Glitz and glamour in the UAE and why the hijab is the same as a bikini...

There is an article in this months‘She’ magazine describing the expat lifestyle in Dubai.  It serves up the usual profusion of adjectives such as ‘luxurious’, ‘opulent’ and ‘lavish’ to describe the lives of those of us living in the UAE.  

Gold vending machine Abu Dhabi

As I type, I’m sitting in my lavish, diamond-encrusted study, on a platinum chair imported from Brunei, typing on my gold-plated keyboard.  And while we’re in the realm of fantasy, the plumbing in my luxurious villa on the beach actually works, the kitchen sink in my designer kitchen doesn’t leak onto all the products underneath it and it’s possible to lock my back door.   

While undoubtedly Dubai is the poster-child for all that is glitzy, expensive and just plain gauche; the champagne brunches, glittering malls and luxurious villas certainly do exist here-  this is not the lifestyle that I or any of my friends experience.

In fact, Christmas day was the first time we’d experienced the legendary boozy hotel buffet: there were the obligatory ice -sculptures and chocolate-fountains, and I must admit that we hopped onto a little golf trolley down to the beach for after-dinner drinks, but this was quite a novelty for us.  We’re more likely to be found eating from the Rupee Room in the local mall or a cheap and cheerful pizza restaurant at the marina (which tragically suffers from a lack of wine license). 

Ras al Khaimah is about an hour north of Dubai and is very much it’s shabbier, less affluent, younger sibling.  It’s also a lot more down to earth than its more prosperous sister.  There are a couple of four star hotels as well as the ongoing construction of a preposterous seven star hotel (badly needed in the community) but really, most people I know prefer to drink in a shabby shack on a stretch of beach on the outskirts of RAK called the Sailing Club.  

The atmosphere in this expat outpost is unpretentious and the booze is cheap (a glass of wine is 10 dirham’s as opposed to almost 40 in the hotels) and the children play in the sand or paddle in the sea while the adults drink, chat and sometimes take to the mike for a song.

And most people we know, rather than the luxurious trips to Beirut or Goa described in ‘She’, tend to go camping on the beach in Oman, which is just up the road.

Obviously I don’t do camping – 3 weeks in a tent bumming from Bordeaux to Biarritz as a 22 year old was enough to quell that particular avenue of interest (both for me and DH) -but certainly this sort of trip is more realistic for us than staying in 5 star hotels quaffing champagne (not that I am repulsed by the idea you understand).

UAE in the papers

The UAE does suffer from pretty negative international press: deservedly so some would say.  The juxtaposition of the footballers wives glitz and glamour, with the attention-grabbing, fear-inducing headlines (bikini lady/kissing couple/sex on the beach idiots) means that any desire to visit the place is quickly negated by the risks involved.

Personally I think it’s a country suffering from an identity crisis.  It at once covets a reputation as an international tourist destination, offering shops and hotels which can (arguably) rival those of London, Paris and New York, while conversely and periodically stamping its conservative foot to reassert its status as an Islamic country and demanding to be respected as such.  

While most people I know wear what they want and drink when they want with little interference, there will be the occasional scape-goat trotted out before the courts and the press as an example of what can happen should you flout the rules regarding respect and decency. 

Much as I despise the idea of Saudi Arabia, at least it’s not pretending to be anything other than it is; I know I will never set foot in the place because it has held its colours aloft and declared itself unfriendly to women and indeed anyone who values liberty.

But the UAE is a country of ambivalence.  Is it not perverse on the one hand to have an abundance of exotic underwear stores (which make Anne Summers look like the undies section of Marks and Sparks) much beloved by the local population, and on the other insist that shoulders and knees should be hidden from view?

The hijab

I have on occasion been asked to cover up in order to not offend, but who exactly am I offending? The women? The men? Neither option seems sensible to me.  Women here may insist that it is a choice to cover from head to toe in thick black swathes of fabric, often with black gloves and tights, but to my western eye it just doesn't seem to be the case, particularly during the height of summer where temperatures can reach 50 degrees; there are surely easier ways to cover.

