mothers on the verge

YLM turns into a non-smoking b*tch on wheels

2009-11-12T07:18:00.000Z

Earlier this week I announced that I was thinking about stopping my depraved sucking of the tar-sticks. 20 years or so of having been in the thrall of ciggies is quite embarrassing, not to mention having recently developed a cough that should live in a much older body. So thinking quickly turned into doing - I took the bull by the horns and chucked out my last pack of Marlboro Lights.

I can confidently announce that so far, all of two days and a bit in, I bitterly regret such tomfoolery. Whatever made me think such madness? And why the Hell did I act on it?

It's official. Giving up smoking really, really sucks.

Apart from the physical symptoms, which are not pleasant, the psychological nagging is hard to bear. Imagine a small malevolent beast living in your ear, constantly whispering in a nastly smug little voice: oooh go on, just have one. Just light up. Think about how yummy it will be, hmmm. Anyway, you don't really want to give up do you? I know how much you like it, especially that lovely first one of the day which makes your head go all tingly. Anyway, you owe us, you can't live without us - we've been with you through thick and thin, we have, from when you were a teenager learning to smoke with the French exchange student... we consoled you when you split up with boyfriends, helped you through the nerves of exams and job interviews, made all those parties go with a swing, we even came back to you after you rejected us during your two pregnancies... we've been with you for ever! And this is how you think to repay us?? You'll see, you'll get really fat and you'll be boring without your friends the ciggies. What makes you think you'll be able to give up anyway? You'll come back! You'll come crawling back! You'll be begging forgiveness! You'll never get aaaawwwwwaaayyyyy!

And what's worse is that I have turned into an impossible raging cowbag. Alpha hates me after having to listen to me go on and on about how he doesn't understand my pain and how my giving up smoking is much worse than when he gave up because he used anti-smoking drugs which I'm allergic to and so I can't enjoy taking the same soft and easy option blah blah blah de blah. Firstborn went to school this morning looking profoundly depressed after a particularly vitriolic outburst on my part and the Small(er) One keeps patting me while saying things like: "You'll feel better soon Mummy, you're just cross 'cos you're giving up the smoking, you'll be a nice mummy again soon".

It's the rage, you see, that's the real problem. It wells up whenever I get stressed (the point at which I would usually reach for the ciggies) and I can't seem to control it. I hope it goes soon because at this rate I am going to end up all alone in a dark room with nobody to talk to except the malevolent monster, and he isn't exactly a brilliant conversationalist.

Aussie rules

2009-11-11T07:03:00.001Z

It seems my character assassinations of the different types of mum to be found in Dubai have been quite popular (new readers, see here, here, here, here and here) . In reponse to recent requests for more, here's a shameless stereotype of one of my favorites, the Australian Mum:

Australian mum is pretty keen on Dubai. After all, it's kinda like home except that Australia is chokka with poisonous beasties, so that's a bonus right there. Only issue is that living in such safety might make the nippers a bit soft but a yearly trip back to Oz for a spot of camping in the Outback armed with nothing more than a billycan and a prayer should sort that right out. Plus rumour has it there's an infestation of the venomous Australian red-back spider up in Dubai's Emirates Hills, which just adds to the excitement (not to mention acting as a reminder of home sweet home).

Oz Mum is made of sturdy stuff, the harsh beauty of Australia having necessitated a ramped-up natural selection process resulting in a hardy modern-day breed of stout-hearted and strong-limbed lovelies. OzM can be identified by her bronzed skin, sun-bleached hair, super-healthy glow and wide range of surf clobber. As good-natured and boisterous as her tribe of tousle-haired kiddies, her head is usually flung back in a belly laugh and her hand flung out mid-back-slap.

Rarely one to be found taking a doona day, Oz Mum's approach to life is practical, enthusiastic and usually taken at break-neck speed. Ill-health, over-analysis and self-pity are for drongos - she's as fit as a butcher's dog and can't understand anybody prone to peering at their own navels. Her natural habitat is the beach, where she partakes in death-defying sports with a vigour that shames all present (especially the Pommies who OzM secretly despises due to their addiction to grumbling, their inability to cope with too much sun and their unswerving tendency towards politeness).

OzM is always up for a ripper time and, when not out on the beach encouraging the rug-rats to fling themselves into giant waves, can be found cracking a few coldies with the old man and her huge gang of mates. She's the sort of woman you want on your side but her selection process is hard to breach unless you're as laid back, straight-talking and energetic as she is. OzM's entirely devoid of subtlety or bitchiness so you'll always know where you are with her - if you don't make the grade then she'll make it perfectly clear she doesn't have time for you but she won't harp on or make snide comments to her mates. Life's simply too short to waste time on ratbags like you. But if you do make it and become one of the gang you'll be rewarded with regular bear hugs and the best barbies this side of the equator for years to come.

