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!