Woman wearing hijab with niqab covering the face.

In fact, the first time I saw a woman fully covered I got such a fright my heart almost leaped into my mouth.  To me she seemed barely human, a spectre, walking towards me in the middle of the day but completely hidden from view: like a non-person. That religion could do that to a person put the final nail in the coffin in favour of atheism for me. Two and a half years later I still find the sight of a woman so controlled (whether she sees it that way or not) upsetting (and I'm  not talking about the veil in general, I'm referring to the practice of concealing the entire body).

Human interaction relies on facial expression - the covering of the face (or in some cases wearing the niqab which exposes the eyes) - ultimately silences any relations between Western women and local Muslim women, particularly here in RAK where the population are much more traditional.  While relations between Westerners and locals are strained at the best of times, this helps to ensure that this remains the status quo.

And saying that wearing the hijab is a choice is like saying a woman suffering from Stockholm syndrome, who chooses to marry her kidnapper, is rational.  What choice has a woman who comes from a tradition where every woman covers? While there is no doubt that the uncovered female body is overly objectified and sexualised in Western society, it is no less so in Muslim society where it is covered in order that it not be looked at.  In both cases it is seen as little more than a sexual object with women being the loser on both sides of the cultural divide.

Phew...how did I get to the objectification of women from jewel-encrusted appliances?

And finally......... 'House' has been replaced by 'Dexter'.  Having watched 6 and half seasons of the former I finally got up to speed and the ensuing withdrawal symptoms saw me scrambling for a replacement.  Having worked my way through Season 1 of 'Dexter' within a couple of weeks (alone), DH finally sat down with me last night to start Season 2 - he was appalled at my latest obsession, declaring me unbalanced for watching such perversity on a nightly basis.  I tried to point out that my 'House' obsession didn't result in my becoming an MD in New Jersey, so watching Dexter was unlikely to result in my becoming a serial killer in Miami - he remains unconvinced.

Disclaimer- Any opinions expressed here, however misguided or misinformed, are entirely my own.  Opinions (on culture, feminism and American prime-time TV shows) are not the preserve of academics or TV critics only and I don't claim to speak for all expats, women or Irish people.  Just thought I'd add that before people get on their high horse!

Boy-racers, B&Q and Barracuda....

You'd have to be living under a rock in the desert to be unaware of how dangerous it is to drive here in the UAE.  On the drive from RAK to Dubai, the side of the road is literally strewn with burned- out tyres and car parts and you're guaranteed to spot at least one major accident on any journey lasting longer than half an hour. 

It's a topic which occupies much headline space and even has its own facebook group 'if you can drive in the UAE you can drive anywhere'.  I joined this group, not because it was going to achieve anything (much like 'liking' a group called 'murder is wrong' isn't going to throw potential murderers into a moral dilemma and stop them in their murderous tracks) but because it creates a sense of belonging among a small, marginalised minority- i.e. those people in this country who can actually drive.

As I see it, the problem lies with two distinct groups- i) those who seem to have no idea how to take a left hand turn, join a roundabout or enter a junction, driving around in 20 year old jalopies crammed to capacity and ii) those young indigenous males - boy racers if you will -who are under the impression that aggressive speeding equates to large genitalia.

Without doubt the latter group are the most annoying and dangerous.  Nothing is more likely to send me careering into a motorway barrier than a glance in the rear-view mirror at the sudden sight of a large white Landcruiser hurtling towards me at 180km per hour, lights flashing, horn beeping, screaming at me to get the hell out the way like some mechanical monster. 

With a jolt you realise that it's either move or die as these idiots are quite mad enough to plough into the back of you just to prove a point.  Of course, congenitally truculent, I have on occasion refused to move; righteous in the knowledge that I am in fact observing the speed limit and that if the demented idiot behind me is in such a rush to get to Starbucks then he'd better go around me.  That just makes them madder, resulting in said car attempting to overtake on the left hand side.

