I say “outfits” because, unlike these fashion-blog fashionistas, who step out in the morning looking like they’re off to Paris Fashion Week, then add another layer of mascara, change their shoes and stay out till 2am all in the same outfit, I get through three to four outfits a day.

They are invariably as follows:

Outfit 1
For most of the year, I fall out of bed into shorts, a vest and flip-flops – but given it was nine degrees this morning I can’t even imagine ever wearing shorts again. At the moment, the first outfit of the morning is a t-shirt, jersey yoga pants and a fleece.

A typical 'Outfit 3'. Although the clothes change, the colour palette rarely does

Outfit 2
Cycling, yoga or exercise gear for obvious reasons (cycling, yoga or exercise of some sort, natch).

Outfit 3
After my shower, I get into the main outfit of the day. This has to be comfy, be age-appropriate and hopefully stylish, though it’s often not. This outfit’s rarely “fashion” though it can sometimes be “fashion-victim-y”. (I’m working on correcting this to “classic with a nod to fashion” but it’s a long road – I blame it on 13 years of school uniform).

Outfit 4
This is something relaxing for the evening – something in which I can cook without worrying about getting slops and plops all over it; something I can curl up in on the sofa; and something – at the moment – that’s warm and cosy.

So anyway, I started to think about posting a pic for “What I wore Wednesday”. I went upstairs and took a picture of one of my favourite outfits. And then, as I thought through the practicalities of posting WIWW each week, I realised I can’t do it.

Why?

Because: 1) My outfits aren’t very interesting. 2) In about two weeks I’ll start repeating outfits because I’m not very imaginative. 3) I’m not very good at photographing clothes flat on the floor, and 4) If you see me in the supermarket, you’ll know who I am!

For those of you who don’t shop at Spinneys (a Western supermarket), every Monday they have “Market Day” when certain items of produce or from the bakery are on special offer.

Last week, my favourite Energy Bread was on offer for Dhs 3.50 instead of the usual Dhs 4.50. Looking at the pic below, can you tell which loaf was sold cheap on Market Day, and which is the usual one?

Cheeky.

And yes, they were both from the middle of the loaf!

You knew Mission Impossible: IV was set in Dubai – even if you lived on Mars you couldn’t have missed those pix of Tom Cruise dangling off Burj Khalifa – but what you might not yet know is that Mission Impossible: V has also taken place in Dubai.

This morning. In DS’s bedroom, to be precise.

5.45am – a tricky time, a whisker too close to morning – a sleepy cry from a little boy’s bedroom. A woman rolls over in bed, one ear pricked. A husband sleeps on.

Another cry, louder. The woman waits, holding her breath. Another cry. A word: “Mummeee!” The woman waits. The cry is louder: “Mummee! My wee-wee!” The woman slides out of bed, shivers, pads across the landing, enters the bedroom. (The husband sleeps on.)

“Mummy, need a wee-wee,” says a little voice. A potty’s fetched. A bum’s bared. A wee trickles.

“Back to bed now,” says the woman, placing the boy back in bed.

“No. Breakfast. I want breakfast,” says the boy, jumping up and down on the bed.

“It’s the middle of the night!” hisses the woman, peeping at the shutters to check the sun’s not up. “Everybody’s asleep!”

“No!” shouts the boy. (The husband sleeps on.)

“Yes,” says the woman firmly. “Bedtime.”

The boy considers his options, lies down with a sigh.

“Songs. I want songs,” he says. The woman starts to sing Baa-baa Black Sheep – and this is where the Mission Impossible theme music kicks in.

As the woman sings, she surveys the room. Her mission, should she accept it, is to lift her bare feet soundlessly off the laminate floor, and to back across the room while throwing her voice so as not to give away her retreat. She will have to turn, open the door, slip her body out without catching her nightie on the handle, and close the door not just silently, but without as much as stirring the air inside the room. She has to do all this without the husband’s alarm, set for 5.55am, going off in the middle of the operation.

Dum-dum-da-da. Dum-dum-da-da. Diddie-daaa. Diddie-daaa.

The tension is unbearable. The woman peels one foot then the other from the floor with the slightest of crackles. There’s a click of an ankle as she pads across the carpet singing slightly louder; she pauses at the door. What if the alarm goes off now? She takes a deep breath. Swiftly, she opens the door, glides out, closes it quickly, easing the door silently against the frame with her fingers while tailing off the song.

