salad days

Think small

nobody@vox.com(Norah) — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 18:24:15 +0000

- Does Father Christmas know what I want for Christmas Mummy?

- Oh yes, he's clever like that.

- Does he know I want a yo-yo?

- I am sure he does.

- Will you tell him?

- We can write him a letter if you like?

- Yes. And you can write words on it to let him know.

- I'll do that.

- And I'll draw a picture of a yo-yo, just in case.

- Good idea.

- Or, I could just draw a picture of a yo-yo on some paper and I could pretend it's a real yo-yo and play with that?

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People are strange

nobody@vox.com(Norah) — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 04:01:32 +0000

At the party I met a lovely lady whose children went to school with the hosts' children. She was shocked that I had brought my children to sleep in the spare room and asked why I didn't let my nanny babysit. I told her I didn't have a nanny. This is very unusual in Dubai and not a concept that some people find easy to understand. It is even more shocking to some women to learn that the reason it really is not hard for me to look after my two children without the help of permanent live-in staff is that my husband is every bit as capable as me in every aspect of looking after our children (although he has yet to get lactating down pat). One woman actually shrieked and grabbed her husband to witness when Mr S , not me, went to settle Sprog to sleep shortly after we arrived.

So, I am often fiercely grilled as to why I don't have a nanny. Last night I said that we simply didn't have the room in our house to put up a nanny.

- Couldn't she sleep in with the children, in their room?
- Um, no. Not really. A third bed would make the room awfully crowded.
- Ha ha! No! She wouldn't need a bed. Just a bed roll which she can store away during the day.
- Yeh... anyway... she'd still need a room wherever she slept and we don't have a spare room.
- Why would she need a room?
- To keep her clothes? Her things?
- Oh mine has a cupboard in the children's bathroom for that.
- Your nanny sleeps on the floor of your children's room?
- Yes of course.
- But don't you live in Emirates Hills?
- Yes. In a five-bedroom villa!
- And you only have two children?
- Yes.
- So you must have spare rooms?
- Well, yes, but I need them.
- Hang on, the Emirates Hills places all have maid's rooms.
- Yes, but I wanted the maid's room for my study.
- But there's...
- My husband has the main study.
- But still...
- Yes, the children actually share a room, and I have a sewing room, and we've not decided what to do with the last bedroom yet.
- You have a room standing empty and a woman sleeping on the floor of your children's room? Why not let the nanny have the extra room?
- Oh, I don't think I like the idea of her having her own space. I wouldn't know what she was up to.
- This is a woman you trust enough to take on the entire care of your children, but not to read a book in private?

I didn't say the last bit. I smiled politely and walked away.

I checked this out with friends and have learned that apparently my good friend F also has her nanny sleeping on the floor of her son's room, despite having a large en-suite spare room standing empty.

And when V went to stay with her Mother-in-Law and took her nanny with her, MiL would not let the nanny sleep in the empty, spare, twin bed in the children's room. She did not want staff sleping in the family beds and so the nanny slept on the floor on a bed roll next to an empty spare bed.

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But at least my feet are comfy

nobody@vox.com(Norah) — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 16:33:52 +0000

Waiting for the taxi to take us to a party.

Have had a pretty wine red boned corset kicking about in my wardrobe for years now. Never worn. Wondered if tonight I might be slim enough for it to look good... it's too big for me. Am swimming about in it anyway. I've hurredly taken up the straps so I don't flop out of it entirely.

My shoes don't go with my outfit.

Going to take the children and put them to sleep in the spare room. A right of passage for a child I think. Sprog will be given strict instructions to snug down and go to sleep, and will without a doubt end up the kitchen with the cook and his helper, watching cartoons and drinking hot sweet milk like last time.

Wilfie is already asleep (taxi is taking ages) and Sprog is watching Spongesquare Bobpants (she insists) on the portable dvd player.

The party is at one of the Emirates Hills mansions. The water feature in the entrance hall is the size of my sitting room.

Where is my taxi?

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Bunged

nobody@vox.com(Norah) — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 13:18:47 +0000

Ugh. Every day I think this, right now, THIS is the worst this dang falootin cold can possibly make me feel. I cannot possibly feel any iller or snottier or congested or gross than THIS right now. And yet still the snot comes. My face aches. My bones ache. My teeth ache. My hair aches. My clothes ache.

I am writing this from the swing seat in the garden while Sprog tends to her tomato seedlings and Wilf boings around on the trampoline. I am mouth breathing, noisily.