Personally I think the problem could be solved by B&Q- the DIY Superstore- setting up shop here in the UAE.  Men are essentially cavemen and as such are competitive, goal-driven providers.  These traits are usually expressed via work, sport or DIY but I'm willing to bet that the majority of these road-pests are lacking these elements to their lives; ergo the only arena they have to express their inner alpha-male is on the roads.  Were they forced to spend their weekends tiling the bathroom floor or laying a deck, it's feasible that they'd be transformed into pussycats once they got behind the wheel. 

Of course, I'm being simplistic; culture is a difficult thing to change which is why my above solution wouldn't actually work.  The culture of servants (slaves?) here is something that isn't going to change any time soon so it is unlikely that the average young man is about to spend an afternoon putting up shelves in the living room when he has a servant to do the task for him.

Similarly, the average young mother will have at least one nanny to take care of her children (it's not unusual to see two nannies for two children) which is why a university in Ajman has recently offered a new four-year degree- programme in 'the mothering profession' which claims to cover everything from women's rights (importantish) to pedicures (priority).

Many of these women have been raised by nannies themselves which means that they have no experience of what a mother actually does.  The course aims to equip them to take care of their own children, something which is practically unheard of in this neck of the woods for certain nationalities.

Of course, it's an interesting question - 'can mothering (or slightly more PC - parenting) be taught?'  Parenting books are big business these days and there is a culture of fear surrounding parenting where common sense and instinct seems to have been replaced with theoretical models and psychobabble. 

I remember getting home from the hospital after my daughter was born and feeling overwhelmed by the task in hand.  'What should I do?' I wondered as I stood in my living room and looked around me.  I was pretty sure I was supposed to be super-stressed, exhausted and constantly busy but as I looked at the little girl asleep in her crib I realised that there was nothing to do but wait for her wake up. 

Had I read all the parenting literature I'm sure I would have been panicking about her next feed, her weight, her temperature.  As it was, we spent the mornings walking to the village to buy milk and glossy magazines and the afternoons snoozing in front of Judge Judy.  Ah happy times....

And finally...

I finally paid a visit to the famous 'Barracuda'- the massive off-license situated in Umm Al Qawainn. I'm still reeling from the fact that I've lived ten minutes away from it for over a year and yet never bothered to check it out. It's magic! As I wandered around filling my trolley I was overcome with a feeling of contentment and belonging and found myself smiling conspiratorially with the other customers 'isn't this a wonderful find?' I wanted to confide but nobody else seemed as impressed as I was.

Like a child in a sweet shop I dashed from aisle to aisle holding items aloft and yelling to DH 'hey, four litres of wine for 70 dirham's!! Can it be true?....oh wait, look at this - five litres for 75 dirham's! I'm in wino nirvana!'. Hugging my trolley protectively I paid at the checkout and walked, half-ran out of the sliding doors dogged by an irrational fear that the manager would come running out behind me yelling 'sorry ma'am, it's been a mistake....it shouldn't be so cheap'.

Although, on a more sobering note (so to speak) I did make the baffling discovery last week that my Dubai Islamic Bank card, which has been refused several times in our local Cellar off-license, is not allowed to be used to buy alcohol: the clue was the Islamic part of the name although it had never been explained to me before - the guy on the checkout clearly preferring to see me squirm with embarrassment at having my card refused each time.

Bizarre as it sounds, I was forced to leave my stash behind me on the counter, jump in my car and seek out an ATM, climb back in to my car and return to the off-license whereupon I was obliged to hand over the cash manually.

As I walked through the car park, black bags straining from the 4 for 100 dirhams special-offer, I was amused to see the boy-racers sitting behind their blacked out windows in their Landcruisers, beeping impatiently at the staff to hurry up and hand over their vodka.  No, on reflection, I really don't think a weekend grouting the bathroom tiles is on the books for these guys any time soon...

Nesting, hoarding and why you should neglect your children...