Frankly, you've got to admire a woman of such Amazonian proportions and larger-than-life character. Even if she does cause all lesser female mortals to limp weakly off to their shrinks to deal with their sudden feelings of inadequacy...

In pursuit of perfection

2009-11-10T07:55:00.003Z

I'll admit it, I'm a closet perfectionist. I should be on a 12-step programme. My only saving grace is that my pursuit of perfectionism only applies to myself. I'm far more tolerant of others; I enjoy other people's imperfections and tend to dislike perfection-seekers. Because, let's face it, perfect people are often very dull. Not to mention smug and often uptight. All of which is not very endearing.

So why do I persist in my pipe-dream of perfection? Why do I beat myself up when I act like an idiot (often), say stupid things (daily) and scream at Alpha and the kids like a fishwife (all the time)? Why do I feel cross and embarrassed every time I get lost when trying to read a map? Why do I over-apologise in a cringe-worthy fashion and feel ashamed whenever I'm late (being incapable of judging time can be a bit of a problem)? Why do I feel sick to my stomach whenever I've inadvertantly offended someone? Why do I feel utterly dumb when I play Trivial Pursuit and get a question wrong, or worse, don't know any of the answers? Why do I obsess about my strange knees, my stumpy legs and encroaching cellulite?

Frankly, why do I give a sh*t? Other people tend to do all of the above (probably) and worse, yet shrug it off and act as if they couldn't care less. And I've never observed the world falling on their heads. Plus their mothers still seem to love them. So it can't be that bad, right?

One of the most difficult things to come to terms with as you struggle through adulthood is the realisation that the attainment of perfection is impossible. I would never be so bold as to claim to have reached that particular state of grown-up-ness but I do seem to have moved on a bit from my last decade.

The best cure for perfectionists is to have kids. Perfectionists are invariably control freaks and, as anyone with a small human bean in their care will be aware, children introduce great big messy gobs of chaos into the most streamlined life. How you deal with it is up to you. The hard-core perfectionist will endeavour to shape their children into perfect packages in their own image - which can work for a while but the teenage years inevitably present a more difficult challenge. Others, like me (mildly neurotic but essentially rather lazy), eventually come to the realisation that they have to let go a bit and accept the fact that they're not perfect, will never be perfect, and that others will accept them despite (or perhaps because) of it.

Viva la imperfection! Personally, I'm working hard on nurturing my faults....

Click here for inspiration.

YLM contemplates nicotine withdrawal

2009-11-09T07:11:00.008Z

I'm trying to give up smoking.

Or, at least, I'm thinking about trying to give up smoking. For those who know me off-blog, they will know very well that this shocking news is somewhat akin to Gordon Brown contemplating voluntary resignation, the Pope donning a pink sequinned cowboy hat for Gay Pride or Jordon (aka Katie Price) being seen in a twinset and pearls.

I'm one step ahead of this lot though, having purchased a pack of nicotine patches at the chemist this morning. Yes, they are still sitting in my handbag unopened, but they're acting as a constant reminder of my sort-of intent every time I delve in my bag to rummage for the ever-present pack of Marlboro Lights.

Baby steps, right?

Most people think my long attachment to the ciggies is kind of pathetic. They also think that a stern talking-to will make me see the error of my ways; a tactic especially favoured by ex-smokers who, frankly, should know better. Kindly folks suggest all kinds of cures, usually something bizarre that worked for their second-cousin twice removed who once smoked 90 Woodbines a day and is now running half-Marathons. I've heard all kind of nonsense, from fiddling with your ear when you feel the urge to light up a gasper (er, I don't get how that works, I really don't) to sweat therapy (yuck, anyway do something of this nature every day in Dubai and can tell you that sweating just makes me cross and thus more likely to reach for the cigs).

People also tell me that it's selfish to smoke when I have children - think of the kiddies being all sad and troubled when you've smoked yourself into an early grave! - which really p*sses me off, because the people who tell me this tend to binge-drink themselves silly every weekend, drive like w*nkers and will undoubtably collapse under the weight of their own smugness at some point in the near future.

Intellectually, I know all the very good reasons to give up smoking. I know it's bad for me. I know that I risk all kinds of chronic health problems from filling my lungs with a smorgasbord of chemicals and evil nicotine. I am aware that my lips will turn into a cat's bum and I will look like a Gucci handbag if I keep going for much longer. I know that all this is even worse now that I'm on the fast-track to 40, plus I can no longer claim the arrogance of youth.