Despite the biting cold, she pauses outside the room. She listens.

Silence.

Mission Impossible? Mission Accomplished.

Tom Cruise has nothing on Mrs Dubai's stealthy exits

DS's fantasy: Mummy Pig, Daddy Pig, Peppa & George jumping in muddy puddles together.

And every day that we see a cloud in the sky – and even on days when we don’t – he clutches my arm, looks skywards and says, “Mummy? Itsh going to wain today?”

Even when I say no, absolutely not, look – there are no clouds in that bright-blue sky, he still says, “But it might wain later, yes? After school it might wain?”

So there were DH and I on Saturday morning, trying to have a little bit of a lie-in at 8.10am while Gerlie payed with the children in the garden, when what should we hear but the gentle artillery of feet crashing up the wooden staircase.

“It’s raining! It’s raining!” shrieked DD as she charged into her room like a baby elephant and proceeded to throw the contents of her wardrobe around like they were caught up in a tropical cyclone.

Our bedroom door flew open (thank heavens nothing untoward was happening).“Itsh waining!” announced DS with the pride and gravitas of a footman announcing the arrival of a highly esteemed monarch. “I need my waincoat!”

DH and I peered out at the balcony. Pit…pat…pit….pat…. splot.  It wasn’t so much rain as a reluctant spit from a god unwilling to part with his saliva.

“Hurry up outside, children, or you’ll miss it!” I shouted.

“But we need our raincoats or we’ll get wet!” they shouted back as they delved deeper into the cupboards for raincoats I realised with a jolt of guilt were still hanging in wardrobes in the UK.

Then, a clomping back down the stairs, the sound of shrieks from the garden then, once more, the artillery up the stairs, this time accompanied by disappointed voices.

“Mummy, it’s not raining anymore.”

“Never mind, dears,” I said. “There’s always next year.”

You get the picture?

Since January 1, I’ve been driving around town with a folder stuffed with these kinds of documents, for all of my expat admin seems to be due for renewal this year.

Honestly, I don’t know how anyone in the UAE can actually hold down a full-time job given the amount of admin we have to do.

This month we’ve got:

• ·         Car registration (and insurance) renewal
• ·         Alcohol license renewal
• ·         PO Box account renewal
• ·         Gerlie’s visa renewal
• ·         Gerlie’s passport renewal (and which came first, the visa or the passport? That took a few days of full-time sleuthing, six taxi rides and 12 hours queuing to find out)
• ·         Emirates ID card for Gerlie
• ·         My own visa renewal
• ·         A new house maintenance contract (maybe? Maybe not?)
• ·         DS’s registration with the Emirates Identity Authority
• ·         DS’s application for big school (plus a trip to get recent passport photos of DS)
• ·         An executive health check-up for DH (and me?)
• ·         Renewal of DH’s Emirates ID card
• ·         DS’s visa renewal.

On top of that, I’m supposed to be booking a cruise for 10 adults and five children who live in four different countries “somewhere in Europe in July, as long as everyone’s happy and has the right stateroom and the right visas for entering each country on the cruise” to celebrate my in-laws’ 50^th wedding anniversary, and writing cheques up until July 2013 to get DS into school (that required getting a new cheque book issued – sounds simple, but translates as a 100kms round trip to order it and pick it up).

So have I got any of this done?

No. My goldfish was looking sideways. I need to get a new pic. Smile!

“I blog on my iPhone while breast-feeding the baby,” came the reply, making me feel like I’ve barely skimmed the surface of multi-tasking.

We bloggers are a busy bunch. Can't think why this pic resonates with me

I invited other bloggers to share their blogging habits with me. We’re quite industrious creatures, it seems, fitting in our blogging as and where we can.

“On the iPad, after the kids have given it back and in bed, usually on the sofa. Sometimes in Costa for a treat!” said @dubaiunveiled

“Usually blog late at night. I intend to start earlier but get distracted w other ppl’s blogs & twitter!” said @Strawbry_Blonde who produces a beautifully photographed beauty blog, often while her children are jumping on her.

“From 7.30-9.30 in the morning, same time’s I write me books!” said @AlexanderMcNabb, a self-published author with a full-time job.

As I try to get the writing done in those rare slices of time when the children and DH are either out or not in need of my housewifely and mothering skills, my blog is rarely written in daylight hours.