So we’re into the home stretch thank goodness. And with the end in sight it is normal for the heavily pregnant female to resort to ‘nesting’, an instinctual phenomena characterised by sudden spurts of cleaning and organising of her habitat in preparation for the new arrival. This manifestation is an early indication that labour is imminent.

I have my own personally adapted version of this phenomenon. I call it ‘hoarding’ and it is characterised by the frantic buying of clothes that I can wear on the other side. I’ve been trawling the Boden sale all week filling my virtual trolly with gorgeous items that will hopefully goad me into actually fitting into them as soon as possible. 

And last week I made a special trip to the Dubai Outlet mall with the pretense of treating the children to an hours play in the creche.  In reality I was on a mission to buy something gorgeous in Monsoon. It was disappointing to be honest but I still managed to leave the store with a gorgeous silk top. After hugging it for a bit I reluctantly hung it in the wardrobe, label dangling forlornly, where it will have to stay for another couple of months.  But it's a comfort just knowing it’s there.

It’s irrational I know, but I am in horror of being that rounded, milky, new mother wearing shapeless squishy tops in a look that says ‘I don’t matter…I’m comitted 100% to being a new mother for the next 6 months and I have resigned myself to wearing ugly crimes of fashion until society tells me I can start thinking about my appearance again’.

I don’t want the whiff of victimhood around me and so instead go to great lengths to prove ‘I’m fine, I've only had a baby for goodness sake!'  Besides, I’m pretty sure I read somewhere that women in Vietnam give birth in paddy fields, then strap the baby to themselves and go back to work (I’m not strictly sure about this actually, but it sounds like something they might do).

I take it too far. On the birth of number 4, which coincided inconveniently with Christmas, I bumped into a friend in the Monsoon sale.  I was three days post-partum and looking wild-eyed and manic and ever so slightly deathly pale as I trawled through the party dress rack (my favourite) trying my best not to faint.

-‘Are you OK?’ she enquired, peering at my stomach ‘my god, you’ve had the baby….when?’

-‘Three days ago’ I whimpered.

-‘Good god woman, what on earth are you doing here?’

-‘It’s the Monsoon sale’ I protested weakly ’I couldn’t rest knowing it had started…I left the baby with dh’ I explained, beginning to feel I really ought to sit down.

I now see that I was probably a little over-enthusiastic in my pursuit of normalcy and should probably have cut myself a little slack. I shall try to be kinder to myself this time….although a dress from Monsoon is actually my idea of being kind to myself.

Anyhow, for now I shall confine my activities to amassing my post-partum wardrobe, both virtually and by shuffling around the mall like some oversized bag lady.  And nesting will continue to elude me since it exists in the realm of the unecessary when you have a maid service three times a week  ( I do live in the middle east after all where nobody does anything for themselves).

Free range kids

I was listening to that New York mother who wrote that book ‘Free Range Kids’ on the radio the other day and I have to say, I love what she’s doing.

Her theory is that our children are so over-protected that we are raising a generation who will grow up lacking the tools to actually take risks or think laterally or with imagination. Worse, we’re depriving them of a proper childhood while simultaneously making parenthood a hellish, guilty and anxt-ridden experience for ourselves.

The proponant of the theory, Lenore Skanazy, caused uproar when she wrote in her New York column of how she let her 9 year old son make his way home alone from Bloomingdales in New York city where they live. She gave him 20 dollars along with instructions as to how to get home, and then let him off to figure it out himself.

The response has been outrage by critics and parents alike, labelling her the worst mother in America among other equally hysterical names.  She does, thank god, have a large following and a blogsite where brave parents share their free range parenting stories, and has even highlighted a radical new movement 'the kids walk to school programe' which encourages children to (gasp) walk to school themselves!

Of course I support all this wholeheartedly, what she’s doing makes complete sense to my slummy mummy sensibilities and philosophy.

