Notes from Dubai; love Karama , hate the metro...

Deep in old Dubai, across from Za'abeel park and far from the shining spires and glistening domes of Jumeirah, lies the crumbling and malodorous district of Karama.

But don't be put off by the smells and the broken pavements, because deep in the heart of this district lies an Aladdin's cave of decadence and desire; a cornucopia of treasures.  In short, a one-stop area of knock-off shops selling -- specifically -- replica designer handbags.

 I love handbags. And designer bags are even more loveable...

I'm not acquainted with the copyright laws here in the UAE, but I'm pretty sure there aren't any.  I know this because the Fairy liquid I bought recently only lasted a week.  And the Ben 10 figures purchased the other day -- so beloved by my three boys -- cost ten times more in Ireland.  'Ireland is a rip-off, look how cheap these are here' I told DH, until they fell apart and the paint peeled off.

However, when it comes to creating perfectly replicated handbags, boy do they know how to do it!

Last week I announced to DH that I urgently needed to visit Dubai to do some Christmas shopping (a sentence which just doesn't sound quite right when you're wearing flip flops and a pair of shorts);  I would be taking the credit card and would be back later.  DH, who was spending the weekend laying a lawn in the back garden, nodded and said 'well, who are you taking with you?'.

Oh I hate that question.

There is an unwritten rule that DH cannot, at any point, EVER, be left alone with four of them.  'OK, since you're laying the lawn, I'll take 5 year old boy (super annoying and sure to run on the new grass every 2 minutes) and 8 year old girl, (who becomes impossible when bored)'.

And so, our little trio headed off to Karama.  The mission was to buy Christmas presents for family and an early birthday present for myself.

The first shop we entered stocked an impressive selection of Mulberry, Juicy couture, Balenciaga and plenty more.  'We have more in the flat...you wanna come up and see?' invited the hirsute salesman with a lascivious smile. 'Err, no thanks, not today' I muttered as I beat a hasty retreat to the door.

The next shop was equally seductive.   The young, hip Lebanese salesman urged: 'you must come upstairs Miss, there is so much more...come, come..'  Swayed, I herded the children up the narrow staircase into a room with a ceiling so low I couldn't quite stand upright.

-'Oh coooool!' yelled five year old boy as he started rolling around and climbing into various alcoves and cubby-holes.

Before us were wave upon wave of beautifully made bags. 'Ooh I feel like Alice in Wonderland'  I giggled, to which a disembodied English voice replied, 'you haven't seen half of it yet'.  Rounding a corner into a corridor, I viewed the source of the comment - a middle aged gentleman with his wife, kneeling before a rack of Burberry goodies. 

At the end of this corridor was another door so small we were obliged to crouch to get through it.  In this room were more bags, wallets, suitcases.  'Come, come' urged the salesman as he disappeared -- white rabbit like -- through what can only be described as a trap door.  Tugging at my short skirt and wishing vehemently that I had worn trousers I grumbled 'this is ridiculous, what if there is a fire' as I clambered through the hole.   As I emerged into the room, I was silent for a second.

I was in handbag nirvana.

This room held the creme de la creme of handbags.  Mulberry, Mui Mui, Dolce & Gabbanna, Hermes, Chanel oh I could go on.  The Birkins were sublime; leather inside and out in a stunning array of colours.  Each bag was beautifully made, with perfectly replicated zips, fasteners, interiors and all (with some clever haggling) for not much more than the cost of a cheap, plastic copy from Next.

I was in handbag overload and needed air.  'Lets get out of here kids,' I panted -- my head reeling -- as we headed back through the labyrinthian path to the main shop.

I don't like choice.  Give me a choice out of two and I will dither for days  (I once had to choose between two boyfriends -- it took weeks of to-ing and fro-ing before I reached a decision).  But given the thousands of bags on offer my mind was in a spin; I was living in a Paris Hilton type hell.

-'I can't decide!!!' 

We went into every single shop along the parade until we stood, empty armed, outside the final shop. 'We have to get something in here!' I instructed the 8-year-old-girl. 'Make me buy something!!'

Feeling like Brangelina in an orphanage, I randomly plucked out half a dozen Juicy Couture bags for my nieces, before dithering before the Mulberry section for my own purchase.  'Red or green, red or green....'  I took the green bag over to the check out.

Juicy 

-'NO RED!' I yelped and quickly swapped them.

-'NO BOTH!...I'll give one to my sister in law!'  I grabbed back the green.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I handed over my credit card as if I were offering my wrists to be handcuffed, with the instruction, 'Just do it!' 

Mulberry 

We left Karama satiated and several hundred dirhams lighter, but oh what a place.  I am counting the hours until I can go and collect a little darling with my name on it...a pink leather Mulberry laptop case......Karama, I love you.

And the Metro...don't bother           

Returning to Dubai, we decided to follow the advice of 'Time out kids' and take the children on a memorable, magical and yet educational trip on the brand new shiny Dubai metro.

We boarded at the Mall of Emirates station, looking forward to a comfortable and spectacular journey through this amazing and burgeoning city.

It became quickly apparent that there weren't any seats available which meant we were obliged to stand in the central area, hanging on to various poles.  The almost-three-year-old disappeared into the crowd almost immediately, hotly pursued by DH.

Five-year-old-boy took one look at the man beside us and asked at the top of his voice 'why does that man look like a girl?' then threw himself to the ground and began snaking himself around the poles and fellow passengers legs yelling 'I'm Doctor Octopuss'.  Eight-year-old-girl whined 'this is rubbish, why couldn't we stay in the mall?' and seven-year-old-boy, anxious at the best of times, fretted that 'we should really go home now' as I was thrown violently against the door by the movement of the carriage.

DH reappeared with almost-three-year old, who began delightedly smacking an alarm button beside the doors.  A ticket inspector appeared and warned us 'don't let him do that ma'am, there is a fine of 2,000 dirham's'.  Myself and DH eyed each other and silently agreed that this wasn't quite what we'd had in mind and it was time to call it a day.

Silently we filed off the carriage at the first station available and made our way to the opposite platform where the return metro was waiting.

-'No sir, this is for women and children only' warned the guard as DH boarded the carriage.

-'What?? Are you kidding me?  Try and stop me' he blasted as he elbowed past the guard.  Inside another guard blocked the way.

-'Sir, this carriage is for women and children only...you may go on the next carriage down'

Defeated we stepped back onto the platform and boarded back onto the neighbouring carriage.  Arriving back at the mall some minutes later, we all heaved a sigh of relief.

Is it just us?  What made me think this would be fun?  Flying on a plane, where there is a telly and a guaranteed seat, is hell on earth, so why on earth would this be better?  Blast Time out kids and their sinister suggestions for a fun day out.  But a day in Karama....now that's a different story...

Why I love facebook

Two years ago I had no friends. Today I have 87. It’s true, just go and look on my Facebook page if you don't believe me.

Well, when I say 'no' friends, it’s not strictly true, DH is obviously my friend (in a sort of manacled together fashion), but that doesn’t count anyway.

I have a couple of friends from school with whom I keep in touch. By ‘in touch’ I mean the odd email and the occasional drink at Christmas. Mind you, it’s only in recent years that we really had anything in common (well, not since we all had a crush on McGyver and thought Morrissey was deep).

Through our late twenties and early thirties, as they surged ahead in their chosen fields, I spent my time watching CBeebies and cleaning bottoms. ‘My life is meaningless’ I would wail down the phone, in one of my late night drunken monologues. ‘I’m rubbish at housework, I want to go to parties and I’m pretty sure that Jake from the Tweenies is gay’.

We’re now back on an equal footing as they have since become mothers themselves, although they have wisely chosen to have only one or two children. As one friend commented cheerfully, after one particularly noisy, messy, vomit covered, head lice infested visit ‘well, thankyou, that has delayed any maternal yearnings for another 6 months.’

Then there of course are my siblings, with whom I’m in almost daily contact. But that doesn’t count either, we’re bound by blood, baggage and rivalry.

Of course my neighbours could be counted as friends too, although our endless plans for nights out and dinner parties have never amounted to anything more than the occasional cup of coffee and one, drunken and impromptu party back at ours after chucking out time.

Of course this is purely down to the fact that having children means anything less than an all expenses paid trip for two to New York (babysitter provided) just isn’t worth the hassle.

And then came Facebook. I love Facebook, the ultimate tool for a friendship commitment-phobe such as myself. It’s brilliant, with little or no effort on my part, I can suddenly be part of  peoples lives; people I might not have seen in 20 years.  At the click of a button I am privy to their sadnesses, joys, and Christmas photos. And I don’t even have to get dressed.

And the best bit is, nothing is required of me other than the odd insipid comment such as ‘hey that’s great, good luck’ or ‘lucky you, enjoy yourself’. 

