silver expats don

BB has noticed, since being in England, that there are a large number of grannies who aren’t just on a two-week holiday, but actually live here.

It’s a reminder that society in Dubai is sharply skewed towards younger people: families with small kids, older children and teens, and 20-somethings who’ve moved to Dubai to work hard and play hard at the city’s bars and beach clubs.

There are no communities of grey-haired grannies living the good life in Dubai. Aside from issues such as the high cost of living, frenetic pace of life and the heat, it’s tricky to obtain a residency visa once you’re 60 years old. So expats in the UAE have two choices: to repatriate to their home country or become a ‘rebound expat’ and choose another country, such as Cyprus, Spain or Portugal, in which to retire.

So it’s always nice – and very refreshing – to see the full range of society on our trips to England. And that leads me to something else BB has spotted: the fact that there are a fair few people here who are, shall we say, rather portly.

Dubai, in comparison, is geared up for thin people, from the smaller clothing sizes for the Asian worker population to the size10 svelte image aspired to by Jumeirah Janes.

JJ might even consider surgery to keep up with the ladies she lunches with three times a week

In an attempt to lose some baby weight, I joined a Weight Watchers-type group in the UAE and as we sat sipping skinny lattes in the Art Cafe, I realised it was the slimmest group of slimmers I’d ever seen. I swear no-one was bigger than a size 14.

The downside of BB realising that obesity is common in the UK is he’s also noticed my still-not-what-it-once-was tummy.

“Is there a baby inside?” he asked the other day, his eyes wide with horror.

“Nooooooo,” I screeched indignantly. “Absolutely not. Never. Ever. Again.”

He blames the fact I don’t race around the whole time pretending to be a train, like he does. I blame my mum’s delicious apple and raspberry crumble, with custard of course, which I’ve become rather partial to this holiday.

So, now, because it’s so light in the evenings here, I do what BB calls my evening exercise. I don my exercise shoes – not quite trainers but shoes I can power walk in – and do two laps round the park. It’s not much, but I’m hoping it’ll keep me from acquiring slummy mummy status while on my summer hols.

Soaking up the greenery in Royal Windsor

Today was a British bank holiday Sunday, complete with heavy rain showers and crowds of people off work. Just how I remember such weekends.

We found ourselves at Windsor Great Park, the Queen’s back garden. DH, though not with us, was very much in my thoughts because he’s always telling me that Windsor, the picturesque setting of the royal family’s Windsor Castle, is practically joined to nearby Slough, a sprawling town he remembers fondly from childhood.

The reality is Slough is ‘da hood’ that Ali G pokes fun of and the suburban location of the comedy series The Office. But since DH is always trying to find excuses for us to visit Slough, I usually nod in agreement.

But back to Windsor, this afternoon we found a gem amid the beauty of the royal park. The Savill Garden is well worth a visit, even if, like me, your knowledge of garden plants stops at daffodils and daisies.

The boys ran through the hidden, interlocking gardens with wild abandon while I enjoyed a greenery fix. We followed the sculpture trail and couldn’t quite believe the price tag on this stainless steel eagle: £16,670 (that’s US$27,230)!

Some elderly folk, who were coo-ing over a baby girl, only looked mildly aghast when oldest son screeched through the otherwise quiet glasshouse in express train mode, and my green-fingered mother managed to keep her scissors in her bag: she famously took a cutting from a plant while attending a garden party at Buckingham Palace with my father and actually managed to grow it in our garden!

So nice is the Royal Borough of Windsor it made me want to move there. But, alas, we’d never be able to afford it.

Oh well, there’s always Slough. It’s more or less merged with Windsor, you know.

I even stopped to smell the roses!

INSOMNIA: What thoughts run through your mind in the dead of night?

Two-year-olds – could they be any more mercurial?

One minute full of joy and laughter, the next minute angry tears rolling down their red-hot faces as frustration takes hold.

LB had a terrible tantrum yesterday. Everyone else went off on an errand, leaving him and me behind. To say he was devastated is not an exaggeration. He flung himself at the front door, his little fingers clinging to the letter box, and screamed like a banshee for a good 30 minutes.

The only thing that stopped his uncontrollable sobbing was spending the next half an hour standing by the road waiting for the car to come back.

