mothers on the verge

Like any badly behaved pedigree hound, The Player is in his element when running with the pack but is invariably a disaster in the domestic environment. Usually a handsome devil with scads of charm, The Player is the ultimate party boy. He can be found propping up the bar wherever hordes of young and gorgeous women are likely to gather, twinkling away determinedly at the best-looking and most skimpily-dressed babes whilst conspicuously jangling the keys to his beloved Porsche. In Dubai for a three-year contract, he's determined to make the most of everything this most glamorous and obvious of cities has to offer and that most definitely includes the lavish female buffet. Here's a warning, ladies. Any experienced dog trainer will tell you that it's possible to train your wilder breed of hound but a potential owner needs to go in with their eyes wide open. Domestication will take years of work and the regular doling out of tasty treats to reward...

It's been an emotional morning. Firstborn has gone off on her first ever overnight camp. As we gathered in the school hall for the pre-departure pep talk, I looked over at my daughter as she huddled with her friends, drinking in everything the teacher was saying and occasionally glancing over in my direction. I kept a brave face on it, grinning manically at her in an attempt to communicate "Fun! Yeah! This is great! Yay!", but I felt a little more flat inside as each minute passed. Firstborn is a mere eight years young and today she looked tiny. Outside she was full of bravado but her big owl eyes and slightly pinched mouth indicated otherwise. I probably looked exactly the same. Last night we picked out Firstborn's clothes (many were dismissed as being way too naff - how did she get fashion sense this young?), raided the store room for torches and a sleeping bag, then I gave myself repetitive strain injury by sewing on name tags while she chatted away about the...

I've started to do a trot round the park every other morning in an attempt to avoid my buttocks taking over the world. When I say trot what I really mean is that I sort of stumble and shuffle my way around the park, stopping to wheeze now and then whilst pretending to contort myself into the sort of complicated stretching positions that the more seasoned runners do so effortlessly. I don't think I'm fooling anyone, in fact I seem to get a lot of scornful looks from females more toned of limb and glossy of hair than I (probably French Mamans, I should think, but kinda hard to tell when attired in lycra) but at least I'm trying. That's got to count for something, right? The actual effort of getting myself around the park (all 3.5k of it, gah) is not at all enjoyable, nor is the searing pain experienced in the darkest recesses of my thighs for 48 hours afterwards, but there is one unexpected and totally delightful highlight - ...

It is an odd thing, being hungover in Dubai. I would, in fact, go as far to say that it is strangely unlike any hangover I have ever had in any other part of the world. For some reason, the tiniest drop of booze consumed here has a more drastic effect than one would reasonably expect the next day. Conspiracy theorists may venture that some radical group is adding anti-freeze to the  al-kool sold here in an attempt to punish the heathen ex-pats for their wild and lairy ways. Although legend has it that the Australians have been doing this to their grown-up grape juice for years (albeit for less moral reasons, perhaps) and it hasn't exactly harmed their consumption (or sales), has it? Another theory would be that because Dubai has such a hot climate the effects of dehydration are much worse than in more temperate climes. This would make a lot of sense except for the fact that I am very careful to drink as much water as my skin will hold (plus an ext...

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 nat...

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, ...

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...

We all try to be the best parent we can be, right? But sometimes it can be difficult. Sometimes we are faced with things we cannot fully understand, however hard we try. Sometimes, especially when you're tired or feeling below-par, it can feel impossible. Like today, when I discovered that my dyslexic seven-year-old daughter doesn't know the order of the days of the week. Small things that make it feel like an overload. We've struggled through the reading, the painful hours of stuttering and stumbling over simple words. The one step forward, three steps back phases. The days when reading the word 'and' seemed like a major challenge.  We got through learning to count up to 20, when the number 15 always 'hid' and couldn't be brought out however hard we tried. Sometimes it was the number 11 as well, other days 16 was the stubborn one. The days when she mixed up the letters that spelled out her name. When every other letter and number was the wrong wa...

There is a strange trend here in Dubai, mainly championed by the Russians, to display your might-as-well-be naked butt while at the pool. Maybe I'm a bit uptight but since it's illegal to go topless here then why should you be allowed to get your arse out? It is true that I have a personal loathing of g-strings (why would you wear something that gives you a wedgie on purpose ?) and wouldn't sport one of these evil things if you paid me, but it's hard for anyone to deny the fact that there are very few sets of buttocks that stand up to scrutiny in the cold light of day. However svelte you are, unless you're a teenage supermodel with a derriere the shape and texture of a ripe peach then it's best to steer clear. Even if you're blessed with Madonna-like abs and legs up to your armpits, if you're the wrong side of 25 then don't even think about it. So why this shameless parade of wobbly bum flesh? Do these butt-showing perps think that a back...

We think it might be the end of Ramadan tomorrow. The announcement has been made that Eid al-Fitr, the Festival of Fast Breaking, starts on Sunday 20th September this year dependent on the sighting of the moon (actually based on astronomical calculations; I was quite disappointed when I found out, crushed my visions of groups of learned personages peering at the moon from hilltops every night). For Muslims, Eid al-Fitr is a time to dispense charity to the needy and get together with family for celebratory meals and to exchange gifts, with special Eid prayers being said at the Mosque early in the morning on the first day of Eid. For us expats it's slightly less meaningful, but it does mean a couple of days off from work, a week off school for the kids and being able to eat, drink, chew gum and smoke in public during daylight hours again now Ramadan is over. It's also an opportunity for ex-pats to get to know their Muslim neighb...

Went to our first Iftar on Friday at the Jumeirah Beach Hotel . Gluttony took over and I am still in a carb-induced zone-out; the pudding selection was far too good to refuse, think I got to thirds before finally admitting defeat. Even the kids were faced with more chocolate cake than they could handle, pretty much a world first. Although as the Small(er) One wisely pointed out, it was a "pretend" Iftar as we are not Muslim nor have we been fasting. Fun though. Maybe I will be sufficiently recovered tomorrow to rouse myself to write more than a few sentences. Possibly.

I'm turning into a grumpy old woman. Alpha claims this is a good thing, saying that I'm far too nice to people and I might as well wear a sign saying "walk all over me". But surely turning into an uber-bitch is a step too far? What's really making me feel the rage at the moment is certain people (you know who you are) trying to deny that Firstborn is dyslexic. These naysayers seem to think that I'm doing something really bad in allowing such a label to be applied to her. Like I'm making it up or something. Erm, why would I do that? Do they think I'm insane? Here are the main 'arguments': "But Firstborn seems so normal..." "She's obviously intelligent and she speaks well, she can't be dyslexic!" "Some children are just slower than others, it doesn't mean she's dyslexic. Why don't you just wait a few years and see what happens?" "Dyslexia is a load of rubbish, it's one of those trendy wo...

Dear Kate, Dubai. Still wrapping my head around your living there. Such another world, and yet I imagine the constants are true — children go to school (!), families try to meet for dinner, light switches turn on and off, people Google. I'm imagining the mood there has to be better than in London. Certainly better than in New York. It's as if the layer of cushion that everyone had wrapped themselves in after the election, following Obama's inauguration, has finally worn. New York has never been known as the city of warmth and joy — but it feels even darker still. The economic reality has finally kicked in, and as stores shutter, as the neighbor loses her job, people are biting at each other. I'm just waiting for the 'better you than me' attitude to appear. I'm afraid it actually will. I see it so keenly in the moms — it's quiet, but there. Ice-skating outings with young girls and their mothers, now means a brown-bag lunch instead of a bistro after for ho...