But I’m being disingenuous. There is great pleasure in rediscovering long lost cousins, ex- flat mates, work colleagues, people with whom you’ve shared a part of your history and yet have had no contact in decades.

My past is littered with the carcasses of deceased friendships. There are dozens of people whom I’ve met, liked, sometimes lived with, worked with, certainly got drunk with, who have disappeared along the way on this journey we call life. Of course, back in the 90’s, when the internet was still in its infancy, the only way to keep in touch with someone who’d moved on was through their parents phone number or address (even then you were likely to lose it). But in these high tech times of social networking sites, and search engines, finding someone is easier than looking up the yellow pages.

Of course, there are the dangers. Looking up past boyfriends, for example, is an irresistible but potentially dangerous practice. Interestingly, not one ex boyfriend of mine is to be found on facebook, I can’t help but feel it’s intentional (ok, so I may have displayed some bunny boiling tendencies in a past life.. although I prefer the term ‘enthusiastically challenging’, besides, most of that was reserved for DH and remember, dear reader, he married me)

But Facebook is a marvel. Through some sort of cyber witchery, it can suggest people as friends who may have no connection with anyone else on your 'friends list'.  This can result in a flurry of excitable emails with the individual in question as you catch up and rediscover each other over the course of a few days.  However, it's not always good news. I am reminded weekly of a friend that I haven't spoken to in 5 years.  To put it delicately, we won't be revisiting that relationship.

The aim is to have as many FB friends as possible. My personal ambition is to have to click onto a second page when scrolling through my ‘friends’ list.  I'm surely into the home run at this stage.

But some people take the whole thing too far. Does anyone really want to know that you’ve decided to eat a banana for lunch? Or are going to pop to the shops? I recently heard a story about some witless oaf who, following a hard night out on the tiles, took a duvet day, phoned in sick and then bragged about the fact on facebook. Needless to say the person in question was fired when the boss discovered the truth (no doubt by some well-meaning colleague).

How long before people log on to their status update to tell us they need the loo or are about to have sex?  Just typing that makes me realise they probably already do!

And then there are the quizzes, which are bizarre, pointless and sometimes funny although there is something tragic about a 36 year old woman spending 3 minutes of her day answering questions on the 'which Harry Potter Character are you?' quiz (the Weasley twins apparantly, a result which instantly reminded how stupid the quiz was in the first place).  Although the 'which psychiatric illness do you have?' quiz was alarmingly accurate given it was based on only 5 questions (ADD aparently).

Interestingly, facebook has wormed its way into our social consciousness too. Photos taken on nights out are now taken purely with the intention of publishing them on facebook. It’s the ultimate in approval-seeking one-upmanship.  'See, I AM popular I tell you, look at how many people are at my party!!'

They say that we all have an internal voice, one which praises, comments and demoralises us, depending on our psychological disposition. Certainly, I have a very loud and active inner voice, featuring all my family members; I used to refer to as my ‘Inner Greek chorus' as it commented and lambasted me on my every thought, motive, move. Facebook's a bit like that, like a large, collective social consciousness, a large gathering of people sitting in the corner of my room, judging and watching my every move, discussing it between themselves.

Of course, I could just switch off the PC, go outside and get a life, but then I'd be back to trying to make friends in the real world, and that involves getting dressed and talking to people. Like I said, unless I'm offered that trip to New York, I'll be sitting at my desk waiting for the next live update.

Customer Service revisited, a BBQ.. and a hasty retreat..

I must briefly return to the matter of customer service as it’s a topic so rich in material I could probably revisit it on a weekly basis.

The other day I went into a well known shoe shop with 7 year old boy to buy him a pair of school shoes. On finding the desired shoe, I held it up to the eager shop assistant who asked me what size his foot was.

-‘Actually, could you measure him please, I’m not sure what size he is’

-‘what age is he ma’am?’ he asked

-‘well, he’s almost 7 ….. but what has that got to do with it?’ The man was already studying a chart pulled from behind the desk.

-‘Can you just measure him please’ I urged him.

-‘Ma’am, this is his size’ he told me, pointing to a number on the chart.

-‘Err, how can you tell from that?’ I shot back ‘He might be big or small for his age…please measure him’.

Ignoring me, he disappeared into the back and emerged a minute later with a shoe. Simultaneously irritated and resigned, I hoped desperately that he wasn’t right about the size. He handed it to 7 year old.

It didn’t fit. Thank god.

Vindicated, I asked for a bigger size, this was obviously going to be a case of trial and error….

We eventually emerged from the shop with the new shoes (which of course had to be worn immediately… remember being 7?) but the experience summed up customer service here; over the top, invasive attention up until the point that you actually require some assistance, at which point all pretence of service dissolves and you’re left fending for yourself.

Although on a rare occasion you get more help than you require.

A friend of a friend recently went through a pregnancy scare with his girlfriend. Panic-stricken, he went into a pharmacy to buy a pregnancy test. Distracted by the white knuckle fear which accompanies such an experience, it wasn’t until some time later that he recalled the hilarious advice given to him by the assistant behind the counter as he handed over the test.

-‘Sir, this test is only for women’

You couldn’t make this stuff up!

With four young children, I’m a big fan of the ‘drop in creche’ (as if you didn’t know that at this point). My first priority with each mall I enter, is to identify the location of the crèche where I off-load the children in order to buy some time for myself, or simply to avail myself of a walk around the supermarket which doesn’t involve one step forward, 3 steps back as I constantly gather and herd them in the right direction.

Recently, I left almost 3 year old and 5 year old boy into a local crèche. An hour later, I returned to discover almost 3 year old sitting on the ticket counter and 5 year old climbing over the various car rides around the gaming arcade. Approaching the crèche keeper, I asked ‘why did you let them out?’ to be told ‘oh ma’am, they wanted to go out’. Trying to explain that allowing a 2 and 5 year old to make that decision wasn't acceptable, fell on deaf ears as the crèche attendant chuckled away. (Just on that, from an anthropological perspective, what is it in the Philipino culture that makes them giggle at the most inappropriate moments?...surely worthy of a study)

The key is to pre-empt every situation in order to avoid outrage and disappointment. Now, when I check the kids into a crèche, I am obliged to add 'don't let them out'.

So eldest son turned 7 on Thursday. We decided to have a party on Friday, inviting along some neighbours and their kids; in other words a booze-up diguised as a childrens party.

I had invited several people around for a BBQ, which was optimistic since I don’t actually own a BBQ set.

I spent all day tidying up, a mammoth task, (while DH begrudgingly erected Ikea furniture). Considering I had told my guests that the BBQ would kick off at 5ish, it should come as no surprise that DH wasn’t despatched to the shops for food, booze and the infamous BBQ set until 4.30pm.

When the first guests arrived I was obliged to explain that not only did I not have a BBQ set yet, but no food or drink either since everything needed was on DH’s list. My guests, new aquaintances, politely sat and waited as I frantically scanned the drive for DH's car.

Luckily, he wasn’t far behind them, hastily shoving beers into the freezer before unpacking the shopping. Proudly producing the boxed BBQ set, he took it outside to set it up. Venturing outside some 30 minutes later to inspect the new purchase, I nearly collapsed with laughter as I took in what can only be described as the smallest BBQ EVER. It barely came up to DH's knees. He spent the whole night crouched over it, flipping steaks, while simultaneously trying to look 'cool' in front of our new neighbours. Well, serves him right for buying the cheapest one in the shop.

                      Probably the Smallest BBQ set in the World

Finally, an update on the toilet training. Almost three year old now totally refuses to wear a nappy, removing it the instant I put it on him. Obviously this still results in the daily pooh on the floor, but worse, he’s started to do it in public (he's imaginative, he managed to do it in the water feature of the local mall last week).

Waiting in the sunshine for 8 year old girl to finish school the other day, I had taken the precaution of bringing a book with me. I flopped down onto the fake grass as almost three year old sped off toward the climbing frame with the other boys.

Some minutes later, as I reclined in the sunshine, I distractedly stared around me as almost three year old ambled over toward me.

-‘I did a pooh mama’
-‘oh you DIDN’T, not HERE?’ I sprang to my feet to inspect the damage.
-'where is it?' I demanded
-'Pooh, pooh' he giggled, wiggling his behind. Nothing there.

I won't offend you with the rest of the details, but what followed involved a search and rescue operation and a rapid clean up act on the 'fake' grass, swiftly followed by a hasty retreat as soon as 8 year old girl appeared. I've been avoiding that part of the playground ever since. Sometimes don't you just wish for rain?

Self -improvement and why Darcey Bussell has nothing to worry about......

I need a hobby. Having moved just over a month ago, I've still not figured out what is going to engage and amuse me here yet. Obviously 4 children do a pretty good job of that, but I’ve always been a keen advocate of ‘me time’ and besides, I like to counteract my unhealthy lifestyle with a couple of hours self-improvement each week.