Then, last night, he had another treat in store for me. I’ve mentioned before that he’s not a good sleeper. In LB’s case, it’s not a run-of-the-mill night-time disturbance that’s easily dealt with. He wakes up with full-blown insomnia and it keeps us both up for a couple of hours while he tosses and turns.

It’s really very annoying – and tiring.

Here are some of the random thoughts that went through my mind in the small hours last night, after my mum (who has also been getting up in the night, bless her) deposited a wide-awake LB in my room:

- “In the morning I’ll google diseases that make small children wriggle so much at night.”

- “Has my sister-in-law forgiven me?”

- “Should I get a proper job?”

- “Maybe I should research little-known reasons for night-time fidgeting right now. My iPhone’s by the bed.”

- “Why are beds in England so narrow? This double bed is only just big enough for LB and me. Someone – probably me – is going to end up on the floor.”

- “I wonder if my sister-in-law got my email. Perhaps it got lost.”

- “Is it worth trying to go back to Dubai via Nice and get DH to meet us there? I wouldn’t have to do the long Dubai flight by myself with the kids.”

- If LB goes to sleep in the next half hour and it takes me another half an hour to get to sleep after that, I’ll get another three hours’ sleep. That’ll be ok.”

- “I really had better research what wriggling could be a symptom of right now. Or would LB just want to play games on my iPhone?”

- “We could take the Eurostar to Paris. BB would love that. And do Eurodisney. Could I face it? How crowded would it be at this time of year?”

- “Oh god, it’s 5.06am. STOP fidgeting and GO TO SLEEP!”

- “Should I give him medicine?”

- “Perhaps my brother’s cross with me too?”

- “What should I buy my best friend for her 40th birthday. Crikey, I can’t believe we’re turning 40. How did that happen? Weren’t we just teenagers?”

- “DON’T kick me! You just nearly gave me a nose bleed.”

- “Why isn’t LB talking in sentences? He’s nearly three. When my friend’s boy was three he could read the health and safety notice at nursery. That’s amazing.”

- “I wish I lived closer to this friend. It’s been so nice seeing old friends with shared history while in England.”

- “Oh no, is that light creeping round the curtains? I’m not in the mood for the bloody birds to start chirr-uping.”

- “Should we try counting sheep together? 1-2-3. No, it’s just bonus stimulation time for him. Can I remember anything from that baby yoga class?”

- “If I had a proper job, I wouldn’t be in such a mess with my invoicing.”

- “He’s sleeping – at last! Only lightly, but he’s lying still. Now I just have to get myself to sleep. Right here goes.”

- “What if Catherine the Great doesn’t come back to us after her vacation in the Philippines?”

- “Can’t sleep. The edge of the bed is really uncomfortable and I daren’t move for fear of waking him. Feeling panicked about getting to sleep now.”

- “Omg, what will I do if Catherine doesn’t come back?”

- “Oh no, I can hear people going to work.”

- “Should I give myself some medicine?”

- “Agggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

This post was inspired by the very talented Mrs Dubai.
Image courtesy of animalclipart.net

Extreme Shopping: Could Brits in Dubai become copy-cat rioters?

Picture the scene: looters running across the marble floor of the Mall of the Emirates, heading for Harvey Nicks. When done there, making their way across the city on the Metro to rampage around the Dubai Mall, helping themselves to cushions and lampshades at Galleries Lafayette. Then hot footing it to the Gold Souk for some free bling.

It doesn’t sound very plausible, does it?

I was fascinated to read today that a top UAE police official has warned that “What happens in Britain could happen here,” citing the large expatriate worker population.

He went on to tell Reuters that Dubai police were monitoring social media sites such as Twitter and Facebook for signs of attempts to organise protests or strikes.

Now, nothing has appeared on my Facebook wall yet and I doubt it will because my Dubai friends are either too busy entertaining their kids during the long summer holiday, or are travelling at the moment – and the last time I looked, none of my friends in the UAE were sporting hoodies.

If there are any troublesome Brits looking for a fight in Dubai (you do go totally stir crazy indoors over the summer, after all), they should read up on the Dubai Police first. As Annabel Kantaria, one of my favourite bloggers at Expat Telegraph, points out: it may be a coincidence, but since the London riots, the English-language media in Dubai has published a slew of articles on the Dubai Police, including how they’re equipped to deal with any riots and how, if negotiation fails, they have special electric truncheons that can stun up to 100 people at a time.