But I also know that since smoking is terribly unfashionable (and thus easy to tag as the cause for all social ills and more besides) it makes me a valid target for every do-gooder I encounter on my daily business. I could starve myself to skeleton proportions, gulp down the booze like no tomorrow, contact STD's on a weekly basis and refuse to get out of bed in the morning without swallowing a bunch of prescription meds and I would probably be still less of a social pariah than I am as a smoker - I would definitely be on the receiving end of less well-meaning meddling. Which, being a bit of a rebellious soul who hates being told what to do, actually makes me want to smoke all the more.

Me stopping smoking is a bit like weaning a toddler from a strong attachment to its dummy or cuddly blankie. Yes, it's inevitable that eventually they will give up their baby things one day (or in my case, teenage things) but you have to expect it to be a painful, drawn-out process which will be punctuated by tantrums, the repetitive throwing of toys out of the pram and many sleepless nights.

Watch this space.

Princess Tanty-Pants strikes again

2009-11-08T07:03:00.001Z

Firstborn has become a bit of a diva. The household vibe used to be dominated by The Small(er) One - who kind people described as 'determined' - but since she turned into a reasonable human being recently (almost overnight, we are still reeling in shock and, truth be told, slightly suspicious), the mantle has been taken on with astonishing verve by Firstborn.

Clothing is a whole new battlefield as Firstborn refuses to wear anything except one of two pairs of increasingly ratty-looking shorts and a few tired-looking blue or brown t-shirts; how I long for a return of the good old days, when the colour pink reigned and Firstborn modelled her look on that of Dolly Parton. But the lack of sartorial elegance is the least of my worries.

The suggestion that homework needs to be completed (or indeed, anything that doesn't involve playing or watching cartoons) is invariably met with an upward eye-roll and a bellowed: "Oh, Mummy!", followed by slammed doors, bitter tears and the inevitable accusation that I'm trying to ruin her life.

The Small(er) One is now a source of constant annoyance to Firstborn. Whereas Firstborn would previously ignore or cajole the Small(er) One when she was being a pest, she now resorts to violence, screaming, name-calling or teasing. It inevitably ends with tears and bad temper all round (myself included).

Being taken for a vaccination shot at the doctor's yesterday - Firstborn kicked and bit Alpha in an attempt to escape the hated needle, screamed the place down and had to be physically restrained. The doctor said something about a phobia but Mean Ol' Mummy suspects may have been a case of amateur dramatics gone wild.

It's quite perplexing. Firstborn was always my well-behaved tender-hearted child, the one who could be relied upon to be reasonable and who wanted to please those around her (and especially me). Even her toddler tantrum days were short-lived and fairly easy to defuse. I expected jealousy when the Small(er) One arrived but Firstborn loved her at first sight. Every school report I have ever received has described her as polite, caring, a delight to have in class and always well behaved.

Well, Firstborn may still be fairly well-behaved at school (thank God for small mercies) but she seems to have found an outlet for her darker side elsewhere...

Can someone please reassure me that the pre-teen diva strops are merely a blip and not something that I am going to have to battle with every day from now until Firstborn comes of age?

Fresh Air Fund and OneSight gives kids new vision

2009-11-06T07:59:00.001Z

Here's a nice story. I heard recently about a US-based charity called The Fresh Air Fund which gives inner-city kids a break from air pollution and endless concrete by sending them out to the countryside to special camps and host families. All worthwhile in its own right, all kids need the opportunity to run amok in open spaces and experience farm animals somewhere other than in the chill section of the supermarket. Plus these are kids for whom the word 'holiday' doesn't mean much other than having to hang out at home because school is closed. They're not part of the masses priveleged enough to expect a couple of weeks at the beach every summer and perhaps a spot of skiiing in the winter. These are kids who find it hard to scrape up enough for a subway ride, let alone a plane or bus ticket.

Anyway, in addition to providing holiday memories for kids who otherwise wouldn't get out of the city, the charity has teamed up with OneSight to send travelling optical clinics out to the Fresh Air camps to screen kids for vision problems, providing free eye exams and glasses for those who need them.

Anyone with a child who has looked upon the world with a new wonder after being given their first set of glasses will know why this is such a worthwhile cause. Check it out here.

Swine-free and pool-less

2009-11-05T07:38:00.000Z

Here's the good news. There is officially nothing swine-ish about me: I have been given the all clear on the H1N1 front.

The bad news is that I'm still sick but, as always, I shall shoulder it with stoic determination (and possibly a minimum of whining) and rise to the challenge of the school run and incessant demands for bottom wiping/ dinner/ treats/ homework assistance.

Onwards and upwards.