Before arriving in the UAE, when the plan was to live in Abu Dhabi (pah! in a bedsit maybe), I had done all my research and had identified many classes and courses to interest me.

Unfortunately, all this research went to waste when we ended up in Al Ain where I realised there was very little on offer other than trawling the mall or going to the gym. I pride myself on never having been to the gym. The idea of exercise being an end in itself horrifies me. I'd rather do something pleasant that may hopefully result in my becoming toned, slimmer with an adrenalin buzz. The thought of pounding away on a machine with no objective other than getting fit seems slightly soul destroying, much like taking Slim Fast rather than eating a yummy salad.

To keep me entertained and buy me some time away from the house for a few hours as week, I undertook a TESOL course (teach english to a speaker of another language) which was useful in this country and even found me a teaching job for the summer.

My father always sagely said 'education is no burden' and I like to live by this doctrine. Whether it's an intellectual, spiritual or physical pursuit, I find learning something new quite life affirming.

In my time, I've attended classes in yoga, pilates, interior design, desk-top publishing, Italian, ballet, editing, jazz, belly dancing aerobics, flamenco, typing, shorthand, water aerobics, public relations, pyschology..with varying levels of success (and these are just the ones I can remember)

I like the camaraderie of these classes, particularly the dance ones. Ballet is my favourite. There is a quaint, ethereal quality to these classes, besides, where else are you going to find a room full of thirty-something women (and on the rare occasion, men) trussed up in pink tights, satin slippers and leotards attempting battement tendus and plies to the tinkling notes of Chopin? There is a safety in knowing that no one is laughing at you (well, not overtly) as you attempt to pirouette across a studio, an act which can leave you so dizzy that the walk back to the barre resembles the walk home from a tequila slammer contest.

When I first moved to Galway my daughter started ballet in a school which also advertised ballet classes for adults. Thrilled at this news I signed up immediately.

On arrival at my first lesson I was vaguely aware that there wasn’t anyone over the age of 12 in the changing room. Presuming I was simply late I tentatively opened the door to the studio and peered in.

Now, this was before I started wearing contact lenses so my sight was pretty blurry without my glasses; I say this because had I been able to see clearly, I would have simply closed the door and tiptoed away.

Squinting, I noted that the rest of the students appeared to be quite short but since I couldn’t see too clearly I reasoned, Father Ted like, that ‘small just means far away’.

A dozen pre-teens watched me approach the group with undisguised curiosity.

Standing there, aged 33 in my ballet tights and leotard I suddenly felt ridiculous.

-‘err, I thought this was an adult class’

-‘It is, it is, come in and join us, the others will be here soon’ purred the Russian teacher.

-'Well, if you're sure....'

Feeling like Dawn French in a tutu, I made my way to the barre sucking in my stomach and trying to appear nonchalant, hoping that the students would assume I was a colleague of the ballet mistress. But inside I was dying.

Dawn French in a tutu

Now, at my age I’ve come to terms with my body issue demons, but trying to compete with a group of prepubescent dance students is humbling to say the least.

The ‘adults’ never showed and I spent a humiliating and exhausting hour avoiding the wall length mirror whilst being put through my balletic paces with a bunch of giggling school girls. I never went back.

One ‘group’ or ‘class’ I’ve always given a wide berth is that of the mother and baby/toddler variety. I despise the idea of getting together with a group of women purely because we’ve all given birth within the last couple of years. And the thought of discussing breastfeeding and pureed organic broccoli is enough to send me sprinting to the nearest night club.

I suspect that this is partly due to a subconscious fear that I can’t compete with the way these women totally surrender to motherhood for the first couple of years, eschewing fun in favour of being the best possible mother they can be.

I’m too selfish for that. I love my children passionately, but they’ve never interested me to the point that I wouldn’t rather go out to the pub with DH.

That said, I recently attended a mother and baby music group with almost 3 year old, in a misguided attempt to ‘make friends’.

Sitting cross legged on the floor in a circle, the leader sang a little ‘hello’ song to each child there, which the rest of the group joined in on. ‘Hello Cressida, hello Cressida, let’s all clap our hands’ they sang. Almost three year old gave me a withering look that said 'you gotta be kidding' as he wrestled his Spiderman action figure out my hands.

The following hour was spent skipping around in a circle with flowing chiffon and tambourines invoking little Cressida, Tarquin or Samir to connect with the music. As the mothers became more competitive, the babies became increasingly disinterested and the whole thing finally ended when more than half the class were crying. Seeing the ordeal was over, almost 3 year old made a bolt for the door as I politely explained that we wouldn't be returning, thanks all the same.

I tried, but really, competitive parenting isn't for me. I'd rather throw almost three year old in a creche in the mall and spend an hour lazing over coffee. It's a win win situation. He gets to play with blocks, dress up as Spiderman and roll around in the sand while some adoring creche assistant follows him around. Me, I get to drink cappuccino undisturbed whilst scouring the local paper for prospective evening classes. So far I've come up with conversational Arabic, cardio dance classes and tai chi..... watch this space.

...and how to avoid toilet training...

Almost 3 year old is finally flirting with the idea of using a toilet. He first showed an interest a year ago but is now starting to get serious and moving the relationship on to the next stage.

First thing in the morning he comes downstairs, removes his nappy with a flourish, and takes himself off to the toilet to have a pee. Unlike his brothers, who at his age happily sat on the toilet to have a pee, he insists on standing ‘like daddy’, which is tricky given his short stature and means he needs to slightly elevate himself onto his tiptoes. On completion of this morning ritual, we dutifully applaud and hug him and he happily basks in the praise. So far so good.

The problem is, roughly three hours later, he'll wander off into a corner, again remove nappy and take a dump on the floor.

If I'm not in the room, he will go and fetch toilet roll and anti bacterial spray and go to work on the mess. Usually, by the time I realise what's happening, he looks like he's on a dirty protest.

Carrying him at arms length up to the bath, I try explain why he needs to inform me when he feels the need to use the toilet, but at this stage he’s in firm denial of the whole event, insisting 'I did go on the toilet mama, I DID'.

It’s a phase, I know, I’ve been here three times already and I’m a firm believer in letting them get on with it and work it out for themselves.
In fact, I’m often at a loss when other mothers ask me how I ‘toilet trained’ my children. You see, the very phrase itself demands my participation, it implies a programme, an objective and frankly there is enough to do each day without putting myself through the trauma of trying convince a toddler that he needs to sit on that big scary seat with a hole and run the risk of being swallowed up by it.

I found that each child reached a point where they naturally wanted to use the toilet, a stage which was preceded by the whole standing in the corner and denying that they needed to ‘go’ phase.

My approach to parenthood has always been one of ‘take the easiest route’. As babies this worked wonderfully. They cried, I fed them, they stopped crying. They woke in the night, I fed them, they went back to sleep. Sometimes I used to think that other mothers were, at best, mad, at worse simply making it all up, when they told me they hadn’t slept in days because of the 'baby'. The nightmare of walking the floor at 3am just didn’t feature in my children's babyhood. I had the secret but obvious formula!

Cry+milk=stop crying/go to sleep.

So I was lucky, the babies were easy, so I kept having them. However, nobody told me about the whole toddler/rest of their life phase, which has proven to be far more complicated than the baby routine. A simple stroll through the mall with four of them is enough to get the entire staff involved.

This is due to the fact that almost three year old insists on going into every shop we pass (often emerging, inexplicably, with chocolates), while 5 year old boy runs on ahead, inevitably losing us, almost 7 year old boy insists on one cartwheel for every three steps he takes and eldest girl, almost certainly hormonal (at 8), weeps at the unfairness of life (she can't go to 'Claire's', wants a drink, hates having 3 brothers...etc..). At times it feels like we're a travelling circus, or dubious celebrities, as the staff emerge from each shop we pass, to discuss and witness our progress from one end of the mall to the other. ‘Oh ma’am, haha, you can’t control your children, haha’ one giggling staff member told me recently.

Even crossing the road makes me feel like I’m in a scene from Mission Impossible. The other day we took them to ‘Fun City’ (fun for who?) in order to throw them all in the crèche and buy ourselves a child-free hour. DH helpfully sat in the food court finishing lunch while I herded them towards the crèche. Almost three year old immediately ran for the little merry-go-round and proceeded to climb on, eldest girl ran off in the other direction towards the car games, 5 year old boy was tugging my sleeve looking for tokens while I fished in my bag for one of those blasted cards they insist you use in there. Almost 7 year old was out of sight.

Finding my wallet but no card, I shot a look around for almost three year old, who has a tendency to attach himself to other families, and as I did so, I stepped back and found something under my feet, thinking it was almost three year old, I attempted to side step him but this child was bigger and longer and somehow became entangled with my flip flops as my feet swept up in front of me and I landed, arse first, onto his head.