I was wondering earlier at what point my children will turn in to people to me. If they ever do. Wilfie was sitting on my knee eating grapes. Smacking and chewing and slurping and globbing and dribbling and chomping and snorting and above all else, sharing. If I catch the sound of anyone else so much as politely crunching a Rich Tea I am revolted. Other people's eating noises. Shudder. But the sound of my children masticating is not just lacking in offensiveness to me. I actually think it's cute. I like it.

Beinjg a white woman in Dubai is strange. Being expats we are catagorically second class citizens. But, being female and white and, importantly, having children, seems to put me at the top of the also-ran tree. I never have to queue, but am ushered to the front. This holds particularly true of interminable red-tape government queues.

I was driving through an unfamiliar part of town today and pulled into the 1004 Mart ('All For Asian Needs'). The manager leapt from behind his counter before I was three steps into the shop. How could he help? What did Madam need? I asked him if he had pink milk. Turning he snarled and shouted at a hapless chap in the shop, who immediately dropped his basket and ran out of the shop. Madam must wait please, apparently. A few minutes later, sweating and panting, hapless chap returned with a carton of pink milk he had presumably bought from a shop down the block. I'd have been just as happy with apple juice.

I was walking through Al Barsha with my friend Jamilla. She asked why all the taxis were tooting. Surely they weren't tooting us? Well, yes they were, because a white woman walking through Al Barsha must surely be some mistake. The only possible explanation is that I hadn't found a cab yet. Jamilla Chaudry is from Switzerland and certainly would not have been tramping through the sand pits of Al Barsha had her idiot friend from Yorkshire not suggested it. In fact when we reached our destination, the tailor's, she phoned her driver to bring us coffee to recover from the arduous (10 minute) walk.

Jamilla is having trouble recruiting a nanny. All of the ads in Positions Required on Dubizzle are from nannies who specifically have a yearning to work for an English family, or an American one, or French, or German, or Italian, or Scandanavian, or Australian, or Kiwi, or Canadian... any colour at all as long as it is white.

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Oh this is silly

nobody@vox.com(Norah) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 18:14:47 +0000

I am not sure what will be achieved by enforced blogging. Every day? Yeesh.

I am sitting on my sofa watching the first 10 minutes of what looks like a very good film. The Boat That Rocked. I wish I had bothered to change out of my swimming stuff before flopping down to eat a bun and drink my tea.

I am tired. My eyes are sore from the chlorine in the pool. Wilfie is starting to grumble and will soon loudly summon me upstairs to feed him and I doubt I'll make it down again.

A persistant moth is dive bombing me.

An ant bit me on the bottom today. Although my bottom is uncomfortable, I can't help but feel more sorry for the ant.

Tomorrow I shall take Sprog to nursery. On school days she streams into our bedroom before 6, yelling "Get up!! Wake up everyone! It's time for breakfast so I can go to Sunshines Class!!" and then body slams her father until he relents and stumbles downstairs to get her a weetabix and put on Charlie & Lola.

On the way home I shall pop into a tailor in Al Barsha to pick up some clothes I've had to have taken in (hooray!). I have lost lots of weight and mostly look like a bag lady in clothes at least 2 sizes too big for me.

Then I might take Wilfie to the pool, or I might pop to the mall and buy something to wear to the party on Friday.

See? I have nothing to say. I'll try harder tomorrow.

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The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet

nobody@vox.com(Norah) — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 09:47:54 +0000

Have you read it? It's by thingy, Thornbirds woman (not that I have read Thornbirds. Should I?)

It is set 20 years after the double wedding of Jane and Lizzie to Messrs Darcy and Bingly. It follows the story of Mary, the dull, religious sister who sang badly.

At the beginning it seems to be a gentle Austenesque romantic comedy of manners and morals. Then it goes a bit haywire. There are madmen and jolly children living in caves and murders and horsepiss.

The whole time I was reading it I thought it fun bit a bit odd. Now I have finished I really miss it.

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A short, wide box

nobody@vox.com(Norah) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 17:39:57 +0000

Sprog has requested a puppet theatre, so this morning saw us striding into Lulu, our favourite hypermarket, to ask for a large box.

No. No, they didn't have any boxes. No, they never had any boxes. No, they weren't sure what happened to the boxes of the many, many fridges and washing machines on display in the shop. No, they couldn't save me a box next time they had one. Well, okay, they could if I really wanted them to, but it might take a week. Longer, even. Fine, they'd take my number and call me if they got one, but lets not get any hopes up. No, they couldn't think of anywhere in Dubai where one might get hold of a large cardboard box.