The other bad news is that Alpha is in the midst of a frenzy of economising which means I'm not allowed to go shopping for fun stuff (I mean, who ever heard of only buying things that you need?), am having to downgrade my mani-pedi sessions from the nice place in the Mercato Mall (replete with marble basins and an embarrassment of Essie polish shades to choose from) to the local hole-in-the-wall (I think they sterilise the equipment adequately, euw, plus their choice of polish comes in a plastic veggie basket and half of them are gunky, boo) and - GASP - no renewal of our beach club membership.

This latter news had me in a proper frenzy. No nice icy-cold pool to dive into to beat the heat? No private beach to frolick on? It's utter madness. Is Alpha trying to drive me crazy? Is this a prelude to divorce? Is it in retaliation for my refusing to let him play golf last weekend? I just don't know what he's playing at.

And what about the children? Think of the poor kiddies, sweating and rosy-cheeked every weekend while their friends are swimming like mermaids in chilled waters. I don't think that adding ice-cubes to their paddling pool is going to cut the mustard, I really don't.

This is a declaration of marital war. There's nothing else for it but to roll up my Marigolds and play hardball. Alpha will be cowering like our recently neutered tomcat when I'm done with him.

Well, am I or not?

2009-11-03T09:32:00.000Z

Finally went to the doc this morning. Feeling much better but cough is still present and in danger of waking up the neighbours at night, such is its volume, so thought I had better submit to some kind of meds so I can be free of it. A pesky thing, carrying a cough around with you 24/7. Plus people look at you in a strange way (no manners, some folks) which makes me come over all leper-like.

So off I trotted to the clinic. Doc did the usual prodding and waving around of stethescope then announced that I needed to be tested for H1N1. But, I spluttered, I don't have a temperature and I'm almost better, it's just the pesky cough I need you to sort out. No, he pronounced, you have all the symptoms of H1N1 and a temperature is not always present. Oh, I said, deflated, then meekly allowed myself to be taken off for blood extraction and the rather over-vigorous (in my opinion) probing of my left nostril with a q-tip.

This was three hours ago and I still haven't been told if I am swine-ridden or not. The clinic number is constantly engaged all of a sudden and I'm feeling even crosser than I usually do (Alpha will tell you this is no mean feat).

The cynic in me says that it's a bit of a cash-cow (or should that be cash-pig? ha ha), this H1N1 testing thing, since docs can now be justified in charging anyone with a sniffle a whopping AED350 to have their nostrils violated and their arms used as a pin-cushion. Still, I'm pretty keen to know for sure...especially as the Small(er) One is asthmatic. Call, you b*ggers, call!

Why no fever doesn't mean no Swine Flu

2009-11-02T13:55:00.000Z

Agh. Total fuel for my H1N1 paranoia, read all about it here.

Dubai divorce & swine flu

2009-11-01T08:13:00.000Z

Still sick. Alpha sick too. Might be the same Dubai lurgy or may be another one which decided to piggy-back. Getting sick of being sick. Starting to panic that we all have H1N1, aka Swine Flu. But don't you have to run a fever for it to be Swine Flu? All very confusing.

Here's a link to the NHS check list for anyone as perplexed as I am.

Anyway, was flicking through our top read The Gulf News this morning (whilst feeling supremely sorry for myself and sniffling) when I came across this absolute corker of a news story here which urges married couples experiencing relationship strife to consider other options before jumping into divorce.

I'm all for couples working things out rather than heading for the divorce courts, and this article offers an approach I hadn't had occasion to consider before. The "gradual edifying reconciliation method" advocates a gentle husbandly whipping for wives indulging in "bizarre behaviour" to show them the error of their ways. This is, of course, a last resort if husbandly nagging/ hectoring/ lecturing and witholding of marital favours doesn't work.

Alpha says I had better watch out. Which obviously made me snigger wildly and forget about H1N1 for all of five seconds. Off to scour the web now for examples of people with H1N1 who didn't have a fever. Best to be prepared and all that (didn't suffer through years of the torture of Girl Guides for nothing, y'know).

Bleurgh

2009-10-28T14:06:00.000Z

Currently ill with some form of Dubai lurgy. Alpha may be the master of the Man Flu, but I am mistress of the Bloody-Grumpy-Can't-Stand-Being-Ill-And-Boy-Will-You-All-Know-About-It school of sickness.

Will post again when better (and in better mood).

Take zat, French Maman!

2009-10-25T12:18:00.000Z

In a flurry of 'can do' spirit this morning, I decided to take on the Frenchies at their own game.

OK, so I am probably a little too fleshy to properly pass myself off as ze glorious French Maman, plus my hair is far too frizzy, but I can do the whole floaty leetle trapeze dress with witty lace detailing with the best of them. A slicked-back ponytail hides a multitude of bouffy sins. A touch of powder to simulate the non-shiny visage. Have a bit of a tan already so tick on that one. Finish off with one pair of round-toed ballet shoes and I was there, ready to 'zut alors' with the glamorous Gallic hordes at the school gate.

