mothers on the verge

My Granny Julia died yesterday. For once, I've run out of words.

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 - early morning in the park is a Class A

This non-smoking lark has thus far failed to impress me. Not only do I find it really tricky to write anything bar the most banal email without a ciggie clenched in my desperate fist - hence my disappearance from the blog for the last few days - but all kinds of horrid vanity-shocker things are happening. Such as: Impaired cognitive function my brain has turned into cream cheese, even more so than usual... Did cigarettes actually make me more clever (as I once claimed to a smug anti-smoking type after a bottle of wine) or is this just a temporary fuzz brought on by the nicotine deficit? The worst of both worlds my skin thinks it belongs to a teenager - spots?? At my age! NO FAIR! Plus there's also my wrinkles and crinkles to contend with. Granny furrows + teenage zits = no wonder I'm confused. Get thee to fat camp I have gained a grand total of 4 kilos in one mouldy week. None of my skirts will do up and my jeans have turned into a great big denim wedgie. Am sitting in f

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 extra large glass before bed for

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,

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

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 Pursu

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

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 tear

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

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

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

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

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 o