We went camping!
We left at camel's fart to drive up the Mussendam Peninsular and over the border into Oman. (I texted "Good morning campers!" to the other two families going, but sadly when you camp with a Filipino, an American, a Kiwi and a Fijian, no one 'Hi-de-hi's' back at you.)
Dubai is very flat so we ooo'd and ahhed at the mountains on the way.
Stopped to buy bananas.
Stopped to buy firewood.
Stopped to buy masala chai and deep fried date syrup dohnutty things.
Stopped to buy a three foot inflatable spiderman.
Stopped to deflate tyres and then went hooning out over the dunes to find a spot to camp.
We set up camp on the beach. This was proper camping - nothing but sand, sea and us. There was no shade so we set up a couple of canopies. 5 tents between the 3 families. Built a good fire. Tried to swim in the sea but there were millions of tiny tiny jellyfish. The sea was about 50% jelly. So, instead we spent the afternoon sliding down dunes on our boogie boards. Bbq, and then settle down to an evening of sitting around the campfire and... enjoying the sound of the nearby Lebanese party campers dancing and shrieking and ullulating through the night. Fortunately they had reasonable taste in music and a bit of Abba and Bob Marley was quite fun.
On my birthday morning I crept out of the tent just before 6. Sprog woke up, broke in to a sleepy grin and whispered "We're still at camping on the beach!" She shuffled out after me and padded down to the sea, still in her strawberry pyjamas and clutching her blankie. We sat side by side like the only people in the world, and chatted and watched the sun rise, all pink.
Later, we took a dhow up the coast to do a bit of snorkling and see some limestone caves. The owner was an Indian chap and there was bloody good curry for lunch. Got back to find (a) Lebanese party campers had gone (yay.) and (b) some bastard had stolen our firewood (bastard.). Got a fire going with what we had in the car. Somehow (I genuinely have no idea how) a cold bottle of champers and a beautifully iced birthday cake was produced. Supper. Wine. More wine. A bit more wine. Go on then, one more glass.
Bed some time after midnight.
Perfect.
Until...
At about 2am, a group of Emirati IDIOTS came screaming over the dunes, revving their engines, hooning about. They set up camp about 30 yards from my head, plugged in a bastarding noisy arsing GENERATOR to power their strip lights and TELEVISION, ffs, and shouted, revved, watched tv and were arseholes for the rest of the night. I gave up trying to sleep at 5. They finally turned the generator off at 6. I hate them with a poisonous fury. I want to kill them to death.
But then we had a lovely swim in the sea (jellies had wibbled off elsewhere) and good breakfast and lazily packed up camp and meandered back with my two filthy urchins asleep all the way home.
I was very happy to sleep in my bed last night, but I was a bit sad to wake up and have normal breakfast in my kitchen, not fun camping breakfast with my friends on the beach.
It’s Jef’s birthday soon and, being a man of simple pleasures, he has only requested one thing – an insanely hot chilli sauce. He already owns a bottle of Dave's Insanity Sauce, which makes me cry just to look at it and has a tongue-in-cheek message on the side claiming it can also be used to strip waxed floors and remove grease stains from driveways. At least I hope it's tongue-in-cheek. This is the even stronger sauce Jef wants to add to (his half of) dinner:
Chillis are measured on the Scoville scale, a measure similar to the Beaufort and decibel scales. Mad Dog 357 Special Edition measures 600,000 Scoville units. For comparison, a mouth-burning Scotch bonnet peaks at 325,000 units and the pleasant warmth of a jalapeno clocks in at a mere 5000 units. If a jalapeno is a gentle breeze, this sauce is a hurricane. If a Scotch bonnet is a noisy workplace, then this sauce is a jet engine. Taking off in your FACE.
Jef originally requested this sauce which, at a
brain-shattering four million Scoville units, needs to be added to food using a
pipette. I refused on the grounds that I will have no food in the house that
could kill a child. It is basically a terrifying weapon that should be
dismantled by specialists and the original recipe destroyed. IT SHOULDN’T BE.
So happy birthday, Jef. Happy throat-burning, eye-watering,
finger-blistering birthday.
...I would invite every one of my handsome, adorable, clever neighbors to my apartment for Thanksgiving dinner.
If I could, I would expand my list of invitees, like a sparkling balloon, to include parents, children and all manner of pets. How I would love to be introduced to them all.
If I could, I would alter the design of my dinner table into something Dr. Seuss or Lewis Carroll might design - curving into space, higher and higher - until it had lengthened sufficiently so that every one of you could find a place.
If I could, I would alter the space continuum so that my kitchen would be BIG ENOUGH to accommodate the positively epic, Edwardian dinner I would plan for you.