Wow, we’ve been warned!

Certainly, the expat community in Dubai is huge: 80 per cent of the population, in fact. But to think that hooligan Brits might start rioting in the UAE is rather far-fetched. To put it bluntly, chavs don’t move to Dubai, and with year-round sunshine, a tax-free salary and so many other benefits to the ‘expat lifestyle’, most Brits in Dubai are perfectly content with their lot.

This is not to say that there aren’t people in Dubai who would, with good reason, revolt. Asian labourers, mostly from the Indian subcontinent, have held strikes in the past over poor wages and bad conditions. But British teenagers breaking off from their tennis lessons and pool parties to have a pop, I don’t think so.

Quite tempting, no?

Gold Souk credit: http://www.dubai-information-site.com

Wildest Wales: We survived!

Five adults, four young children – all related – sharing a holiday home in a remote part of North Wales. What could possibly go wrong?

The adults sipping wine, watching on as the children play happily in a grassy field. Long walks through beautiful countryside and tired kids falling into bed at the end of the day.

Well, no. Not exactly.

But it was, mostly, lovely, and everyone enjoyed our time en masse.

I discovered, however, that being taken to deepest Wales at least 10 times while growing up in no way prepares you for going as a grown-up and having to think about things that never even cross our minds in Dubai, like wellies, water-proofs, fleeces and socks. Things that, in North Wales, stop your kids from getting hyperthermia. Things that my mum, thankfully, remembered every time I forgot.

Here are some more important lessons I learnt (and sorry to my friends on the blogosphere for some repetition here, it’s all still sinking in!):

>• The road trip there is short by American standards, but long when you factor in the whining from the back, Shaun the Sheep on a loop on the DVD and Electronic Eddie’s devious short cuts along winding mountain roads so narrow they only fit one car.

>• You’ll need to pack at least five bags for every outing to carry the necessary wet-weather gear, plus spares of everything – and, even then, your kids will end up in their swimming stuff (the only dry clothes left) for the ride home. Spare pairs of wellies are also a good idea because when water comes over the top, they take a week to dry.

That's MY bed! (but since you're both so cute and quiet when sleeping, I'll have to forgive you)

>• The kids (mine) will not happily settle into a routine of a set bedtime and 12 hours’ sleep. They’ll go to bed late, join you in bed and get up early with excitement. By the end of the week, you’ll be on your knees with sleep deprivation. The younger one will power nap in the car while everyone else holds onto their seats on those mountain passes, then he’ll wake up thinking it’s morning and keep going for hours. His delight at all the farmyard animals will go a long way towards making up for this, though.

>• You’ll marvel at your brother’s kids, who go to bed when told, get dressed when told, don’t snack, eat their meals and walk for ages without a whimper – both utterly lovable kids who are a joy to have around. But you’ll find you can no longer claim your own kids’ bad behaviour is a temporary blip when it lasts all week long (not to mention, end the holiday with a parenting crisis).

Child-proofing not a priority here then

>• Just when you think you can relax and enjoy a picnic, the two-year-old will find a stone wall to climb and walk along, a big stick to poke you with, or be irresistibly drawn to a pile of poo. Even in the house the kids will keep you on your toes by choosing the most dangerous area to play in – this really odd open attic, high above my bed, that became the games club.

>• Your knowledge of all things related to the countryside will let you down spectacularly because you’ll be stumped by oldest son’s questions, including: Why are there no trees on the mountains? Why are the cow pats so big? (is it because cows have two stomachs, or is that camels?) Did the chicken or the egg come first? Where’s the swimming pool?

Perfect trap for little feet

>• You’ll find that people with bigger feet have a much easier time at the cattle grid we had to lug the kids and 10 bags over every day to get to the car – parked a long way down a stony track because the access to our holiday home, over a teeny-tiny bridge that gave my brother’s car a flat tyre, was better suited to mountain bikes.

>• The alpha males of the group will attempt to keep the pack together, but find this increasingly difficult as the females are sidetracked by shops and the kids all run off in different directions.