My nine year old daughter is smart, cynical and inciteful but I’m doing her no favours if I never allow her to walk to the mall without me. It’s a ten minute walk through a compound with security guards, across a road where a security guard is posted, and yet she’s never done it (and I shall tactfully side-step the whole issue of 45 degree heat being reason enough not to walk anywhere right now). This isn't because I object to her making that trip, but because she has no friends to go with her.

When I’ve mentioned to other mothers about allowing her to walk to the shops alone, I’ve been met with much head shaking and comments such as ‘Oh I wouldn’t take that risk’ which is precisely the problem. We know in all probability that nothing bad will happen, but as long as there is that doubt, and worse, the chance that if something DOES happen we, and everyone else around us, will point the accusative finger, we’re not going to take that chance. And so we keep them at home under our watchful eye or drive them to the mall ourselves.

But it starts earlier. Having coffee with someone who insists on checking to see what the kids are doing upstairs every 5 minutes is an exercise in frustration and futility. Trying to recapture the dying threads of a conversation every time she returns to the room, coffee long cold ‘what were we saying?' leaves me wanting to pour aforementioned coffee over her head and beg her never to call again. And inevitably these same mothers will have those kids that must interupt the conversation every three minutes to tell mummy something inciteful like ‘mummy, I know about the life-cycle of a frog…let me tell you’ (bugger off kid and tell someone who cares…I want to hear the end of this story).

Now when I was a kid, interupting an adults conversation was tantemount to self- inflicted infanticide (is there a word for that?)…you just didn’t do it.

I used to have a friend who would stop the conversation every time her three year old boy came running into the room crying hysterically (which was every two minutes).  Grabbing him in panic she'd urge him to ‘use your words darling…remember your words?…tell mummy what terrible thing happened’ as my three year old son would stand guility by, waiting for the inevitable and collective accusative glare once his latest offence had been revealed.  I wanted to yell at her -'LOOK, obviously my kid hit your kid...much like your kid hit my kid two minutes ago.  The difference is that my kid can't be bothered to tell me since he'll get zero reaction from me!! Now, can we move on???'

And there is a 1,000% more chance that the children will cover the wall in lipstick or felt tip pen than meet an horrific and untimely death if left to their own devices for 20 minutes unsupervised. When I was a kid we genuinely got involved in some very dangerous and dodgy things during the long summer days when we disapeared from the house at 9am, not returning till dusk when hunger called, but amazingly we lived to tell the tale.

I have a friend who phoned one lazy Sunday afternoon for a chat.

-‘What are you doing?’ She asked.

-‘Oh we’re watching a movie’ I replied.

-‘Oh,which one?’

-‘You know that one about the paedophile…Kevin Bacon..yeah that one’

-‘But where are the children?’ she enquired, voice filling with alarm.

-‘Playing….in and out of the garden…why?’

-‘You can’t mean you’re watching that with them there? Oh my god!!’

She was genuinely freaked out and as I hung up the phone I wondered was it really that terrible. They were too small to understand what the story was about, and it wasn’t as if he was actively paedophillic in the movie, so what was the problem? Besides, they weren’t even watching the movie!

Mind you, she is the type of mother who will sit in the back of the car with the baby when her husband is driving. My god, but what the hell is that about? When we were kids we stood in the back of the car, no doubt playing with sharp objects while mother smoked ten cigarettes in the front of the car with the windows closed!! Judging by todays standards, I’m amazed any of us made it to our teens.

With child-rearing, I strongly (and some would say conveniently) believe that a healthy neglect is vital if you wish to produce useful and resourceful members of society for the future.  Children that can't fight their own battles or amuse themselves for ten minutes without mummy getting down on the floor to help them finger paint won't be much use in a crisis.  Plus, it makes parenting a whole lot easier and cheaper if you can say 'go upstairs and make a tent kids' without having to buy the special tent-making kit from the Early Learning Centre or do anything more than supply the sheet.  Plus you get to finish a conversation and drink your coffee while it's still hot. 

Everyone's a winner.

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...