If I could, I would alter the time continuum so that my far-flung precious ones would be able to find their way to the Aubrey domicile with ease and economy. And yet still be able to travel first-class.
If I could, I would place a glass of flower-like, art nouveau proportions at each place setting. It would be full of champagne, and glittering at the bottom would be either a diamond bracelet, or a brace of diamond cufflinks. They are for you.
If I could, I would arrange the champagne toasts thusly: they would not be to your hostess, to your family, or to your loved ones. You would not toast this innocent North American holiday. You would, instead, toast yourselves.
Because words fail me.
Happy Thanksgiving, all.
I have decided to fall off the wagon. It's time to blog.
About what? What have you got to say?
I don't know. I'm a bit rusty, in truth. Perhaps I should go to the Vox front page to inspire me. It should always be the first port of call for the pick of the bunch (where mixed metaphors and squared clichés collide!)...
So what do we have?
A half-white, half-yellow train! Yay! I fucking love half-white, half-yellow trains! I have no idea what the commentator is slurring, because he's being drowned out by a half-white, half-yellow train! Which is outstanding, because I cannot get enough of half-white, half-yellow trains. I was promised a 'Holiday Ham Toss', but this exceeded my expectations and then some.
Wait! There's more excitement - the lead story:
"Sometimes you need to prepare Thanksgiving Dinner on the day before the day. Like if your daughter won't eat turkey, and you have to cook a ham!"
[culture is good]!
Oh no! I've left it too long! I'll never fit in now; now that I know that whatever I blog about how frequently I wipe beneath my draining board; how my plants are doing pretty well, but still I worry how they might be slightly underwatered, and that the central heating can't be doing them much good; how I find it hard sometimes to remember if this is the fortnight when they take away the recycling bags, or if it's the next; how the road had quite a lot of spray last time I went driving; I will never be beige enough to feel part of the Vox family.
Or maybe I got there without realising it. Perhaps I'll sink back into the wallpaper for another six months. Keep your eyes peeled for transport and recipe updates next summer.
Just doing some geeky blog housekeeping stuff for Technorati. VE22YG6CWE53. Isn't the weather lovely for this time of year?
As you were ...
Off to a birthday party when Wilf wakes up. Swimming this evening.
Big supermarket shop tomorrow morning ready for Eid holiday, then another birthday party in the afternoon. Running in the evening.
Wednesday is craziness. I have to do the school run, picking up other children on the way. Drive back across town to pay my cleaner and meet her holiday replacement. Drive back to nursery to deliver a devon cream tea (which I guess I'll be baking and making after running on Tuesday night) (why didn't I say I'd take cucumber sandwiches? Or a nice lump of cheddar?) and then participate in InterNational Day (their capitalisation, not mine). Then I have to loiter for about an hour before picking up Sprog and taking her to a picnic in the park. We can only make a cameo appearance at the picnic because then we have to drive BACK across town to drop Wilf at his friend's house so I can drive BACK ACROSS TOWN to take Sprog to see Peter Rabbit at the theatre. Then we finally cross town for the last time and come home, picking up Wilf on the way, get home, get the children in to bed and start baking and packing and loading up the car so we can set off camping at sparrow's fart on Thursday morning.
Oof.
We have a shiny new Metro. Oooooh.
The metro stations tend to be attached to shopping malls, so the malls have started to charge for parking stays longer than four hours to avoid a car park clogged by park'n'riders. Generous of them. Not.
Actually, Ibn Batuta Mall is still free to park no matter how long you stay and they are running a series of rather smug radio adverts along the lines of "WE aren't charging you to park in our car park because WE understand that you, the metro rider, is the same 'you' who comes to shop with us on your days off, and WE understand that we have a duty to be a part of our community and not just leap on any opportunity to squeeze a few more Dirhams out of you like SOME people we could mention (coughmalloftheemiratescough)..." The Ibn Batuta metro station is not actually open yet and won't be for the best part of a year according to some reports. Still, gotta admire them for trying.
So, at the malls that charge for parking it is a standard system where you push the button, take the ticket, the barrier lifts and in you go. Hold on to your ticket and don't forget to validate it in one of the machines before you go back to your car. Put your validated ticket into the slot to lift the barrier and drive away.
Except... this is Dubai.
So you drive up to the barrier, wind down your window and a nice Indian man employed to stand next to the AUTOMATED barrier machine says "Good morning Madam!" and pushes the button for you. He hands you your ticket and in you drive. You park. You shop. You leave. You drive up to the exit barrier and wind down your window, and hand your validated ticket to another nice man who pushes it into the slot for you. He wishes you a pleasant day. You mumble your thanks.
Where the road splits to allow one queue of cars to use 3 barriers, there is a man per barrier. These malls are BIG. Hundreds of men employed to press the button and hand you your ticket.
