Things you don’t expect to hear your 7-year-old say

My DD is seven. Today she went to a well-known and well-respected summer camp with her friend. It keeps her busy and stimulated when I have to work, and it’s only till 1.30pm so I don’t beat myself up about it.

Today, as it was the end of the week, all the children did a talent show. DD’s group did a dance to a pop song and I was invited to come in early to watch it.

(Thankfully) I’m guessing DD will never be a can-can dancer

I’m happy (and hardly surprised) to report that DD was clearly the best dancer in the group – let’s face it, she spends much of her spare time making up dance routines to pop songs, so no surprise there.

At the end, though, she was visibly upset. It took me ages to find out why.

“I had to do a somersault,” she said, between sobs and teenage sighs. “And I forgot to wear leggings.”  [She wore a skirt] “Everyone could see my pants.”

Sob.

“Darling, it was over so quickly hardly anyone would have noticed,” I said, secretly thinking how wonderful it is that she already doesn’t want to show her pants in public. “They’d have to have been looking quite closely to’ve seen anything.”

“But there was this boy,” she sobbed. “He was about 12 – and he said he was going to put it on YouTube and Facebook. Now the whole world will see my pants.”

Honestly? I wasn’t expecting that.

Why I like summer in Dubai

Strangely, given how disgustingly hot and humid it is here in July and August (and even more strangely given that the children are off school), some of my fondest memories of the year take place in the summers. Me, I don’t understand why people disappear off the moment the school gate clangs shut, not returning from the land of expensive petrol, strikes and perpetual drizzle until the day before school starts.

Mind you, I’m not complaining. Their absence is one of the things makes life here a lot more pleasant. Here’s what I like about summer in Dubai:

-          No getting up at 6am.

-          Leisurely drives home from summer school with DD with Lady Gaga and Train cranked up.

-          Spontaneous afternoon trips out without worrying about homework, teatime and bedtime.

-          Sunset swims.

-          Children learning new skills through fun at summer camps.

-          Being able to get a pedicure or foot massage at Tips ‘n’ Toes on the spot.

-          No queues in the supermarket.

-          Massively less traffic on the roads.

-          Being able to park in pole position by the mall doors.

My local car park goes from this...

 

... to this. Bliss!

 

Don’t Talk To Me About Humidity

So, today, my mum – England’s Desperate Granny – writes me an email, as she does every day, and, in it, she writes that it’s ‘hot and humid’ in London. So hot and humid, in fact, that she’s wiping the sweat off her brow when typing to me.

Don’t talk to me about humidity until you’ve woken up at 7am to find condensation dripping down the outside of your windows. Until then, it’s ‘just a little close’. Okay?

‘Don’t talk to me about hot and humid,’ I write back. Not until you’ve lived in 40˚C with 98% humidity as we tend to have right now. And the irony is that, by August, when I go home to see my mum, it will have dropped to 18 degrees and raining, and I will come from 45˚C and high humidity and will have to spend the first three days cocooned in a fleece with the heating cranked up in order that I don’t curl up and die of hyperthermia.

And all the Brits will wax lyrical about what a great summer they had back in June, and show off their fading tans in far-too-short hotpants.

I’m dreading it already.

Hello, summer!

It’s hot.  Hot, hot hot.

A tropical cyclone hit Oman just over a week ago, and we were told the knock-on effect here in Dubai would be higher temperatures for a few days. Well, the few days have been and gone; the humidity that followed the cyclone has thankfully passed my neck of the woods, but the high temperatures remain.

Yesterday, when I picked up the kids from school, it was 47 degrees. Just like that. When I stepped out of the car, my skin burned, not from the sun, but from the air temperature.

So, of course, all the weather rumours have started again. One that’s doing the rounds today is that it’s going to be 61˚C on Sunday. Hello, guys. 61˚C? I know Dubai likes to break world records, but that’s one I don’t think we’ll be getting this weekend.

Another report – which probably holds more truth – is that we’ll be experiencing ‘heat cyclones’, which start in the Empty Quarter (desert) and get pushed towards the UAE.

I don’t know what a heat cyclone is, but I drove through something yesterday that may well have been a small version. It was a funnel of sand, probably about one or two metres in diameter and the height of a three-storey house – from a distance, you could see it spiralling up from the ground like a whirling dervish. I see them occasionally on the bits of desert near Al Khail Road, but this one was right in my path.

I did what every self-respecting Housewife would do: drove straight through it. The impact rocked the car, any lingering dust was sand-blasted off the paintwork and the wipers – sensing ‘rain’ – came on: Vorsprung Durch Technik. Love it.