Hey Honey I'm home...

And so the journey begins. The airport is throbbing, even the Mahaba lounge is full of tired travellers jostling for a seat and the free buffet. The fun part is people watching, guessing people's stories. Take the guy over there, sharing a table with a woman he has never met before. My goodness, he could bore for England; giving her his sales pitch, his 'hey, look at me, I'm a really interesting person'. I'll bet she can't wait for the gate to open to take her flight. You watch the tourists, the only ones stupid enough to be in the not-so-duty-free shop. The MTMs (married the maid) men on their first trip to the Phillipines, wondering if the novelty of the nocturnal incentives is starting to wear off.

The best bit is getting on the plane first and watching all of the muppets who just don't seem to be able to work out the seating plan. Here's a clue for you: it's in numerical order. And then of course there's the overhead locker to contend with and there is always one passenger who gets on last with two or three large suitcases and delays the take off trying to find somewhere to put them. The exasperated air stewardess grimacing whilst trying to maintain her polite demeanour, grappling around trying to find a space in the already crammed lockers.

At last the doors close and you can take off. You think you're safe to relax and begin watching the movies and then you are interuppted by the safety video and a film entitled 'short history of Emirates' that is not so short.

Seven hours of films you've seen before, mediocre food, cramped conditions and the tedium of wanting to be somewhere five minutes ago. But when you step off that plane and take your first lungful of British fresh air, it's all suddenly worth it. The land of hope and glory lies before you, so open your umbrella, put on your cardigan and rush into the arms of the relatives you haven't seen for a year. Seven hour flight? Washed away by the first welcome home kiss.

Traumatic Day

The phrase 'curiosity killed the cat' is true. No really it is. Well, I suppose it might be 'curiosity got the cat into a lot of trouble'. Smudge is very, very curious and this has led to a rather traumatic day for him. He is into everything. It's a bit like having a toddler who wants to get into every cupboard. There are carrier bags stuffed into the gap between the dishwasher and the cupboard because yesterday this was the primary area of investigation. Underneath the cooker is also a favourite. And the fact that he is not allowed into the utility room to explore the washing machine, Smudge takes as a personal affront.

So, today, he decides that the inside of the fridge MUST be scrutinised: just as my 9 year old decides to get out something for her lunch and as she closes the door (without looking down)... Needless to say, I think the curiosity to interrogate the nether regions of the fridge are now not at the top of Smudge's agenda.

This is all followed by a trip to the vet. Hmm. The cat box comes out and Smudge is asleep in his bed so I gently place him inside the cat box and...he goes berserk. He was really upset. We manage to make it to the vet, get him checked over, get the worming formula (and confirmation that Smudge is only 4 to 5 weeks old) and I have to carry him home on my lap in the car to calm him down. Methinks that perhaps when Smudge and his brothers and sisters were abandoned, they were driven to the dumping ground in a cat box. So, on the advice of a friend, the cat box has been left out, to reduce its traumatic symbolism.

Anyway, on an up note, the children are now on their best behaviour. This is in view of a recent policy decision that punishment for any infringements is now to clean out the litter box!

Bringing up Baby

Ok, so we could stand it no longer. A house without a cat, for me, is like a room without any books. Dull, dull, dull. So, yesterday we adopted a kitten. He had been rescued, along with his two brothers and sisters, by a kind lady who took him in until homes could be found. So, this tiny bundle of black and white fluff is now an integral part of our household. (That's a saucer in the picture by the way, not a dinner plate, so you can see how tiny he is!).

Cats are majestic and elegant creatures. They have poise and grace. This one is very Egyptian looking, with large ears and a tiny face. He looks as if he just stepped off a panel of hieroglyphs on the wall of Tutankamum's tomb. In terms of a name I'm thinking about something noble like Osiris or Byron. So, what did my children think fit to call this magnificent, regal creature? Smudge. Hmmm.

Smudge is only about 5 weeks old. He was abandonded, like so many kittens here in Dubai so he requires special treatment. He has special baby cat food that smells pretty much the same going in, as it does coming out. I also bought him special baby creature milk that actually came with a bottle with teets on it! Smudge didn't have a clue what the teets were, but he drinks it comfortably from a saucer. Today, methinks I need to buy him something to chew, judging by the scratches on my hands, arms and earlobes from him play-biting.