I suppose at least they have eliminated the embarassing 'parked too far away, can't quite reach the button' syndrome.
I know. I am as astounded as you are.
You'll fall off your chair when I admit that I haven't lost half a stone or finished my Christmas shopping either.
At the beginning of the month I fudged a couple of the dates so it looked like I'd blogged every day. I hadn't. Phew. Glad to get that off my concience.
Actually, my subconcious must be a little troubled, because last night I had a vivid dream in which I was sitting at my laptop trying desparately to think of an aspect of my life I hadn't blogged about before the timer ran out and it was too late. I was hit with inspiration when it occured to me that I'd not yet mentioned that my tabloid celebrity husband had just admitted he was an alcoholic and had joined AA, intending to sell the story to Hello! My dream blog readers get to feast, while you guys get the scraps from their table.
It takes about 40 minutes to drive to Sprog's nursery. On a good day with no traffic (ha!) you might zoom there in 20 minutes with a bit of luck and a following wind. On bad days it has taken me as long as an hour and 10 minutes, one way.
There are closer nurseries, but none of the closer ones will let her go part time. By the grand old age of 3 they are expected to go every day or they will fall behind. Dubai schools take academia very seriously. Homework is routine from the age of 3. My friend's 4-year-old arrived home with a stern note explaining that she was not up to scratch in her scissor usage, and a pile of 'cutting' homework to bring her up to speed. Another friend's 3 year old brought home her end of year report which advised she ought to work on her 'standing on one leg, and also hopping skills' over the summer.
So Sprog goes to a lovely nursery with an enormous shaded garden, where they are happy for her to go three mornings a week. In her class of 15 children there is a teacher, a teaching assistant and a nanny (the alternative at closer nurseries and schools are classes of 30 with only 2 teachers.) They do much the same thing as she would be doing at school - letters and numbers and colouring and cutting and painting and sticking. They also do splashing in the paddling pools twice a week, and have a discovery room where they do cooking and science experiments.
I wish it were closer. We are considering moving closer to the nursery if we stay in Dubai.
The biggest problem with the drive is Wilfie. At least Sprog only goes one way, and is happy to read and chat and play guessing games, and is cheerful because she adores nursery so is happy to make the trip. Poor Wilf hates his car seat with a fury. He screams to be put in it. He screams to be stuck in unmoving traffic. He screams when he is briefly released from the dreaded car seat only to be whisked past all the fun nursery toys, instructed to wave goodbye to his beloved big sis, and whisked out again, no you can't play with that, get back into your carseat. Poor lad. And now it's time to pick her up so we'll do it all again.
It got so bad that I employed a babysitter to come to my house and play with Wilfie, take him to the park, give him his breakfast, that sort of thing. Florie is a lovely lady, used to dealing with children, and she lives locally. Wilfie took grave exception to being left with a babysitter. In fact, he decided that the only thing he could possibly hate more than spending nearly four hours a day in the car, is being taken to the park on his bicycle with the lovely Florie. We very quickly reached a point where Florie would arrive and Wilfred would greet her by flinging himself to the floor wailing and writhing in anguish. Wilfred is not an obliging child.
I apologised to Florie and said that although she had done nothing wrong, and I truly didn't suspect her of beating my child as soon as my back was turned, it wasn't working out. Florie agreed, but casting a doubtful eye around the sty that is my home suggested that she come and work for me as a cleaner instead.
She did, and continues to do so. I love Florie.
Wilfred still hates his trips to and from nursery.
I have arranged a car pool for one of the days so now there are only two nursery days to cope with. We car pool with a rather gentle little boy and his over protective mother. The little boy talks solemnly about cars and trucks and diggers and buses. Sprog is not impressed. I must admit that even I have lost some of my initial enthusiasm for identifying every vehicle we pass. One morning we told scary stories, but the little boy's mother asked us to change the subject as the little boy doesn't care for scary things, so back to DHL vans and bendy buses. Little boy's mother was rather tight lipped on delivering Sprog back to me this afternoon. Apparently they had been playing 'making funny sounds' and the little boy took exception to Sprog copying his funny sound. Sprog evidently took it and ran with it, ending in the little boy wailing in distress, his mother begging her to stop, and Sprog flatly refusing to stop making 'his' noise, all the way home.
I suppose it made a change from Wilfie wailing.
It is the evening of my girls' night in. Today I have had cancellation after cancellation after cancellation.
Of the 13 people I invited, four are coming.
Of those four...
S can only stay for an hour
C can't arrive until late (and I suspect won't come at all)
P I have already seen at a coffee morning and then a birthday party today.
D will shortly arrive looking lovely and be surprised to learn that she alone makes up 50% of the party for most of the evening.
I feel somewhat deflated.
