Dubai's Desperate Housewife

Trials and traumas of a full-time mum in Dubai


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I met Mrs Thatcher once. And when I say “met”, I mean in the loosest way. Sort of met. Well, didn’t meet at all, really.

What happened was, on a slightly foggy autumnal day in 1990, her helicopter landed in my garden. 

Baroness Thatcher: The ultimate Housewife.

Baroness Thatcher: The ultimate Housewife.

And, as I watched (it’s hard not to notice a helicopter land in your garden),  out hopped the Prime Minister, who then trolled her way across the muddy grass in her ladylike shoes with, no doubt, a spiffing handbag (it pains me that I don’t remember the handbag).

“She doesn’t look like a lady about to lose power as Prime Minister!” I trilled to my university friends – for the garden was in fact the lawn outside my student residences, where Mrs T had come to perform some official function or give a speech (Hoorah! Hoorah! I didn’t go).

And, when she did lose power just two weeks later, my friends bowed at my feet.

“How did you know?” they asked, reverentially, for I was not a student of PPE or P or even E – just a humble psychology student.

Well, I didn’t know, of course. I just watched the news instead of “This Morning” with Richard & Judy, and, god knows, they predicted it for long enough.

Anyway, say what you like about Baroness Thatcher. I appreciate that she wasn’t everybody’s friend. But what she was to me was a woman who held a country in the palm of her hand. She came to power as I was just becoming aware of the world. I grew up thinking it was perfectly normal – absolutely usual – to have a woman in control of the country (could a man do the same thing? I doubted it. I still do).

Whatever you think of her politics, it was thanks to her that I – a child of the ‘80s – grew up thinking anything was possible. Rest in peace, Mrs T.


Written by mrsdubai

April 8, 2013 at 9:32 pm

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