Sadly, it failed miserably. Not one French mother gave me an appoving smile or even flicked their dark sultry glance over my outfit. It was as if I was invisible. Which is all very well when I am dressed in my scumbag Rosbif style rags, but not when I've gone to the considerable effort of tricking myself out in the French femme's national costume.

Hmmm, back to the drawing board. Now, am I brave enough to try to emulate the Glamazon tomorrow?

Dubai, the infantile boyfriend

2009-10-24T08:41:00.001+01:00

If Dubai was a person, it would be the Infantile Boyfriend.

You know the kind, we've all had one - he's that bloke who was always late, never remembered your birthday, took the seat at the cinema with the clear view leaving you sitting behind the giant with the huge bouffy head, never gave you the last most chocolately bit of his Cornetto and never, ever apologised.

But however irritated and heartbroken you became at his shoddy treatment, you put up with it because he was, frankly, totally gorgeous -so hot that he left a trail of open-mouthed drooling women in his wake, all of them giving you the evil-eye because they wanted your arm-candy. And when you were with him, despite the fact that he was a major sh*t, you had a whole heap of fun. Infantile Boyfriend, like all self-obsessed juvenile delinquents, can always be relied on to ramp up the excitement factor. If it suits them, of course.

Dubai is most certainly infantile by nature - half-finished, a bit rough round the edges and dodgy in parts in terms of infastructure. Despite its shortcomings Dubai would rather implode than apologise - and going one better, make you feel that any mistakes are actually your fault. Dubai is also very adept at the "you are sooo annoying" eye-roll, usually (just like the Infantile Boyfriend) when being forced to confront some kind of reasonable request that doesn't involve playtime.

Also like the Infantile Boyfriend, Dubai is prone to changing its mind without giving you advance warning - a prime example being when you're on your way to work and finding that your usual route has, overnight, inexplicably changed, forcing you to do a major detour, get halfway to Abu Dhabi before you can do a u-turn, then find yourself to be hopelessly lost due to the lack of legible road signs.

And of course, just like the Infantile Boyfriend, you love Dubai desperately. You love the warmth, the lifestyle, the long gorge-all-you-can-eat brunches by the beach, the fact that drinking booze feels a bit naughty even when you're doing it perfectly legally, that it is so very different from back home, so exotic, expensive and impractical, a bit like an extended holiday.... and because you know that there's not a hope in Hell that it's going to last forever so you've got to make the most of it right now.

At some point, we all have to brave reality again. But you know, it's just great while it lasts.

art and stuff

2009-10-23T15:27:00.000+01:00

Been in a flurry of creativity this week producing screen print designs and taking snaps, hence the past few days of silence on the blog.

Also been trying to paint but less successfully as I've got a serious case of painter's block. Funny how sometimes it just flows and other times my fingers feel like strangers to a paintbrush.

Anyway, I've put some of my recent stuff up on a sister blog, you can check it out here if you've got a few minutes to spare.

Desire strikes

2009-10-20T09:02:00.000+01:00

Always on the lookout for cool stuff at decent prices (in true recession spirit and all that). Just found a new label, Nosovich, an Aussie bag designer who uses unusual fabrics to great effect. I'll be putting in an order for the pink pig. Retro-fabulous!

Home alone Mummy

2009-10-18T11:51:00.000+01:00

Alpha jetted off to Europe this weekend to see a Pixies gig with a gang of old mates, visit his Mum and go to his best friend's 40th birthday party. While Alpha was revisiting his misspent youth, I spent the weekend home alone in Dubai with the kids.

The good thing was that the kids were so dejected at being 'abandoned' by their beloved Daddy that their behaviour was miraculously good. The bad thing was that they insisted on sharing my bed ("But Mummy, what if a big bad burglar comes and there's no Daddy here to save us? Please, mummy, pleeaassee etc") then upped the stakes by demanding that our three insane cats join us. Agghhh. Never again. I spent the night on the edge of the bed being kicked in the fanny by the kids while the cats munched my toes. At least, I think it was the cats; it could well have been the Small(er) One, she has a terrible reputation for chomping on people who offend her.

Alpha is back tonight. I've never so looked forward to a homecoming in my life. I'm lost without him.

Scientific proof that your bullying boss is an idiot

2009-10-16T10:15:00.000+01:00

Read all about it here.

Bill Cosby: "...there’s a building, and it sits downtown ... and it’s called the public library.

2009-10-14T16:03:00.000+01:00

Just a recent interview I finished.
Love Bill Cosby championing public libraries. We need more.