At this point splayed on top of the child, I twisted around to discover that is was almost 7 year old boy who was my victim. As we disentagled ourselves, the staff made a rush to help but I waved them away ‘it’s fine, really’ ( I had a massive bruise on my thigh for days). Shamed and furious, but feeling sorry for almost 7 year old, the side of his head very, very red, I scrambled to my feet with as much dignity I could muster, and gathered up my bags and buggy.

Head held high, I herded my now silent children towards the crèche (almost 7 year old boy looked as if he was suffering post traumatic shock disorder) and then limped back to DH who laughed like a drain at my misadventure.

Parenthood isn’t easy, especially when you’re on the flat of your back in Fun City (DH loved that line...for all the wrong reasons) or cleaning up a pooh-smeared sofa. It will get easier, or at least the current set of problems (ie, incontinence, running in front of traffic, cartwheeling in public) will be replaced with more sophisticated problems, but then there is always boarding school....

How not to be a domestic goddess....

I need a cleaner. What had been the selling point of my new house has now become the bane of my life. Prior to moving in I had been heard airily proclaiming -

‘oh, it’s lovely, all open-plan downstairs, lovely and bright! And since it’s smaller it will be sooo much easier to keep clean’.

WRONG! It’s a bloody nightmare because whereas in my last place there were a labyrinth of rooms to chuck things into, in this place there is nowhere to hide. The lovely open spaces are filled with piles of washing, school bags and paperwork. Open-plan is the kiss of death unless you have enough storage to match the size of the room or you are uber organised.

Having a cleaner has a good effect on me, it keeps me on the straight and narrow. In my previous house I had one and on the days that she visited I would spend the morning tidying up, cleaning toilets, generally making her job a little less difficult. And mysteriously, what might take me days to get through she would have finished in 2 hours.

They say that a clean house is a sign of a wasted life, but what is a messy house a sign of? It's not as if I'm spending all my time in the gym, juggling a hectic social life or the CEO of a company. A dirty, messy house in my opinion, results in a very disorganised life. It's a vicious circle of mess and despair.

These days being a ‘Monica’ or ‘OCD’ is a fashionable sobriquet for being a very good housekeeper (which doesn't sound half as quirky or trendy). My mother would have fallen into this catagory. So obsessed with order and tidiness, she would rush us to finish our dinner so that she could wash the plates. To her, to linger over a boozy dinner was a nightmare and only resulted in further unneccessary mess. As a teenager I decided to treat my parents and cook dinner for them. In an attempt to create a nice relaxed atmosphere, I lit some candles and put on some nice jazz. She came in, turned on the lights, turned off the music and blew out the candles. Taking in the blackened wicks , she accused me ‘you’ve ruined them, I have to throw them away now!’

I’m guessing that her obsession with cleanliness and order had the opposite effect on me. Since she did everything for me, I found moving away from home traumatic on so many levels. I remember starting boarding school as a 12 year old. I had no idea how to make my bed in the mornings (or brush my hair, or find my shoes) and my cubicle was a disgrace with dirty washing strewn all over the floor. I once ventured down to the laundry (it was more like a magdalene laundry…..it was a convent) and after spending an hour trying to wrestle with the archaic spinner I gave in and just brought it all home at weekends.

I once went on a school trip to (the former) Yugoslavia. We were staying in a hotel in Umag where one night there was a burglary in one of the rooms. The police were obliged to knock on the door of each room to check that nothing had been taken. I was sharing a room with another girl and between us we were total sloths, our room was testement to this with a ransacked collection of clothes, souvenirs and empty wrappers. The policeman and hotel manager took in the catastrophic mess around us and concluded that the burglary was worse than they had initially thought. Red faced I was obliged to admit that it wasn’t a break in but rather our own mess.

But having someone to clean my mess sits uneasily with me. After all, on my UAE residents visa I’m described as a ‘housewife’ which heavily implies that I spend my days creating an orderly and harmonious home for my husband and children where the oven constantly churns out home baked treats and each rooms sports a vase of freshly cut flowers. That I waft from room to room, duster in hand wearing a Cath Kidston apron and get my hair and nails done once a week.

The truth is so far from that it’s not funny. I spend hours trying to organise things but I’m so easily distracted that just washing the floor can take half the day. Only last week, arriving home after a night away, I was industriously sweeping up some crumbs in the living room when DH announced he was going upstairs for a shower. 40 minutes later he re-emerged and double took as I was still standing in the exact same spot, broom in hand and the crumbs were still on the floor.

-‘err, you were doing that when I went up’

-‘I know, but I had to send an email, check online for flights, phone my brother and there was something good on the telly...’

Bless him but he doesn’t complain, he’s rather bewildered by it I think and besides, feminism has triumphed to the point that he daren’t question me in case I go on a rant about how I had to give up my (non-existent) career to bear and rear his offspring.

Besides, having live-in 'help' (I can't bring myself to use the word 'maid' it conjures up images of mob caps and episodes of 'Upstairs, Downstairs') is positively de riguer here in the UAE. More than once I've heard 'No maid, no nanny, are you crazy, you've got four kids!' like it's some sort of nasty disease. At home you have to make a regular appearance in Hello magazine to be able afford such a luxury. Of course the idea is tempting, but it just seems too much bother, although having someone to clean up after dinner, or to watch the kids while I go to the supermarket would be in the realm of Jim'll fix it in terms of dreams come true!

I have a friend who confided that she doesn’t go downstairs in the morning until the entire upstairs is clean, tidy and perfect. She is downstairs by 7am! My housekeeping goals for the week are more modest, aiming for having everything done by, say, Thursday, by which time it’s all messed up again anyway.

I’m always amazed when I am invited for an impromptu coffee by a mother at the school gate.

-‘what NOW?’ I will ask.

-‘Yes, why not?’ they will reply.

-‘Don’t you need to like, tidy up?’,

-‘well, it’s a mess but I don’t mind if you don’t mind’ they’ll cheerily reply.

Inevitably the house is perfect, not just all the toys are picked up off the floor and rubbish kicked under the sofa, but polished, dusted, with scatter cushions thoughtfully placed. They make fresh coffee and have home baked cakes. Often, bafflingly, they’ll offer to show me around the rest of the house where I’ll be shown every perfect room, right down to the en suite bathroom.

I prefer a 3 days warning before I entertain and even at that, I can only just about manage a tidy living room (albeit with graffitied walls), and then I’ll forget the milk and there won’t be any sugar in the house.

So I’m going to phone the cleaning services this week and book someone to come at the end of the week. I need that long to prepare. It doesn't matter what standard of service they give, it can't be any worse than my own. Although we'll probably have to book into a hotel for the weekend to ensure that it's still nice by Sunday, I do like starting the week with a tidy house.

Chaos

I was born a month prematurely, and that was the last time I was early for anything. Even then, it was an elective cesarean so I wasn't even responsible for this uncommon punctuality.
I am terminally late for everything: when it comes to time-keeping, I enter the realm of ‘magical thinking’ where an appointment for 12.30pm, 15 minutes drive away, means I leave the house at 12.25pm. This sounds like straightforward bad manners but it's more complicated than that and is rather a combination of a misplaced optimism, a tendency to blur uncomfortable facts, as well as a need to be in crisis mode at all times (I have the same philosophy with money). The result is that I’m permanently late, harassed and apologetic. I have cunningly set all my clocks 5 minutes fast which is a pointless exercise since I merely make a mental adjustment whenever I look at them.
This tardiness is a common trait in my family where no holiday was complete without missing either a ferry or a plane. Somewhere in my distant memory is the grainy image of my family sitting crestfallen on the side of the dock in Liverpool as the ferry makes it's rapid departure towards Ireland. My father once tried to convince staff on the runway to stop a plane he'd missed at Knock airport. It being Knock, I think they almost considered it.
When I was six my father decided we would drive to Italy from the UK for our summer holiay. I can recall rattling around in the back of a mini bus as we made our way through five countries, as well as the treacherous ascent and descent through the Swiss Alps, only to arrive three days later at our holiday apartment to be informed by a dismayed landlady that we were a week late!

My problem is I have an equal measure of tardiness and a need for approval, which is a very bad combination because not only will I definitely be late, I’ll definitely feel terrible about it as well. My sister suffers from the same questionable time-keeping, but doesn’t care. Her attitude is one of 'if they want to be upset about my being late, it's their problem' Once after several stern letters from the school regarding her children's consistent lateness, she challenged them to provide her a school bus so the children wouldn’t be late any more. She actually got it! I envy her insensitivity. In fact, I once did the ladies mini marathon with her in Dublin, for which we were so late that the start line had been taken away by the time we got there (we got distracted in Marks & Spencer).

