Thought fashion endorsements were the realm of supermodels and celebrities? Not any more. If you just happened to be looking for an Afghan hat, you might stumble across this website selling them. This was a tricky one to photograph, and in case you can’t read the tagline, it says: “Original Wool Afghan hat as seen on TV worn by the Taliban!”
Thank you to my friend, who came across this while researching the name of the hat worn by Afghan men for an article (pakol, in case you were curious)
Whenever I’m back in the UK, it’s always noticeable that people don’t smile – or even make eye contact – when they pass each other in the street.
Sometimes I test this out: I attempt to meet the eyes of a mother passing by with her children and give them a friendly smile. More often than not, the mum keeps her gaze fixed straight ahead (though to be fair, she’s probably too busy making sure her kids don’t tumble off the narrow pavement into the road – or thinks I’m a lunatic).
But today was different. My mum and I popped into Starbucks and as we walked in, an elderly lady who was leaving gave us the biggest Cheshire cat grin I’ve ever seen. Totally unprompted.
Broad smile: I’m quids in! (There are virtually no silver expats in Dubai, so I enjoy seeing British Grannies)
Then some young girls, aged no more than 12 or 13, arrived and asked if a £20 note had been handed in.
“Yes, but we gave it to the old lady,” replied the woman behind the counter. “She said it was hers and I believed her!”
Well, you would, wouldn’t you? The pensioner looked just like someone’s doting grandmother, with a creaky hip, sensible shoes and blue-rinse blow dry.
My mum and I sat down to drink our tea, laughing quietly that the opportunistic Granny with the triumphant grin must have seen her chance and grabbed it with both hands. She’d probably hopped straight on a bus flashing her bus pass by now, we thought.
But, to our surprise, she returned, having been rounded up by the young girls in their teeny-tiny shorts and their pubescent spotty boyfriends.
“How dare you?” she roared at the youngsters as she was accused of stealing their note [which they shakily said they'd left on a seat - the boyfriends, at this point, backing off in the direction of the muffins].
She had a story ready but, unfortunately, it had more holes in it than a sieve and the money was handed over to the girls, before everyone went on their way.
I felt rather sorry for her, with hard times n’ all in the UK recently, and there was a high chance she was just really confused, so I gave her a smile when we passed again later – but this time I just got the standard ear-to-ear blank look in return.
Better luck next time, love!
I went to London last week for a celebration with friends. Our joint 160th birthday – quite something, we thought, as we munched on red lentil, pepper and olive burgers at Mildred’s in Soho and kept our eyes peeled for Olympic athletes on the razzle.
To get there, I meandered along Regent Street, sans kids, and found myself stopping not just to peer at leisure into shop windows, but to take photos – something I wouldn’t have dreamt of doing 15 years ago, when I used to charge along this famous street at a furious pace, my eyes fixed firmly on the pavement, to get to work. (“Look up”, I now always say to friends visiting London – I missed so much by hurrying.)
This time, looking up was never in any doubt. The street is bedecked with flags, row upon row of them draped the whole way along the road. Fluttering above the hustle and bustle of the throngs of shoppers.
Obviously this isn’t the photo I took, which came out too dark… an impressive display of the national colours of the 205 competing nations, don’t you think?
Post boxes have been painted gold in the hometowns of Team GB’s gold-winning athletes
In place of the mildly pushy people you so often come across in London, we’ve seen thousands of volunteers on the streets, who worked so hard for the duration of the Olympics and won it the accolade of The Friendly Games. So marked was the shift in the usually reserved national mood that the impossible was achieved: Londoners even started talking to one another on the tube.
All so different from a year ago, when we watched teenagers forming queues to pillage clothes shops and DH and I sat in a pub and wondered if rioters might actually burst in.
Who would have guessed the weather would even co-operate: after the wettest period since Noah’s Ark, the sun shone – and London is now, rightly so, basking in the golden glow of its two-week success story.
This sign isn’t anything to do with the games, but its wording made me smile, especially with the Olympic Isles looking so picturesque at the moment
Pretty girls are walking by in cut-off denim shorts and bikini tops, heading for the surf in high spirits. The atmosphere is laid-back. Casual. Anything goes.
A bright yellow, almost sunny-looking police car just drove by, followed by a slightly battered red vehicle with a surfboard on top.
There are elderly people doing their weekly shop, noticeable because their faces look weather-beaten and wrinkled. But they’re smiling and relaxed. As are the throngs of scantily-clad shoppers and beach-goers who are milling around, some sipping on a ‘flat white’ before resuming their Saturday-afternoon activities. Others heading straight for the waves.
If this doesn’t sound like the Middle East, you’re right. I’m far, far away, in Sydney, Australia (a country I fell in love with 10 years ago when I spent three months here as a backpacker), and I’m writing this post while people-watching at a cafe in Manly.
My body thinks it’s the middle of the night – such is the jet lag when you fly for nearly 14 hours straight. But it’s worth it: I love the vibe here – the way it shouts ‘Life is better in board shorts!’ I love jumping on and off ferries to get to Sydney’s beachside suburbs, the opera house, harbour bridge, botanic gardens, pie shops and the fact zebra crossings actually work.
Best of all is spending some quality time with DH [whispers: without the kids]. I literally ‘went to work’ with DH, tagging along on his 5-day trip to Australia and New Zealand. He’s flown on to Auckland now, which I chose not to do because I’m a complete amateur when it comes to jet lag. He’s used to it and not phased by doing both countries in 72 hours.
So now I’m solo in Sydney. Just me and the credit card. And a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, before DH gets back tomorrow night!
I’m not turning into an eco-warrior, I promise (with two small boys I’m far too worn out), but a comment from a good friend of mine on my last post is really worth elaborating on.
The nifty stunt she told me about combines two of my favourite things (bags and making lists), and, if you live in the Middle East, is coming to a supermarket near you soon.
As I mentioned, here in the UAE we are, for various reasons, consuming more than our fair share of the world. And when it comes to plastic shopping bags, the statistics are eye-poppingly bad.
The UAE is using more than 20 billion plastic bags annually, a figure that’s sparked such intense debate within the emirates that the Minister for Environment has ordered the country to go cold turkey by 2013: that’s right, by next year the UAE is to be plastic-bag free.
To promote Tide laundry detergent, the creative brains at Dubai advertising agency Leo Burnett came up with this reusable shopping bag that doubles as a grocery list.
Resembling a notepad, you write your list on the bag (fruit & veg, milk, bread, sellotape), then wash it afterwards and it’s ready for the next shopping trip. Elegantly simple, huh? The customers, fashion editors and bloggers who were sent the Tide Smart Bag (along with a marker pen and a box of the detergent) were impressed too, and so the plan is to make the bags available around the region.
If anyone from Tide just happens to be reading this (I’m tagging you now, 5 times), please send me one – I’m in the supermarket practically every other day and would be a great walking advert. Plus I reckon the bag could be a sanity saver too as the kids could doodle on it rather than pestering me for cartoon-character-endorsed junk food at every turn.
Customised and eco-chic, even I might remember to take this bag to the supermarket if it had my list written on it.
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
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
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
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!
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.
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
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.
Based in the glittering emirate of Dubai, I'm an editor, mother, sun worshiper, A380 pilot's wife and distracted housewife surrounded by souks, skyscrapers, shopping, sea and sand.
