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.