Sometimes I literally write three sentences, then rush off to marinade some salmon; I write another sentence then jump up to stop the children fighting. I help DD with her homework, then dash back to finish a sentence. I write two more sentences, then cook the children’s dinner; I rush back with a G&T and write five more, then disappear again to dish out the children’s dessert.

I fit my blog in between working, running the house, exercising (a bit), driving the school runs, cooking and falling asleep, shattered, in the evening. The average blog takes just 15-20 minutes to write and five minutes to upload.

These are my time slots:

Morning: My best blogs are probably the ones that get written in the mornings when the children are at school, I have nothing else to do and inspiration hits me. Those days are rare. If I get a day like that and I’m on a roll, I try to write four or five blogs to stock-pile for days when I’ve no inspiration.

5pm – Teatime: Sometimes (if I give large portions) I’m able to bash out an entire blog while the children are eating dinner under the watchful eye of Gerlie. This time slot’s often interrupted by wails of “I’ve had enough!”, “Mummeee, I don’t like this!” and “Pleash can we have ice cream?” but generally I push on with a G&T or a cold glass of wine for company.

5.30pm – After tea: There’s usually about half an hour after the children finish eating and before I take them up for their bath. I encourage playing in the park or on the trampoline with Gerlie at that time – it gives me another little slice of time. If I’m really lucky, I can post at this point and call it a night with a clear conscience.

7.20pm – After bedtime: Given DH has a high-powered job, he often works till stupid o-clock, which gives me another slot after the kids are in bed and before he gets home to tie up and post the day’s blog. But this time slot is hampered by the fact I’m usually chewing my elbows with hunger having had lunch at midday (so I can fit in the school runs) and, frankly, I’m fighting the urge to slump on the sofa with my dinner.

9 or 10pm – After dinner: After DH and I have had dinner together and chatted about the day, I sometimes slope off to the study to blog. I dislike writing this late as my judgement is usually marred by wine and my eyes are heavy. Many’s the good intention that’s gone by the wayside at this time. In fact, if I don’t blog on a weekday, you know that’s what’s happened…

It’s as if they expect me to say, “Oh yes, you’re absolutely right! Fancy that! I didn’t notice that my villa just spontaneously combusted!”

Anyone seen a missing villa? (for the record, this is not my villa, nor is that my Porsche. It's a stock photo from a real estate company)

Some are contractors and workmen, but most of them are Dubizzlers, to be fair. And, much as I love a good Dubizzle deal, it is a website that seems to attract a high number of numpties.

Take the one who drove all the way from Abu Dhabi to my house in Dubai to view some rather nice pieces of furniture I was selling. After getting almost all the way to my community (I know this because I talked to him multiple times as he reported his progress), he took a wrong turn, ended up back outside the community gate so he decided to drive all the way back to Abu Dhabi instead.

Then there are those who drive along the wrong street looking for my villa and then tell me, “But there is no number 36,” to which I always want to reply, “Oh my! You’re right! I’ve been living in an imaginary villa for the past six years!”

And today I had a classic that I’ve never had before.

“We’re in your street, but there’s no 36.”

“If you’re in the right street, 36 will be there.” [I know it does because I'm standing in it!]

“It’s definitely the right street, but I’m telling you, there’s no 36.There’s 33, 35 and 37, but no 36.”

Um, how to say this politely? Look on the other side of the road, love.

Forgive me for saying at this point that I personally think children have been jumping in muddy puddles, refusing to eat vegetables and asking for chocolate cake since long before Peppa Pig was a twinkle in her creator’s eye – and, as for snorting like pigs, let’s just say there’s a reason I didn’t pluck up the courage to have children till I was 34.

Anyway, I love Peppa Pig. Since DD was two, I’ve encouraged her (and now DS) to watch it over other TV shows primarily because Peppa’s family, and in particular Daddy Pig, have such spiffing British accents. In comparison with other age-appropriate TV offerings such as Barney the purple dinosaur, Handy Manny, Micky Mouse and (please-god-kill-me-now) Dora the Explorer, the Pig family are a pleasure to the ear.

Furthermore, the plots are intelligently written and beautifully observed. Too many times I’ve caught myself snorting with laughter at the antics of Peppa and George when I really should have been concentrating on cooking dinner (snort-snort).

So my blog was going to go back to our trip to Peppa Pig World in the UK last summer and blame that for my children’s newfound love of fairground rides. It all started with Peppa’s Balloon Ride.