Marge Simpson - the centrefold

2009-10-14T13:40:00.000+01:00

Loving the fact that Marge Simpson will be on the cover of the next issue of Playboy (out Friday). Sadly this isn't something we can pick up on the newstands here in the U.A.E. (not that I would be buying it anyway, to be honest) but the idea of a cartoon housewife dollied up in best Playboy bunny style does make me chortle. As is no doubt intended by those clever marketing chaps and chapesses over at Playboy HQ.

A triumph for downtrodden housewives everywhere or a waste of burnt bras? You decide.

Mama and the Geek

2009-10-13T14:02:00.002+01:00

It's a strange thing, the secret passion grown women have for geeks.

Do geeks bring out our maternal sides? Or is it that as we get older we start to realise that the qualities we valued so highly in men during our teens (muscles, stubble, sporting prowess, ability to drink multiple kegs of ale without passing out, own car) aren't that important after all? After all, hard abs + attitude doesn't necessarily = true luv 4 ever, does it? It takes so much more.

The thing about nerdy chaps is that they learn humility at an early age; years of having sandcastles kicked over and their heads flushed down the school bogs by larger, meaner boys tends to have that effect. Humility, when applied to relationships, goes a long, long way.

Geeks also have a lot to prove, having repeatedly lost the popularity contest at school and suffered through years of sexual frustration as a result; this makes them much more likely to succeed professionally as adults. And women, when they start to heed the biological clock, are more likely to choose mates who can bring home the bacon. Geeks also tend to take refuge in humour as a way of deflecting insults brought down on them in the classroom. Women rate laughter highly - take note boys, humour is a great natural aphrodisiac.

A straw poll amongst my mama friends reveal the following as the most popular geeks (is that an oxymoron or a triumph?). Feel free to add your own personal geek romeos by posting a comment...

P.S. Please feel free to enter into a lively debate re the geek credentials of any of the above, but remember that in most cases I am merely passing on the opinion of others...

Mummy is a wuss

2009-10-11T15:56:00.001+01:00

Alpha, the kids and I went off to sample the myriad delights of Dreamland Aqua Park yesterday, along with our chums Mr & Mrs R and Little M.

It was a smorgasbord of fun, an outing of exceptional enjoyment...except for the fact that I am petrified of being under water and not terribly keen on enclosed spaces. There I was, trying my best to be one of the gang - all of whom are dare-devils par excellence and hell-bent on pumping up the adrenaline levels to the max by flinging themselves down scary watery tubes with scant regard for life or limb - but all I achieved was a full exposure of my Class A wussy-ness.

The Family Raft Ride was a hoot (my face remained totally dry throughout, plus I had nice firm handles to cling to), the lazy Dream Stream was a relaxing meander down a waterway with the Small(er) One perched on my lap, even the bigg-ish slides which you go down on a rubber ring was OK... but after that I failed miserably.

Alpha, in a misguided attempt to divert me from a lifetime of cowardice, decided that I needed to earn my water park stripes. It was all going fairly well on the reasonably tame Slide 5 (which the kids were zooming down happily) until I was tipped off the rubber ring at the bottom, went a*se over t*t into the water and, in my major panic, forgot that humans can't breathe H20. Cue a waterlogged and spluttering mummy having to be pulled out of the water before being taken off for a nice relaxing Marlboro Light and a lie-down by the pool.

Being a determined man, Alpha then decided I would love the Black Hole as it involves minimal water, plus I could share a rubber ring thing with him (and so feel safe, or that was the theory). He was wrong.

Think a pitch black enclosed tube with a near-vertical initial drop (or so it felt) then a series of very fast twists and turns before being spat out into water at the end. OK, so I didn't come anywhere close to drowning but I was so scared that I started to cry. I had found my own personal version of Hell.

My mortification was compounded when Firstborn went down the same ride several times and announced it "cool" and "not that scary". Then she totally trumped me by going on the Twisting Dragons (which made me want to be sick just looking at it). Even the Small(er) One went on rides that I was barely brave enough to look at.

Am I destined to remain a water-park wallflower until the end of my days? Or is there some kind of cure? All advice appreciated...

Bad mommy

2009-10-08T07:47:00.000+01:00

Still can't find that damned cat. Kids are not speaking to me and have announced an all-out homework strike until pathetic fluffy skinny thing is located.

Have tried to lie through my teeth that kitten is having a happy time doing cute kitten things with its mummy and siblings. No dice.

Explained that someone else has probably found it (someone who doesn't already have three psychotic felines and a hotline to the local vet) and is lavishing it with care and devotion, not to mention providing kitten treats and catnip on tap. Firstborn just rolled her eyes at me while the Small(er) One did a surprisingly good impression of a sneer.

Have tried bribery. The Small(er) One nearly broke under the temptation of unlimited Walnut Whips and Bounty Bars but Firstborn intervened. That child is destined to be the next Arthur Scargill, no doubt about it.

