Skip to main content

Aussie rules

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...

Comments

Anonymous said…
Hey, I like Australian Mum! No snide comments, straight talking - a breath of fresh air. Slightly suspicious of those Aussie Spiders in Emirate Hills though. Did Australian Dad import them specially to keep the Gang on its toes or what? Last one to the barbie gets dunked!!! Yeah!

Popular posts from this blog

The Grim Reaper

Firstborn is obsessed with death. It started with the odd comment, such as; "Mummy, what happens when you die?" OK, I thought, I was expecting this at some point, what a cute little curious brain she has. So I trotted out all the cosy Heaven stuff and left out all the things that could worry her, such as worms and bones and holes in the ground. This went down pretty well, although somehow Firstborn made the jump from my view of Heaven (filled with love, joy, always warm, never rains, has a huge discount designer shoe outlet and I never have to pay my Visa bill) to her own view of Heaven; a wonderous place where small girls don't have to eat their vegetables before they're allowed pudding, and where Barbie dolls grow on trees. Anyway, I digress. Last week Firstborn started shouting "Kill! Kill!" in a bloodthirsty tone while bashing her hithero-beloved teddy against the wall. This was topped by her purposely flushing her favourite My Little Pony down the loo. ...

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to

A friend recently emailed me to say that her big memory of her stay with us last year is that she had a great birthday, one of the few where she didn't 'act like a spoiled grumpy princess'. She tried to give me all the credit but as I explained to her, it was all down to having a fellow female organising the birthday fun rather than leaving it to her partner. Her email got me thinking about birthdays and how very different men and women are in their attitudes to celebrating special occasions. It also had me thinking about my birthday two years ago when I threw a major tantrum in the Carrefour car-park after being told that we were off to do the weekly shop, kids in tow, which was simply the final straw at the end of a very uninspiring day. In contrast, my birthday last year was rather lovely (a morning on my own in a spa with no mobile coverage, pure selfish bliss). This year - in a few short months, eek! - I'll be hitting the grand old age of 38. This will be my las...