>• You won’t enjoy having one bathroom for nine people (the horror!), the novelty of rain will wear off, and will really miss your husband (in Florida), who makes everything so much easier. But you’ll absolutely love the amazing scenery, seeing the kids enjoying the steam trains, the castles, the seaside, the cool air, the pies, the fudge and your own childhood memories it brings back.

Because North Wales was, without a doubt, the perfect antidote to summer in the desert.

Train driver-to-be: The hat stayed on all holiday

Trekking from the house to the car

Why I had to eat my words…

There we were enjoying the sights and sounds of the countryside when all of a sudden the peace was shattered.

A buzzing helicopter was hovering in the air. Circling around our valley as though looking for something. Then coming down to land in a next-door field of cows, its rotor blades whirling round at high speed and stirring up the grass and cow pats.

The police, maybe? Had English looters crossed the border and started raiding Welsh holiday homes now? Or perhaps a celebrity arriving by helicopter for a quiet break in an interior-designed shepherd’s cottage?

Our valley and the scene of the helicopter show

As it took off again, a flare was dropped, setting off what looked like a fire, and we concluded we were in the middle of a search-and-rescue training exercise. How exciting, I thought, enjoying it even more than the boys (in my mind I’d decided it was Prince William, you see – I’ve heard he rescues walkers in these parts).

While all this was going on, BB was surprisingly quiet, which really doesn’t happen very often. Most of the time, he’s exceedingly noisy and asks thousands of questions. I have to admit we’ve struggled to answer some of the things he’s pondered this holiday, like: Why are there no trees on the mountains? Why are the cow pats so big? (is it because cows have two stomachs, or is that camels?) Did the chicken or the egg come first? Where’s the swimming pool?

I chortled at the last one and reminded him of our whereabouts, ie, far from Dubai, then, to my surprise, had to eat my words a little later that very morning, when we stumbled upon, of all things, a Welsh swimming pool. Sorry if I sound so amazed – I honestly didn’t think it could ever get hot enough here for outdoor pools (but, then again, I have become a complete cold-water wimp since moving to Dubai).

Here’s the spring-fed pool – my two boys and their cousins loved it, despite the freezing cold water. Apparently, if you’re really lucky you get to see a brown trout swimming through. Now that you don’t get in Dubai.

The local lido

Mount Snowdon: Touching clouds

Given my phobia of spending more than 45 minutes in a confined space with my children (developed during airplane journeys, I’m sure), going on a two-and-a-half-hour round trip up Snowdon in a packed train carriage may seem a surprising choice of activity.

But the tickets were booked online weeks in advance, so we were going to the top of Wales’ highest peak come rain or shine.

The former being the forecast, of course. Undeterred, off we went, hoping the weather might clear.

Once the mountain train started climbing, and the grey slate roofs below disappeared from view, there was no going back. We made our way through forest, then open, treeless countryside, past ruined shepherd’s cottages and into the very rain clouds that the drizzle was coming from.

Inside a cloud: Whiteout at the top

Some elderly ladies showed true British spirit by singing "She'll be coming round the mountain when she comes" while we kept the kids happy, fed and warm.

Oldest son, in particular, thought it was one big adventure. He's obsessed with trains, spends half his life pretending to be a train, and is planning on being a train driver when he grows up. He was just thrilled that we were being pushed up a steep hill by a coal-fired steam locomotive (dating back to 1895) and wasn't the least bit upset when the view disappeared.

At the top of Snowdon, we spent a few minutes peering through the mist at the craggy summit, before scurrying indoors to dry off and make sure we didn’t miss the train down again.

The summit: Quite crowded up there!

Things that go Moooo in the night

Something I really remember about our trips to Wales 25 years ago is that my mum was always trying to sneak off to boutique shops. We gave her such hassle about it. As a kid, I thought such shops were sooo boring (how wrong was I?!).

When she mentioned today that she’d rediscovered one of her favourite boutiques, I had no clue what store she was talking about. My brother and I only remember the joke shop, which, as my mum puts it, sold ‘farty’ not ‘arty’ stuff.

How the tables turn! As I snuck away for a half-hour break from our holiday today to meander up the high street, I realised that now-a-days it’s me who hot foots it to the shops as soon as an opportunity arises. Becoming a mother has made me fully understand the importance of browsing in solitude and being able to think about which handbag to buy.