Peace is currently AWOL at our house with no immediate hope of return. How on earth do you negotiate with a 7 year old and her junior accomplice without a decent bargaining chip?

How to identify Dubai American Mom

2009-10-07T06:49:00.001+01:00

There's something in the American character that turns them into a nation of die-hard have-a-go heroes. Dubai American Mom is no exception. She is seriously motivated, which makes her a hurricane of Mom-ness from dawn to dusk. Nothing fazes her - the Dubai traffic is a breeze, being woken up every day at 4am by the call to prayer is a doddle, even Ramadan was easy.

Whatever American Mom is doing - from packing little Brad's lunchbox to running the school PTA - she does it with fierce determination. Abandon hope all ye who have been targeted by American Mom; her zeal will pick you up and sweep you along, pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears, and before you know it you will be baking batches of 50 cup cakes for the latest fundraiser and pledging wholehearted allegiance to her cause. Woe betide anyone who dares not to match her in energy and enthusiasm for you will be named and shamed in a heartbeat, and your life at the school gates will never be the same again.

Apart from the fire burning in her eyes and the fact that she strides with purpose (no loafing around for the AM), you can identify American Mom by her daytime addiction to sports casual clothing and super-comfortable shoes. She always looks neat with her shirt tucked in and her hair in a low-maintenance yet immaculate style. 'Practicality' is her buzz-word. Hyper-organisation is her addiction. Her children are her mission. And she never fails at anything she sets out to do.

The only exceptions to the AM rule are New Yorkers, who tend to be much closer to Parisians in attitude and trump everyone else in the world when it comes to blondness, hairlessness and glossiness, and Californians who are much more laid back due to an overload of exercise and wheatgrass-smoothie induced endorphins. But these are an anomoly. AM usually rules.

AM makes all the other mothers look like shameless slacker ho's leading aimless lives. But you have to admire her. You have to like her. Because if it wasn't for the marvellous AM some other lazier nation would have to summon up the energy to organise the school disco, raise funds for the Eco Garden and bully the school into putting recycling bins in the carpark. And let's face it, all those aimless Europeans really like having enough free time for regular sessions in the manicurist's chair...

The mad cat woman of Dubai

2009-10-06T06:53:00.000+01:00

We all know that the British are soppy to the point of stupid about animals. Unfortunately, I too seem to have developed this foolish national trait.

Having adopted three insane moggies earlier in the year who have taken over our lives with their incessant demands for food and attention (bit like the kids really), caused heart-wrenching damage to our furniture (er, ditto, only advantage of cats over kids is that cats can't draw on the walls with marker pens), and cost us an arm and a leg in vetinary bills, I would have said that I am totally catted out.

That is, until Firstborn spotted a tiny kitten on our way home from the supermarket yesterday . There it was, a furry bony thing with stick legs and enormous ears, probably not more than a month old, rummaging in a bin by the park. There are armies of stray cats hanging out on every street corner in Dubai, so it's not like it's a big surprise, but something about this kitten touched Firstborn's tender little heart and she burst into heart-rending sobs. Then the Small(er) One started to cry too. Such was their utter misery that the only thing for it was to turn the car around.

There we were, the three of us, prowling the perimeter of the park looking for the damned kitten, me having been forced by my bleeding-heart children into plundering the shopping bags for something to feed it with. I felt like a fool. I felt like a madwoman. Bored commuters stuck in traffic were staring. Joggers were slowing down to see what we were up to. I guess the sight of a grown woman brandishing a chicken sausage whilst peering into a hedge isn't something you see every day.

Then we found the it. The kitten peered up at us with enormous eyes and miaowed. I've never seen anything so pathetic. All three of us fell instantly in love. It ate the sausage. It miaowed some more. Firstborn begged to take it home. I responded with warnings about rabies and other dire illnesses, plus predicted the terrible wrath of Alpha Male if we added another feline to our motley crew. Firstborn burst into tears again. The Small(er) One announced that she was no longer my friend. We left the park, both kids giving me the evil eye all the way home.

I thought about the kitten all night.

After dropping the kids off to school this morning, both of them subdued and treating me like the biggest schmuck to have ever walked the earth, I went back to the park. I hunted high and low for the bl*ody kitten for an hour before giving up and driving home. I'll go back again later. If I fail to find this sad scrap of a moggy I suspect Firstborn and the Small(er) One will bear a grudge for years.

I must be mad. I must be mad.

10 Top Tips for Living in Dubai

2009-10-04T13:57:00.000+01:00

I've only been here since January this year but so far have figured out the following top tips for successful Dubai living:

1. Covering your nether regions
Do not wear nylon knickers. Ever. There are no mitigating circumstances, however pretty the pants in question may be. Why? Because it's like putting your bum in a sauna. For hours.