A 45-minute wait for a 2-minute ride on Peppa's Balloon Ride - maybe I should be blaming her after all!

I was also going to blame Peppa for my son’s disappointment that it hasn’t yet rained this year. Every morning he looks at the sky and lisps in his toddler accent, “Itsh going to wain today, mummy?”

“Why do you want it to rain so much?” I ask him, after explaining that there are – yet again – no clouds in the sky.

“Becosh I want to jump in muddy puddles like Peppa,” he says.

Every day.

Anyway, the paranoid parents worried about their children jumping in muddy puddles might like to spare a thought for those of us who’ve had about 2mm of rain in the past 12 months. Some of us have to create puddles to jump in, don’t you know? You have no idea how lucky you are.

My top 4 pre-school TV shows:

Peppa Pig
Enough said.

Ben & Holly’s Little Kingdom         
Set in a world of elves, this has the same voices as Peppa Pig – and some lovely adult jokes such as the “elf visitor”.

Little Princess                                   
Brilliant stuff. And a nice iPad app to go with it, too.

Charlie & Lola                                   
Despite episodes with dangerous names like “I’m not tired and I will not go to bed!”, my two have learned a lot about things like eye tests, going to the dentist and getting their hair cut from this, and I love how Charlie looks after his little sister Lola so nicely.
But where are the parents in all this? The mind boggles.

No. of times up and down the stairs:                      20

Dhs spent in Spinneys on non-essentials:             287

Minutes spent sleeping in the car:                          12

Kilometres driven:                                                       74

Speed (kph) at which DS fell asleep:                        120

Kilometres cycled:                                                       9.4

Hours spent on work:                                                    1

Meals cooked/prepared:                                             6

Birthday cakes baked:                                                  1

Games of pass-the-parcel played:                             3

Holidays booked:                                                           1

Hours spent paying for holiday:                                 1

Emails received:                                                             47

Emails sent:                                                                     18

Minutes spent in malls:                                                20

Glasses of red wine drunk:                                          2.5

Panadol Night’s to be taken:                                       1

Bedtime:                                                                          10.15 (I hope)

The birthday cake (and pass-the-parcel games) were for Gerlie's birthday. Happy 31st Gerlie!

My children, who pass by it every every day on the school run, first noticed the huge Ferris wheel – then the exciting-looking rollercoasters – from the road.

View of Global Village from the top of the Ferris wheel

For the last two years, the drive home from school has been punctuated with cries of, “Please can we go there?”

Fortunately, for over half the year, I’m able to say, “Oh, darlings, I’d love to take you but it’s is closed. Look – it’s empty. What a shame.” Other times I get away with “Oh, but sweeties, it doesn’t open till late. See, the Ferris wheel’s not turning around… it only opens after you go to bed” (white lie, white lie).

But now DD is nearly seven years old, it’s becoming more difficult to con her, especially as friends of hers have now been to Global Village. During the Christmas holidays, I agreed to take both children who, after our trip to the incredibly good-value Wonderland (see previous blog) have developed a taste for fairground rides.

So how does Global Village compare? For a start, it’s a lot more expensive. Given its general level of tackiness, I made the mistake of thinking it would be a cheap hour out. It isn’t. Entry costs Dhs 10 for over 3s, which is fine, but then rides cost anything from Dhs 10 for baby merry-go-rounds to Dhs 30 per person for the Ferris wheel and the more exciting rides.  The costs quickly add up with each ride for a family of four costing Dhs 120 (£20) a pop. Shocking, isn’t it?

Need to know:

-          You can’t pay cash for rides; you have to buy special tokens.

-          Take small notes for the tokens, which come in increments of Dhs 5.

-          Global Village opens at 4pm and fills up fast. It’s open till midnight every night, till 1am on Thursdays and Fridays.

-          Monday is family day (no men without wives and/or children).

-          It’s open until March 3^rd 2012.

-          The Ferris wheel gives a great view for miles, but only goes around twice (fast) for your Dhs 30 (£5) a head. For the claustrophobics, the cabins have a/c and also small windows that open for ventilation.

-          Check the back of any unique handicrafts for “Made in Korea” stickers. Seriously.

-          Don’t go unless you like crowds, being ripped off, wailing children, street snacks of dubious origin and loud music.

So, will I be going back? Probably – the kids loved it.