But the lateness is just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to my need to live on the edge (albeit a very domesticated and mundane ‘edge’). I don’t feel whole unless I have a current crisis and they present themselves (or are cultivated) on a daily basis. I’ve self-diagnosed my 'condition' as chaos addiction. Take yesterday for example. At midnight, every night, my PC pings up a message saying ‘Renew daughters passport’. I’ve been listening to this ping for months. The process has crept along slowly. It started with a series of emails to the Irish Embassy's office in Abu Dhabi and after a month, DH eventually made it in to collect an application form. Another 2 weeks and eventually we had her photos taken. By the end of the week I was feeling confident enough to inform the school that the children would not be in attendance the following day as we needed to go into Abu Dhabi and get the application forms witnessed. So far, so painfully drawn out.

And so, the following morning I woke, dressed, got the children up, and at that point decided to gather all the necessary documents. And this is where the chaos addiction comes into play. Any reasonable person would have sought out all the necessary paperwork prior to the event. First thing missing was our original marriage certificate. I had 2 photocopies but no original. Brushing that aside, I went to the counter where all the passports are. I found one, my 2 year old's. Two more proved to be in the car. Mine eventually surfaced in a mess of documents near the desk. In fact, every family members except the one needed, my daughters. I phoned DH, ‘where is it? You MUST have it!’ DH insisted he didn’t. After 10 minutes of searching I concluded it was lost and we may as well go to Abu Dhabi anyway and just declare it lost and apply for a new one. Simple. In to the car I piled everyone and off we headed with the paltry documents we had. Ten minutes into the journey and I decided to phone the embassy office to tell them of my change of plan. The chilling words of the girl at the end of the phone caused me to pull over and place my head on the steering wheel;

'You will need a police report in order to apply for a new one.'

Now, in Ireland this would be a mild inconvenience, enough to make me complain loudly about bureaucracy gone mad.

But this isn’t Ireland.

Turning the car around, I phoned DH to say ‘I’m not leaving here without that bloody passport’. I skidded to a stop outside the house and proceeded to tear the place apart. Sofas were upturned, bookshelves cleared, boxes turned upside down. I grabbed two-year-old and five-year-old ‘Now guys, I know you’re involved, WHERE IS IT??’ (this wasn’t unreasonable of me, last time something went missing we searched for half an hour before turning on five-year-old-boy who calmly lead us to the end of the garden to a pile of sand and presented us with the lost item). Both feigned total ignorance.

After half an hour of fruitless searching I reasoned ‘how hard can getting a police report be? (oh, such folly!) and phoned DH to say ‘you go and get the report, I’ll meet you at the office’.

Two hours later as I crawled through Abu Dhabi traffic, DH phoned to inform me that having been directed to three different locations he eventually was told the tragic truth. He would need to –

-visit 4 different offices around the city in order to gain various stamps and forms
-go to the Sharia court (NO!! I wailed, that’s where they behead people!!)
-PUT AN ADVERT IN THE PAPER and take the photocopy of this ad to their office

Undeterred, DH then asked if he could go and start the process immediately, and was told everywhere was closed for lunch. Quelle surprise!

So we went for lunch to assess the damage. We concluded that the passport was definitely in the house and we’d spend the weekend looking for it.

And so having driven two and a half hours to Abu Dhabi it turned out that it was all for nought (although I did buy a jolly nice dress for the ball). On the journey home, sometime outside Dubai (on the Abu Dhabi side), having passed countless petrol stations (one if which we actually stopped at so that my daughter could use the toilet) I realised my yellow light was showing that I was low on petrol. I decided to come off the bypass at Dubai and find a petrol station as I knew there wasn’t one from Dubai to RAK.

After driving around in the dark for 30 minutes I found myself rejoining the bypass with an empty petrol tank and a phone with a flat battery. I assessed the damage. I had an hour of a journey left and should I run out of petrol I would have no ability to contact DH to tell him of my dilemma. What on earth was I going to do? I kept going. I saw this on Top Gear once.

Miraculously I made it to Umm al Quain where I found a petrol station. I asked the manager if there was a pay phone, ostensibly to tell DH I was alright (he wouldn’t have been worried) but mainly to let him know that I hadn’t made it to the off license and it was closing in ten minutes. The manager, seeing that at this point I was wild eyed and manic having spent 6 hours with 4 kids in a car (not to mention the stress of having spent the last hour waiting for the car to glide to a hault on the side of the road, where, unable to contact DH, I would most certainly be murdered) kindly offered to let me use the office phone. Well, it was Thursday night and there was not a drop of alcohol in the house and DH would have assumed I had it covered… Feeling like I was back in the principals office, I recited DH’s phone number, holding my breath as he punched in the number. Handing me the receiver he said ‘it’s ringing’. He didn’t leave the room, he was going to hear this conversation. What was I going to say, that the drama which DH was unaware of was now over?

-Yes?
-Hi, err, I nearly ran out of petrol
-Oh, are you OK?
-Yes, I’m in Umm al Quawain, at the petrol station
-Oh, right
-Yes, it was terrible, and my phone was dead
-Yes, I saw that
-So, I’ll be home soon (ask about the booze!!!)
-Ok, well, see you then…oh, wait, have you been to the off license?
-No, you had better go now!!
-I’ve 5 minutes, gotta go
-bye
-bye

Handing back the phone I thanked the manager, wondering what he made of my side of this brief exchange.

While the guy filled the car I spent all the cash in my purse on goodies from the shop. Emerging minutes later laden with drinks and snacks I offered the petrol attendant my credit card to pay for the petrol. ‘Sorry ma'am, no credit cards’ he sang, pleased with himself. Taking my driving license as collateral he directed me to the nearest ATM (as an aside, I feel strongly that petrol stations and restaurants which don’t accept credit cards should inform the customer of this on arrival, after all, it’s not as if you can put your purchases back). Not following his directions too closely, I managed to take a wrong turn and ended up almost in Sharjah before I found a U turn where I could turn around a come back, adding an unnecessary 30 minutes onto what was already an agonising journey.

To cut a sorry tale short, I finally made it home and spent the whole weekend looking for the passport, to no avail. It wasn’t until I’d given up hope that I found myself walking out to the car, trancelike, opened the glove compartment and put my hand behind it where, sure enough, there it was. Drama over. Until the next one.

The point of this story is that each drama was predictable, unnecessary and utterly avoidable, from the missing documents, the pointless journey, ignoring the fuel gauge, using all available cash on unnecessary purchases resulting in mad dashes to ATM's and crucially, not keeping a well stocked drinks cabinet. But the chaos addiction is blind to these warning signs and always chooses the most difficult and hazardous route. I guess the psychology behind it is that constantly living in crisis mode means ignoring the smaller, humdrum banalities of daily life, instead focusing on the immediate drama as it unfolds. One day I hope to address this need for the theatrical, to bring some calm into my life, I could try therapy but no doubt I'd get there late and find they didn't accept credit cards.


-

Cultural differences & customer service

I walked into a little shop today to buy water, and there was a man stretched out asleep on the freezer. I stopped in my tracks, uncertain as to whether I should advance into such a private moment, but the shopkeeper seemed totally at ease with the arrangement so I continued with my purchase while the man snoozed away. It got me thinking how odd some things are here, to my Western perspective. So many things leave me baffled at times. Like for example the way local people who need a pint of milk just drive up to the shop and blow their horn until someone comes out and serves them.

Yesterday, I pulled up to a little grocery shop at the same time as a young local man. He started honking his horn while I got out of the car and went into the shop. When I emerged with my purchases a couple of minutes later he was still honking away impatiently.

There is a culture of entitlement here in the UAE which leaves me both perplexed and cold at times.  A benevolent government, keen to ensure that the indigenous population profit from the riches brought about by the discovery of oil, have perhaps missed the point in some ways; the locals can come across as both lazy and aggressive: no doubt they feel outnumbered and enfeebled by the massive influx of expats who are hired in from abroad to carry out the roles that they are both unable and unwilling to fulfill.

And why is everything so complicated here at times? I received a call from Aramex today, to tell me that a package was waiting for me. Oh goodie, 3 new dresses from Boden (I know, I know, but they were on sale...well, two of them) so off I went to collect them. The Aramex office in Al Ain is about the size of a toilet cubicle and yet, in their wisdom they've provided the ladies with their own section of the 2 metre counter. Now I can't really see what possible benefit there is to this, it's not as if the ladies are served first so what's the point?

On arriving, you have to pull a ticket for the queue. Every minute or so a nasal woman's voice bellows out from the sound system 'ticket number 28, counter number 1 please’ which is pretty farcical because the bloke behind the counter could say it just as easily, and besides, I was the only person in there who actually took a ticket, everyone else just stood jostling and shoving up at the counter. I took ticket number 803 from the ladies ticket machine, and sat down.

After the jostling mass had been seen to ('ticket number 28, 29, 30...' I was feeling rather doubtful about reaching 803) I was beckoned to by the guy behind the counter. Ah, maybe this is the special ladies treatment!

'Phone number please' he said. I gave it to him.