This morning when I got up, I couldn't find him. Of course, in true pussy-cat style he couldn't possibly sleep in the bed I bought for him, or in the little hidey-hole in the scratching post, oh no, he had settled underneath the sofa in the kitchen!

So, he's loved already and most definitely here to stay.

ROFL

So, I'm writing this paper at the moment about Digital Natives. For the uninitiated, this does not describe you. To qualify to be a Digital Native you need to have been born after about 1985 and have grown up with web 2.0 technology. Digital Natives are fluent in all things, well, digital, and are characterised (some would say) by a need for instant gratification and reward, and are proficient multitaskers (yes, even the boys) (Prensky, 2001). Anyone who doesn't fall into this category is called a Digital Immigrant - that's you and me. We have to learn the technology and the language of the age, in order to keep up: we are not native to it but are indoctrinated with other forms of communication and use digital technology as a secondary, rather than a primary, channel. Hmm.

This gets me thinking about the language of these Digital Natives, with their shortened words and acronyms. U no the kinda thng. When I worked in the UK, we had an acronym we used for odd students: FLKs. Funny Looking Kids. So, I thought it would be fun, as a Digital Immigrant, to come up with a few new acronymns particular to us: a Digital Immigrant language. Here are a few examples (and please feel free to add any that you can think of):

For those of the Digital Immigrant Generation:

UBH: unwanted body hair. Hmmm.
PMSL: Pissing myself whilst laughing
MILF - Mother in law from Hell - doesn't apply to me but I know some of us are familially challenged
DBILF - Daughter's boyfriend I'll like to....
BTW - Back to work
HOW - Hungover at work
SILT - student I'd like to Throttle
MTS - Mum's taxi service
ASAP - Always spending a penny (for those members of the tiny bladder club)
LCT - Last Chance Trendy (Middle aged guy driving a Ferrari)

And those specific to Dubai:
JJ: Jumeriah Jane - for anyone living outside Dubai, this is the name given to the Designered-up housewives who spend all day shopping and getting their nails done. They couldn't spell the word career
BDJJ: Badly dressed Jumeriah Jane - I'll leave that up to your imagination
EB: Expat Brat - name given to most of my students. Kids who can't pack their own bags or wipe their own noses/arses, because the maid usually does it
MWM: Mum with maid - these are the mums you see in the malls and in restaurants, who can't go anywhere without the maid for fear that they may have to communicate with, or indeed look after, their own children
MTM: Married the maid - sad, middle aged men who are too lazy/stupid to look for a wife and so marry the hired help. The malls are crawling with them.
SSD: Slow Speedbump Driver: these are the guys who buy a 4x4, which incidentally is meant to be driven over rugged terrain, and drive over speedbumps as if the car is extremely fragile

I'll kp u psted if i thnk of any mre. TTFN.

Summer's Here

Shhh, you have to be quiet. Crouch down and you might just be able to spot one. They're rare, and most often only seen at this time of year. They are timid creatures, and getting near one can be tricky. Yes, there's one: it's a lesser spotted removals van.

Yes, it's that time of year again. The humidity's up; the daily joggers and power walkers have been replaced by the lesser spotted removals companies. Yes, it's time to move house or leave Dubai. You see them every where - like termites crawling out of the woodwork when it's raining. Schools out, University is finished and people flock to the airport like bees to a honeypot. Summer is officially here.

I always feel a bit sad at this point in the year: it's weeks until I go home for a UK fix and my students are gone. Scattered to the four corners of the earth until October. Many of these won't return to Dubai but take the opportunity to study in London and transfer there over the summer. I try to dissuade them, tell them it's cold, miserable and dangerous, but they don't listen. So, in true educator style I thought a training session may be in order for those brave souls giving up the beach and the sunshine for the rain and dirt of the UK. Sessions begin next week and will cover the following topics:

1. Security in the supermarket: What is a stab vest and why must I wear it at all times?
2. Child in a sweetie shop:  Yes, the pubs are open all day but that doesn't mean you need to spend all day in them
3. Pickpockets: No she wasn't feeling your bum, she was nicking your wallet
4. Cardigans: what they are, where to buy them and discussion of the probability of the temperature ever rising above 20 degrees
5. Car theft: why I can't park my Ferrari in Asda car park and expect it still to be there tomorrow
6.  Alternatives to the Pub: Cannabis, Skunk, or E: your options
7. What is a part time job and why do I need one?
8. No Abaya here: why a woman in a short skirt and crop top is not necessarily a prostitute

Classes begin next week. Enrolments at http://www.omg-itsroughhere.com/

Please explain it to my husband, I only understand rocket science!

So, my plan for the summer is to put a Phd proposal together. I am the Queen of studying, I love it. A Phd is not to be sniffed at; it's a big commitment, but in my educated opinion, is far less scary than the paradigm known in the business world as the Blackberry phone package.

My daughter wanted a Blackberry - not an iphone, not a Nokia E72, a Blackberry. It's the phone of the moment (if you are 12) and being able to BBM is every girl's dream (apparently) Well, let's face it, this is infinitely preferable to her coming home saying she'd like a gram of cocaine to snort off her boyfriend's butt. So, we charge off to the mobile phone shop.

As we enter, I am greeted by a boy who I am convinced is missing school for this, who explains the various options available, in what appears to be a language I have never spoken before. Oh, he's speaking in English, it's just the order of the words I am not getting. He hands us a contract to sign. I glance across at my husband who looks like he's just been asked to seal the deal to sell his soul. 'I am not sure I want to sign up to a contract', he says, looking at me pityingly. I catch a glimpse of the look of panic on my daughter's face and almost reach for the hankies. 'Ok', I say to the small boy, 'could we just go over the plans again please, I only understand rocket science'.

 'You get six months free of this package (he points to a card on the desk) if you pay 120 dirhams a month',  he explains for the third or fourth time, sighing.
'But why is it 120 dirhams a month if it's free for the first six months?' I enquire
'Well, you have to pay the first month, plus 25 dirhams, and then it's free for six months, then you go onto the 120 dirhams a month package, unless you pay 75 dirhams plus one month and then it's 75 dirhams a month but you don't get six months free you only get three'. What??????? Ahhhhhhhhh!

Eventually, I manage to grasp that we can purchase the phone without the soul selling contract, if we buy a sim card from another telecommunications company. This we manage to achieve and the equilibrium of my daughter's street cred is restored.

What did you say? Can't hear you over the snoring...

If snoring were a competitive sport, my husband would be reigning Olympic gold medalist. I am not talking amateur snoring here - the occasional snort - I am talking ear splitting decibels of championship grunts, groans, snorts and whines. I am a snoring widow. And with this prestigious position in mind, the summer, and the annual trek to the Uk looms.

Now, we have an olympic sized bed. You know the ones: you get them in hotels. You lie on one side of the vast landscape of fluffy pillows and starched cotton sheets, and you have to telephone your husband on the other side to arrange any...well, I'll leave that up to your imagination.

But, the annual trek to the Uk involves sleeping in a minature bed (my mum in law's spare room double). Closeness abounds. And with closeness comes the inevitable cacophany of not-so-tuneful racket that is my husband's nightly audition for the X Factor. So, what's a girl to do?

Well, for the other millions of snoring-widows out there, here's my 'sleeping an inch from my somniferous-soloist of a husband' survival guide:

1. The key to a good night's sleep is to fall asleep first. The most effective comatose inducing drug I know of, is alcohol. So, at least two glasses of wine and you've got it covered.
2. A little note about earplugs: industrial strength, 'standing on the shop floor whilst they are testing the world's largest jet engine and you can't hear a thing' strength earplugs. Most chemists have them.
3. No sex. The myth that everyone falls asleep afterwards, basking in the afterglow of their glory, is exactly that...a myth. men fall asleep; women lie awake listening to men snoring in the afterglow of their glory. Reserve the horizontal shuffle for earlier on in the evening.
4. And finally, when it all gets too much, I find a pillow over the face solves the issue perfectly. But then, I am writing this from my prison cell.