40C heat + 70% humidity = 100% cotton all the way baby. Accept no substitutes.

2. Wean yourself off the slap
A face full of make-up doesn't really work in a country as hot as this. Unless you like looking like a sweaty panda, that is. In which case, go right ahead.

3. One for the road
There's no such thing here as 'one for the road'. Drinking and driving is stupid anywhere but in Dubai it's suicidal. Not only is the law fierce when it comes to booze in the bloodstream while behind the wheel (think zero-tolerance), driving in Dubai is dangerous enough whilst sober, let alone when impaired by alcohol. You need all your reflexes on full alert at all times. Don't do it.

4. Driving etiquette
Don't give in to road rage. Shouting insults and engaging in road side fistycuffs will land you in jail at best and possibly deported (don't believe me? Here's one bit of proof). Take a deep breath when the Hummer driven by a teenager cuts you up with outrageous disregard for common decency and human life. Smile sweetly when the monster truck muscles its way in front of you at the traffic lights. Sing happy songs to yourself when the white van veers across five lanes of traffic without signalling, nearly taking you out in the process. The same rules apply when in the supermarket (shopping trolleys can be fearsome weapons) and while waiting in any queue.

5. Red tape woes
Cutting through swathes of red tape is an inevitable part of living in Dubai (there's even a book to help you through it, that's how bad it is). Take comfort in the fact that the red tape is at its worst when you first move here. Accept the fact that it is annoying, sometimes illogical and always time consuming. Save yourself the ulcer and plough through it. It is what it is. Don't try to fight the system: stressing out about it is not going to change anything.

6. Don't huddle
Your life in Dubai will be a lot more interesting if you can avoid being submerged in the expat huddle. Yes, living in a compound can make life easier. Yes, it's nice to have like-minded folks as neighbours. Yes, unfamiliar things can be scary. But if you don't get out there and really sample what Dubai has to offer then you won't be making the most of it. Seize the challenge and stretch that comfort zone. Learning a bit of Arabic won't hurt either, even if all you can manage is a few words.

7. The beauty of Mall Walking
When I first got here the concept of Mall Walking seemed both hugely funny and supremely ridiculous. Walking? In a Mall? Ha ha ha! But unless you're a die-hard gym bunny with abs of steel and determination to match, a summer of being confined indoors with a bottom turning into a lardy pancake from too much sitting around will change your outlook pretty fast. Let's face it, where else can you walk for long distances without passing out from heat exposure when it's 45+C outside? Plus you can window shop as you melt away the pounds. What's not to love?

8. The maid conundrum
Some people love the idea of having affordable help at home. Some can't bear the idea of having a non-family member living under the same roof. It's a deeply personal decision. If you do decide to take the plunge and hire a full-time live-in maid or houseboy, remember that they are human beings and should be treated with common decency. Pay a fair wage, offer clean and ventilated accomodation and decent food, be aware of their rights and have a frank discussion about what the job entails before they start. You'd be surprised at how many people don't treat their maid and houseboy properly - don't be one of them.

9. Public nudity is a no-no
Obviously walking around buck naked publicly is a no-no in most places in the world, except for nudist beaches. In Dubai wearing something as revealing as hot pants and a boob tube is on a par with full-frontal nudity in the middle of London. You just wouldn't, would you?

You don't have to wear a burqa or an abaya but it's a good idea to respect local cultural mores and not flaunt too much flesh. In practical terms this means knee-length or longer skirts or shorts, tops covering the shoulders and nothing too low cut. I've seen tourists and expats wearing very skimpy clothing and, as far as I'm aware, they didn't get hauled off to the clink - risk it if you have an addiction to letting it all hang out but don't complain if you get gawped at or hassled by hordes of totty-starved workers. You'll also look like an ill-educated fool but each to their own, I guess...

10. How to deal with the folks back home
You might be as happy as Larry to be waking up to sunshine every day, not paying taxes and enjoying a better lifestyle than you did back home but your family and friends don't really want to hear about just how great your life is (or at least, not more than a couple of times).

Think about it: they're stuck in the p*ssing rain, handing over great chunks of their hard-won wages to the ungrateful taxman and, if they're living in a city, probably confined to a teeny flat and paying large sums for the privilege. The last thing they want is for you to endlessly bang on about how much fun you're having and how rubbish your old life was in comparison; just remember that your old life is their life right now. All they want to know is that you're ok, not miserable, missing them and that your spare room is theirs whenever they want to come visit. Add in a few anecdotes about free-range camels and a rumour you've heard about an expat being arrested in one of the malls for wearing a vest top and you're done.