‘I’m sorry ma’am, there is no record of that number ‘ he informed me


’Well, you just phoned me less than an hour ago' I calmly replied. He checked his screen again.


'Can you repeat the number please' he said. I repeated the number.


‘No, there is no shipment here for you' he said confidently.


'Yes there is, it says so online and YOU told me on the phone!' I retorted sounding more confident than I was feeling.

Customer service in the UAE is appalling, mainly due to language barriers and differing cultural expectations, i.e. I expect some service. He disappeared into another room and reappeared a minute later bearing a piece of paper, instructing me to phone the number on it.

I flounced out of the office and got into my car to phone the number. My two-year-old was crying and five  and six-year-old-boys were engaged in earnest Spiderman moves. Phoning the number, I was informed by the Indian man on the other end of the line that there was no record of me EVER with Aramex, or I think that's what he said, two-year-old-boy was really starting to yell at this point. 'Hold on a minute' I instructed the man on the other end of the phone, ' can't hear you, let me get out of the car ' just as the Adhan began, aka 'call to prayer' and the air filled with the earsplitting wailing of the muezzin from the mosque nearby. 'Ah Jeezus' feeling like an embedded journalist in Iraq I hung up and went back into the office.

And so the dance began again. This time I had evidence as I handed over my phone with the call log showing that I received a call from them earlier that day. He disappeared again and emerged 10 minutes later with my parcel. Pleased with himself, he handed it over to me without explanation. ' Well what the hell was all that about then' I wanted to splutter, but gave up, nobody will be learning any lessons here today but me.

Still, I am happy with my new purchases and can justify the cost since I've made the wonderful discovery that Ramadan has saved me money. Usually at this point in the month we're down to our last few shillings until payday. But this month I've saved a fortune in afternoon coffees, lunches out and pointless purchases as I wander around the mall (which is only fun if it's punctuated with aforementioned coffee/lunch). Don't get me wrong, I'm deliriously happy that it is over, it was without doubt the dullest month of my entire life, comparable only to that of the month before my birth. Of course, saving cash aside, it had its compensations, i.e DH coming home early each day, but where's the fun in that if there's nothing to do? We lazed the entire month away, watching Spiderman 3 on a loop and snoozing on the sofa with the only exercise being the occasional race to the off license before 5 o’clock closing.

But the customer service issues remain. Now I’m not looking at the customer service in Ireland with rose tinted spectacles, it can be painfully bureaucratic and unhelpful, but at least you can make yourself understood, well, most of the time. But Ireland appears to be run with the efficiency of Microsoft compared with the UAE. When Etisalat, the national telecommunications provider cut off my house phone for non payment of the bill, trying to explain that I had never received a bill, despite several requests for it, fell on deaf ears. After several million calls, I was instructed to go into their offices where I could get a copy of the bill. And so, off I went to collect said bill only to be told by the misogynist dolt behind the counter that he couldn’t give me a copy of the bill as it was my ‘husbands business’. That I didn’t pull him across the counter is a miracle… When I finally received a bill, it was extortionately massive. Optimistically, I phoned customer service for advice on better tariffs. The helpful young woman on the end of the phone made the brilliant suggestion that an effective way of cutting down on the cost of my calls abroad was to block all outgoing calls abroad!

But this administrative quagmire is assuaged by the unrelenting kindness towards kids in restaurants and shops, particularly I noticed, in Abu Dhabi. Two-year-old boy is regularly carried off into kitchens and behind counters where he invariably emerges with lollipops, balloons and even toys. The two young men behind the counter in the GAP even allowed him to work the till. This never ceases to amaze and enchant me as in my own country arriving into a restaurant with kids is the dining equivalent of wearing a lepers bell. Some ignore us and some have been down right rude.

And so, dear reader, this shall be my last post from Al Ain. When next I write I will be in a shoebox in Ras Al Khaimah, but grateful to be in this crazy country for the time being, as the rest of the world struggles to recover from the financial mess it's in. 

Leaving Al Ain

So we're moving....again. This time to the northern Emirate of Ras al Khaimah where we will inhabit a townhouse half the size of our villa for precisely half the rent. Since we arrived in the UAE we've been on a mission to cheat the outrageous rental costs here and in this latest move, we seem to have done that, albeit with the massive cost of DH commuting a couple of days a week to AD.

Moving isn't a new phenomenon to us, we've moved so many times I've lost count. I have a suspicion there is some itinerant blood running through my veins as after a year in any house ennui sets in and I find myself dreaming of a different house, different town, new curtains and just plain wanting to start 'afresh'. In addition, it's an effective, albeit drastic way to spring clean and throw out all the crap, (as students we used to hold a dinner party every now and then for the same reason).

This probably stems from a childhood which saw at least 8 moves (for me, for my siblings you can double that) and many schools. 'Always the new girl' is a frame of mind which comes naturally to me and I relish sussing out who you should know and where you should go (and in this country, where the off licenses are).

But I shall miss Al Ain, moving here seemed mad at the time but it worked out very well and we’ve been content. Al Ain is optimistically called 'the garden city' due to it's comparative verdancy but there is more to it than that. Below I have modestly compiled my opinion on some of what Al Ain has to offer...

Jebel Haffeet – Is the closest thing we have to a landmark here in Al Ain. Famous throughout the emirates, this mountain is visited by thousands of tourists each year. A drive to the summit is a weaving and treacherous ascent along an amazing feat of engineering, and is surely worthy of a supercar race between Jeremy Clarkson and Richard Hammond. However, once you get to the top, chances are you won't be able to see anything if it’s too sunny, too sandy or too misty but on good days you can see Green Mubazzarah down below on the UAE side, and Oman on the other. However, the splendour is rather tainted by the derelict looking coffee shop at the top. And a gift shop wouldn't go astray either, what's the point of seeing a famous landmark/painting/exhibit if you can't buy the mug afterwards??


[L to R -Me, DD and neice (who is now going to kill me for posting this pic) at the top of Jebel Haffeet]




Trader Vics- I’m on the fence with this one so I’ll start with the negatives. More expensive than most hotel restaurants in Abu Dhabi, this is a smart restaurant with an exotic feel. However, much to my chagrin, the last time we ate there I casually asked the waiter for a bottle of house white as he handed me the menu. When he handed me the bill an hour later that bottle of wine was 180 dirhams!! A bottle of house wine should be good value and good quality and any decent restaurant should pride itself on such. With a rare burst of assertiveness I asked to speak to the manager who patiently explained to me that they pride themselves on only the best of wines and indeed never serve cooking wine at the table. One of those UAE moments where you have to 'let it go'.

However, we like to sit up at the bar and annoy the lovely Sri Lankan barman while working our way through the cocktail menu and the Colombian band add a cheery addition to the evening. Shame that the house wine leaves a bad taste in the mouth.

Pacos -is described as an ex-pat bar and as such delivers in spades. If what you want is sweaty, red –faced men over 50, slobbering all over prostitutes of indeterminate gender then this is your one! Personally I don’t like it and the last time I was there the band were truly appalling and reminded me of the band on the alter singing ‘I can’t smile without you’ in 'Four weddings and a funeral'. Yuk!

Intercontinental hotel- For the best pizza in town go here. We usually order it beside the pool, it is a proper Italian pizza and not plastic like pizza hut. Highly recommended!

Coldstone creamery- Truly the most annoying place known to man! The ice cream is impressive (albeit confusing, why would I want a twix in my icecream??) but the staff, who clearly despise each other, insist on regularly breaking into renditions of 'don't worry, be happy' while drumming with spoons and other implements and generally being annoyingly festive. Over a smoothie the other day DH and myself could barely hear each other over the din. This hysteria only works in America where there is a minimum wage and freedom of labour, here it just makes the western customer feel uncomfortable at best and downright irritated at worst. In addition, in America the customer is always right, whereas here the customer is always wrong and the staff can't understand you anyhow and please just go over to that other counter and fill out a form.....

African & Eastern- on the outskirts of the post-armageddon district of Sanaiya is this well known secret (which was a late discovery for me). Selling the finest selection of wine and spirits available in Al Ain, this is a must visit for those who like to imbibe. Surrounded by dismembered cars, dust and shanty houses, the off license can be difficult to locate, indeed I’ve spent upwards of 15 minutes driving around at times trying to locate it, but when you do, it is a welcoming, shining beauteous beacon in an otherwise harsh and unyielding landscape where the staff are helpful and enthusiastic (they will carry your wine out to the car for you!).

Bukkhara- Situated on the town square, this Indian restaurant is arguably the best in town, certainly dirham for dirham it is. If it’s not too hot you can sit outside and the kids can run or rollerskate around the square. The food is abundant and sublime. For 6 of us we can get away with the price of a visit to Mac Donalds.


Jahli Fort- A wonderful venue for a concert. We attended the Womad concert there some months back and it was a fantastic night. Dramatically lit up it was an atmospheric and joyous occasion only tainted by the lack of a bar...