What’s more, tonight we waved mum and dad off on a night out. They were going to see friends an hour away and disappeared at 5.30, with instructions from the rest of us to not be late back and to call if they were delayed. And, you know what, I have been worrying!

It’s raining cats and dogs outside and, as I mentioned, it’s about as rural as it gets here. Dad will be relying on the sat nav and Electronic Eddie could have all sorts of fun with his silly ‘short cuts’ up mountain passes.

That’s the odd thing about the countryside: when you’re used to living in a city, it’s being in the middle of nowhere that feels edgy at night. In Dubai, the sound of roads or planes overhead is just background noise, but here, if a sheep bleats in the darkness I’m startled. Baaaaa-HA-HA, Moooo-HOOO. And, at the crack of dawn, cock-a-doodle-rudy-do!

On the subject of animals, my favourite photo from the petting farm we visited today is this one of the little boy. He had great fun attempting to insert a corn flake in the rabbit’s nose.

Oh I do like to be beside the seaside!

A while ago, I blogged about expat brats and how to spot the clues, two of which were only thinking it’s a nice day if it’s tropical outside and not considering the British seaside to be a beach-worthy place.

Well, I’m happy to report that my sons don’t fall into these categories. It’s borderline in eldest son’s case for the first category – he’s turned a bluish colour a few times this holiday – but, on the whole, they love the great British seaside, as do I.

There’s just something about beaches here that makes me really happy. I’m not sure whether it’s the bleak weather, blustery wind, stony terrain, seaweed, rip-off merchant ice cream sellers or the fact you need to wear a jumper, a fleece and the beach rug to keep warm, but whatever it is, it works for me. Maybe it’s the sea, with its crashing rollers and white frothy surf. Or maybe it’s because the boys can run free, while I sit in peace.

Today, at Black Rock Sands, everything was perfect. The weather was challenging, the sand actually looked black a little deeper down, the seaweed was stringy and the ice cream man laughed at me when I tried to pay for a ’99′ cone with a pound coin. There were even tractors chugging down the beach and into the sea tugging jet skis.

I wasn’t even jealous when I finally made contact with DH (who you may have noticed has been suspiciously absent on this trip) in Florida!

When it started raining, we had to bail and go somewhere more sensible – a ruined castle on a steep hill with precarious ledges for the kids to hang off (!), but, we were on such a roll, we visited a different beach later to clamber over rock pools in search of crabs.

The lovely day was rounded off with some great pub grub (another thing I love about being home). Lamb shank for my mother – and as we ate, nursing wind burn, she remarked to the boys, “See this, I’m eating one of those Welsh sheep!” Aren’t you supposed to wait until they’re at least eight before telling them that?

Climbing the hill to Criccieth Castle, North Wales

And the clouds rolled in, but we were not deterred

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Completely baffled!

Our Welsh retreat is still lovely (really, it is, when it’s not tipping down with rain), but so very remote.

We’ve had to abandon driving our cars over the teeny-tiny bridge, following the A-team’s flat tyre on the day we arrived, and now leave our vehicles on a verge some distance away. This means getting in and out requires lugging 4 kids and at least 8 bags down a stony track and over a cattle grid, while dodging cow pats and sheep poo.

And I’m sure the sheep are laughing at us (not the horses, though, as they got fed sweets this evening so they’re our friends).

Mobile phone reception is non-existent and it’s only thanks to wi-fi that I remember civilisation exists (impressed, however, that wi-fi reaches these parts as I’m pretty sure that rubbish collectors, the postman, etc, don’t stand a chance).

Then, tonight, on discovering there was no hot water, we learnt that to control The Stanley (the central heating boiler that’s so clever it can do cooking as well, apparently), you have to:

“Open the door above the thermostat knobs and use a tool (normally found in the knife and fork tray) to turn shafts that push the baffles across and through the flame.”

They’ve got to be kidding????

Following yesterday’s saga with the very mean woman who caused such a lot of stress over getting in to the place, we are, of course, all walking round with our shoes on and jumping on the beds.

No photos today – I’m too busy going cold turkey from shops, restaurants, take-aways, Waitrose and warm weather.