Disappointed, we decided to cheer ourselves up with a Secret Breakfast. Secret Breakfast is brilliant. There is a little cafe hidden under the hypermarket travelators that hardly anyone realises is there. It has probably got a name, but we call it The Secret Cafe. Before 11am, you can get a continental breakfast there for 16.50DHS. That's about £2.70. You get...

A bloody good coffee (mine)
A large bowl of cornflakes (Sprog)
A pudding basin of freshly cut fruit - strawberries and kiwi and pineapple and melon and everything! (mostly Wilf)
Toast and jam (usually mine)
Fresh mango juice (shared between Sprog and Wilf)

There is a central podium, around which there are little flip up tables where Sprog sits.

The chairs don't tip backwards and have good sturdy sides (people with young children are nodding in appreciation at this).

The staff are friendly and helpful and happy to chat to the children, and don't mind too much when we make a mess or get a bit raucus.

If you're feeling flush you could even splash out 20DHS and get a COOKED breakfast!

Secret Breakfast

I shared my box woe with the Secret Manager, explained our puppet theatre plans, and asked if he could point me towards the loading bays to see if there might be a big box there. He said he would go and ask them himself. 10 minutes later he returned with bad news. They did have a box, but he feared it would not be big enough for my requirements. How tall was it, I asked? He shrugged appologetically and held his hand at about thigh level. Oh dear, no, that would be too low. Thank you anyway, it was very kind of you to check. It was quite long though, he said. Um... how 'long' was it? Oh, about this long - he stretched his arms wide.

We went and collected the short but wide box and fiendishly turned it on its end to make a perfect puppet theatre!

Puppet Theatre

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Goals for November

nobody@vox.com(Norah) — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 03:42:30 +0000

Lose 1/2 stone

Christmas shopping

Blog every day

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Driving to playgroup

nobody@vox.com(Norah) — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 09:27:04 +0000

Past the lake, past the pool, wave to the barrier man and into the 'burbs.

We live on a compound of about 1000 houses. Some have 2 bedrooms, some have 3 and some have 4. From the outside they all look very alike. They are all beige. Our compound is number 15 in a series of 15. Our 15 compounds are optimistically called 'The Springs'. The 15 Springs nestle next to the similarly delusionally named 13 'Meadows' compounds, which in turn snuggle down next to the slightly more accurate, yet still misleading 'Lakes' compounds which are built around a number of large, smelly ponds which used to be home to ducks and fish, but aren't any more because they poured lots of bleach into the water to get rid of the smell.

Drive on out of The Springs, past the Waitrose Mosque, past The Meadows, past the British School, another Mosque, a fitness centre, another school, past Jumeirah Islands (not actually islands, just another compound) and past the golf clubs and the big houses at Emirates Hills (flat as a pancake).

Swoosh over the Marina flyover and see the sea, all the buildings are glassy and angular, amazing floral displays, cranes sweeping high above you, men like ants swarming on unfinished buildings.

Now you're on Sheikh Zayed Road. Sixteen lanes of driving insanity. Wave to Daddy in his tower as we zoom by.

Past Ibn Batuta, all plumes and turrets and Persian hat roofs, big yellow balloonhanging still in the sky.

Off Sheikh Zayeed and down with the lorries to the rutted little roundabout. This is the Free Zone. Right, and slowly, only one side of the road works here. Sweet Water Bowsers swing about and the road is swimming and broken. Past the hospital, bump along. Turn off the road by the big white sign. Engage 4-wheel drive. Now you're on desert. Bump and boing along. The children say "uhhhhhhhhhh" so their voices wibble. Past the boarded up site and there's an ugly, modern church. And another. And another. This is where the churches skulk.

Park. Cover every part of the car with reflecto sheets and shades. In you go for trains and cars and baby dolls and stories and slides and fruit snacks and twinkle twinkle little star. Mumble a bit when they sing about God.

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Pointed.

nobody@vox.com(Norah) — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 18:53:54 +0100

- What was that big, loud noise Mummy?

- That was the smoke alarm.

- Why was it the smoke alarm?

- Because I burned the toast.

- Hmmm. When I'm a grown-up lady I'll always remember to not burn the toast.

- Probably sensible.

- Because Mummy, I'm going to be a clever grown-up lady.

- Mmm. Good.

- And not burn toast. Like you did.

- No. Right.

- And clever grown-up ladies don't burn toast.

- Hmmm.

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