Jahili Fort - host to Womad concert

So there endeth my appraisal of Al Ain. There is much more I could have mentioned but I just wanted to highlight those things which either pleased or irritated me. Farewell Garden City, we are off to the seaside!

Neighbours

It's Ramadan, and that means platters of cakes and biscuits mysteriously appearing on our door step from kindly neighbours. Occasionally we'll throw open the front door to reveal a fast retreating maid or nanny scurrying down the drive but in general we don't know who leaves these gifts which makes thanking them or indeed returning the plate impossible.

I'd like to return the favour and have been told that the appropriate response would be a traditional dish or gift from our own country. However, I'm not sure a bottle of Jameson or Baileys will be understood or gratefully accepted in the spirit (pardon the pun) it was given. Pity, they don't know what they're missing.

Then I thought (in a rare burst of Nigellaesque enthusiasm), perhaps I could rustle up something my mother used to make. However, this too is problematic, not least because a) my mothers' idea of rustling up something was baking scones which could double as missiles and b) my interpretation of rustling up food is to nip down to the local Lebanese pizzaria where the guy's English is so bad (or my Arabic?) I invariably emerge with the same pizza each time, regardless of what I select from the menu. Maybe a trip to M&S is just the job, a tin of Scottish shortbread is fairly innocuous or maybe those lovely Melton Mowbray pork pies....perhaps not, I wouldn't want to throw a household into swine flu alert. I still think the Baileys is a good idea...

Our neighbours sometimes send their kids over to play with ours, ostensibly to learn English although on that score they are seriously short changed since my children are either glued to PS3 or are shouting bizarrely construed obscenities (it's a phase we hope, which seems to have filtered from the top boy down, which appears to be a cross between tourettes and an obsession with superheros...I can't bear to think of little Zayed returning home to his mother and saying 'mum, my balls are on the fire of destiny').

On one occasion the nanny, who was keeping watch at the gate while Zayed and co. were on the trampoline, invited my children to go over to their house to play. I agreed they could go, but since I didn't know exactly where they lived, I said I'd follow them to their gate, scooping my naked 2 year old as I went.

When we arrived at the gate, which, as it turned out was only 3 massive villas down, the nanny insisted I follow her a little further. Feeling awkward but not wanting to be rude, I obeyed. As we walked around the side of the large house, there was an identical one behind it. Wife number two then. On the balcony were perhaps 8 women all waving and beckoning to me. With a rictus smile pasted onto my face I muttered 'oh, please no don't make me do this, not now, not today'. Now, this isn't due to any hostility towards new neighbours or misplaced ethnocentricity, quite the reverse, I've studied Evans-Pritchards' Sudanese 'Azande' and Tsings' Indonesian 'Meratus Dayaks', I am interested in witnessing other cultures first hand. No, this was more to do with what I was wearing. And the naked 2 year old.

Now, bear in mind this was perhaps 2pm on a Friday. In English that means 2pm on a Saturday, which invariably means lazing, watching kids movies slightly hungover, wearing the cleanest thing you can find on the floor. In short, you're not expecting guests. Or vice versa. I was wearing a short, slightly see through, summer dress, a nighty if you will, which in Ireland would be considered appropriate for a lazy summers day. In the middle east it is the equivalent of walking around in just my knickers.

Following the nanny into the house I was led to an elevator. Yes, you heard me right, an elevator, which cranked me up to the first floor which opened onto a large living room populated by women in those traditional (but not particularly flattering in the way of my mothers M&S nightdress) floor length gowns. As I entered the room, naked 2 year old wriggled free and sped off into an adjoining room to the 'oohs and ahhs' of the seated women. Sitting down on the velvet chaise I was appraised for some minutes by the women, who chattered loudly in rapid Arabic between themselves, occasionally looking over at me. Looking around I guessed there were three generations of women in the room, from grandmother down to late teen. Eventually the woman nearest to me said 'you from America?' to which I smiled and replied 'no, no, I'm Irish...'. She looked perplexed and relayed this information to the others. I had obviously lost some of my appeal. A maid appeared with a small table bearing a tray of fruit and a knife which she placed before me.

-'Eat, eat' the main speaker prompted
-'Oh, er no thanks' I said politely
-'You not eat???' she enquired with genuine alarm
-'Ah, erm, I've just had breakfast' I lied, gesturing to my stomach
-'What?? what time you have breakfast??' she insisted before turning to the rest of the group and translating this last exchange. They descended into a rapid discussion.
-'Oh, um, how do I explain that it's the weekend, there's a change of rules...?' I mumbled weakly to the 4 walls since they were now in deep consultation about my latest expose.

The maid reappeared with a pot of Arabic coffee and a tiny cup. Attention was re-focused on me again. 'Drink coffee' I was instructed. Not wanting to offend any further lifted the tiny cup and drank while 16 eyes watched me with interest. Choking it down, the cardomen unpleasant to my fussy caffeine palate I nodded and raised my cup 'good'. Smiling and sipping as they watched in silence I drained the last of the cup and sighed with exaggerated contentment 'umm umm'.

Mercifully, naked 2 year old reappeared at this point with several other children in tow. 'Why you not dress?' one of the women demanded, but once again it was a question which couldn't be satisfactorily answered without the aid of a translator (and even then it's not an easy question, my children have an affinity with nakedness, which, coupled with my lack of interest in dressing them more than once a day leaves them in this condition semi-permanently). As he was now trying to stand on his head on the faux velvet upholstered sofas, backside on full display, I finally had a reason to escape from these bored women. Waving my goodbyes I was stopped in my tracks by an invitation to inspect the house before I left.

Emirati houses are interesting. The kitchens are dark, ugly and cheaply made. The reason for this is that they are the domain of the servants and so how they look is unimportant. The rest of the house is positively baroque, no expense is spared on the multitude of fabrics and clashing patterns, tasteless opulence and massive chandeliers. If there's a space, something fills it, a gilded side table perhaps, a plant, a chair, a bronze lion. Any sane person who had to clean their own house wouldn't keep a house like this, but of course the cleaning is for the staff and so this isn't given any consideration.

By contrast, the kids rooms were bright and pleasant and my daughter was instantly jealous. The girls room was a shrine to Barbie and had pink walls and chandeliers and three beds. Which is another issue. In all the dealings we've had with these kids, it's still not clear who are siblings and who are cousins. These 'communes' for want of another word, seem to house many children, obviously due to the fact that there are multiple wives as well as other extended family.

After a guided tour of both houses we were eventually free to go. The kindness of our neighbours is undeniable, and in addition they are quite tolerant of our sometimes loud parties and for that we are grateful. However, next time I shall make sure I am wearing more than a light dusting of clothing and that all naked children are at the very least nappied.

In the meantime, I shall take myself off to find an appropriate gift, perhaps some festive mince pies (is there animal fat in suet...pork fat?) or maybe some Christmas pudding (brandy?), I think I'll just buy a box of dates.

A trip to the tailor...

I have a favourite dress, I bought it in an Italian store in Al Whada mall in Abu Dhabi. I visited this dress every week until it went into the sale whereupon I pounced on it and purchased it immediately. It's silk, empire line and very flattering.

I don't know if it's just being in my thirties, but I find clothes shopping more and more difficult as I get older. In my twenties a trip to Grafton street meant agonising over every single shop where invariably I wanted EVERYTHING!! These days I wander into the high street stores and feel like there's a big secret that nobody's let me in on. I can't relate to fashion any more. It's all smock tops and ugly frocks. It seems to me that most of what is in the shops went out of the shops twenty years ago. Why anyone would want to revisit the fashion of the 80's is beyond me. Indeed, finding an outfit for my recent  80's themed party was easier than finding something nice to wear for a normal night out.

I've flirted with online clothes shopping, which is an excercise in faith and optimism. Boden and Joules being my favourite shops; all bright patterns and feminine styles, I love them both. But I have made some monumental mistakes with these too. A plum coloured shift dress looked adorable on the size 8, 7 stone model in the Boden catalogue, and for some reason I pictured myself looking not dissimilar. Of course when it arrived and I tried it on, I looked like my mother. Frumpy and dumpy and 90 Euros poorer! But when you DO get it right, it's wonderful to pull the perfect skirt from a tissue lined delivery box having spent no time in a changing room with four children squabbling around your ankles, whilst struggle into something which makes you look like a hooker (and why do changing rooms have such unflattering lighting??)

I've always preferred dresses and skirts to trousers; my mother was a very fashion conscious woman in her day, and I grew up playing in her giant wardrobe trying on her hundreds of matching shoes and handbags. A dress means an occasion in my book and nothing in this world feels better than slipping a brand new dress over your head while preparing for a night out.

And so, after a fruitless and futile trip to Bawadi mall last week, to find a fabulous dress for dinner out with DH, I took matters into my own hands, I was going to copy my favourite dress, and so off I ventured to the 'Golden Thread' fabric store by the Town Square. And my goodness it was exciting. Fabric shops and haberdasheries are not something you can find easily any more in Ireland, indeed dressmaking for the masses is a dying art, but here in the UAE they are everywhere. Emirati women, when in the privacy of their homes once the abaya has been cast aside, are very glamourous. Their clothing stores are filled with floor length, diamond encrusted blingtastic gowns. Not for them the comfy cardi from BHS or a pair of combats; they are so groomed and glam they put us Western women to shame.

Back to the Golden Thread...this store had dozens of bolts of silk, ribbons, beadings, sequins, edgings, just everything you could possibly want for that perfect dress. I ended up choosing an ivory silk and a dark red silk as I just simply couldn't decide what I wanted -- I would have two dresses! Next came the edgings, zips and thread and I left the store with directions to a tailor nearby.

Tiptoeing down the dimly lit, bleak and shabby staircase I began to wonder if I really needed these dresses. But since I was carrying 200 dirhams of fabric I figured 'nothing ventured..' and entered a corridor with several tailors shops on either side. Trying not to be intimidated by the stares and whispers, I spotted one shop at the end of the corridor that looked like a possibility. The hostile looking Pakistani man looked at the dress and fabrics with a grimace and told me they'd be ready in five days. No tape measures, no fittings, just a straight forward copy of the original - how was that going to work? Grateful to be out of there, I fled back up the stairs, wondering if his obvious dislike for me was the fact that I was asking him to make me two sleeveless dresses, 'perhaps it's a sin' I pondered.

And so, today, with great trepidation, I went to collect my prizes. Still hostile and unsmiling, the man ignored me for several minutes until another man sitting at a sewing machine around the corner beckoned to me. Edging my way around I was presented with my dresses rolled up in a plastic bag. Not quite like collecting your made to measure garment from Chanel, where I imagine they usher you into a beautiful loft on the Champs Elysees while proffering you champagne and truffles, only to present the finished item in tons of tissue paper and petals. But, it was still exciting. I pulled one of the dresses from the bag to discover that they had mixed the edgings up. For the ivory dress I had chosen a simple ivory edging and for the scarlet dress I had chosen a bright pink and orange beading. But no matter, it looked better this way round. Rushing home to try them on they both fitted perfectly. I will admit that there are a couple of flaws but it doesn't matter, I'm delighted with my two new dresses, which cost the equivalent of €28 each. Bargain of the year, surely (maybe I'll sell them on ebay for €100 each...).

I am now in the process of designing my perfect dress, along with several designs for my DD (darling daughter) and fancy myself as a bit of a fashion designer. Although I shall have to find a women's tailor for my own designs since I can't imagine my hostile tailor will be too keen to put a tape measure around my boobs. Or maybe it's just what he needs....might cheer him up.

Ramadan and cappuccino

So it's Ramadan, I get it, wonderful. However, I fail to understand what that has to do with my morning take-out cappuccino from Coffee planet in my local ADNOC petrol station. I knew what was coming before the poor guy broke the news to me -- I could sense the bad news which hung in the air as he and his colleague shuffled around me silently debating who would deliver the crushing words 'sorry maam, but the machine is not working, it is Ramadan' as I jostled with the stacked cups and the 'cappuccino' button.

Now, I realise that at this special time in the Islamic calendar Muslims all over the world are fasting, praying and generally being at one with God, but I'm afraid that at 8am this was irrelevant to me as I spluttered 'we're not ALL Muslim you know!!'. The poor guy was very apologetic but what could he say?

I realise this doesn't signal armageddon, or even rain, but I do LIKE my morning take-out cappuccino on the way to work. It makes me feel grown up, like a hip, streetwise New Yorker, Sarah Jessica Parker-esque as I skip lightly across the busy streets, take-out cup in hand. It says 'I'm too busy to be fannying about with teaspoons and mugs, I have places to be, things to do, I outsource my coffee making!'.

I realise this analogy crumbles as I reach work, emerge from my car, wearing not a wool coat and cosy scarf to fend off the bitter New York winter morning, but a light summer dress in searing heat. And as I cross the road, red-faced and sweating, take-out cup in hand, I feel momentarily foolish -- nay pretentious! -- for carrying a boiling hot drink when I should be drinking iced tea. And besides, the Indian guy standing on the corner watching me has never even heard of Carrie Bradshaw.

But it's a comfort thing. A bit of home. A bit like buying the Sunday Times every week to read A.A. Gills TV review of shows I've not watched, or one of India Knight rants. Still, it makes me feel like I'm still part of something, that I'm not missing out on anything, like tuning in online to listen to RTE's Joe Duffy or Morning Ireland. There's something bizarrely comforting about living in the Middle Eastern desert while listening to the news that a lorry has overturned in Castleblaney.

But really, I'm not complaining about Ramadan, it's all part of the adventure after all and I'm planning to make it to one of those ubiquitous tents dotted so charmingly around the place, hosting Iftar parties.

But all this is on hold until we're certain DH doesn't have swine flue. Personally I think he's fine, my hypochondria is reserved entirely for myself (for example, a pain in my jaw at present can only flag the beginnings of a very rare jaw cancer), and he probably could do with an entire nights sleep without the constant comings and goings of various children throughout the night.

This isn't to overestimate the situation, we even have a makeshift bed made up on our bedroom floor to accommodate them when they wander in, but inevitably I wake up surrounded by four naked men most mornings. That sounds far more exciting than it actually is.

In addition, due to our new 'nightly tippleless' regime, sleeping without the sedative of a couple of glasses of wine is the sleep of the damned and leaves you feeling as if you slept for 25 minutes max.

Ramadan again...

Ramadan started yesterday at sunset. I know this because we wanted to have a drink outside by the pool at the Hilton and the barman wouldn't let us. The kids were allowed to bring their Sprites outside, but not my glass of wine. I offered to disguise it but to no avail, the barman firmly told me, 'no madam, it is Ramadan'.

There's a special moon sighting committee who decide when Ramadan starts, I'd love to hear that conversation -

-'yup, that's it there, that's the moon alright'

-'where?'

-'there, look, THERE!'

-'oh yeah, I see it now'

-'well, no drinks outside for a month'

-'quick, go and tell everyone'

I know, I know, I'm being flippant, but my flippancy is not reserved for just Islam; all organised religion leaves me feeling a bit baffled. Of course, I like the customs and rituals which accompany religion, and so I consider it a cultural rather than a spiritual thing in my life, and would consider myself an agnostic who loves Christmas. But I've noticed a strong 'cultural sensitivity' from expats in this country. Not wanting to offend is an ever present sentiment here. Anything which can be construed as 'criticism' or 'lack of respect' is often met with the stock response 'well go back to your own country then', which is just silly and besides, in Ireland there is very little respect for institutions, be they cultural or political.

Anyhow, so now it's Ramadan and this year I have to say I'm rather looking forward to the benefits, namely, that DH (darling husband) is home each day by 2pm. Last year it was quite a different scenario, since we had only been in the country a couple of weeks and were staying in a hotel at the time. Since everything is closed during the day, not being able to go anywhere in the afternoon, with four children was problematic to say the least. We spent the afternoons watching Cartoon Network in our hotel room, waiting for 7pm ish so that we could go out and eat, drink and be merry. This year will be easier, the only thing I'll miss is going out and having coffee in the afternoon, but I do that seldom enough so it's no great hardship.

For muslims, Ramadan is a very special month, akin perhaps to Christmas for us. The fasting is hard for them, sure, but they have wonderful feasts in the evenings, after Maghrib (sunset), called Iftar where, traditionally, they break their fast with dates and milk followed by a feast of many different traditional arabic foods. The fasting is done so that they can empathise with poorer people, but it isn't solely for this purpose; they are also supposed to think good thoughts and be kind and charitable during this period. Eating, drinking, smoking and other physical desires, even singing, is considered haram (forbidden), with the idea that it is a time of cleansing and personal re-evaluation.

Personally, I don't really see the hardship in fasting during the day only to overeat in the evening, particularly if you have nothing to do all day. I'm told that many muslims here in the UAE turn night into day and simply snooze the day away (of which the prophet conveniently said 'the sleep of the fasting person is worship') only to feast and celebrate the evening. Makes sense to me. What does bother me is the many poorer people who are working outside during this month -- building site labourers for example -- who are compelled to go without water all day in 50 degrees heat. That's just suicidal in my book and ignores the fact that these people are already poor and don't need to simulate poverty, they live it.

Hello this is my first blog post!

Welcome to the first post of this blog. I didn't even know hat a blog was until last week, but now that I do, I've decided that if people can blog about their cat, then I shall blog about my time in the Middle East, and whatever else I can think of.

I hope it will prove interesting to you, dear reader, and I hope I learn something from it too.

Keep reading!