The Christmas wish-list of a 6-year-old boy

I try to bring my children up not to be materialistic.

Yes, in Dubai.

Aisle 6 of Hamleys…

We do public beaches and pools, not malls. But still, the materialism permeates like soggy rain: the children want things their friends have. They want things they see on TV.

(I’m a child of wartime parents. My children don’t often get what they want.)

So DS today writes a Christmas wish list.

‘There’s only six things on it,’ he tells me.

Wow.

I read the list:

Guinness Book of World Records – 2016.

Guinness Book of World Records – 2015 (why?).

Lego City Police sets (‘But DS, you have the police station?’ ‘I know, but there’s loads more I could still get!’)

Laptop (he is six).

Phone (I repeat: he is six).

Toy-maker.

Now it’s at this point that I start to get embarrassed, for I am the mum who Googled ‘toymaker’; only to realise two minutes later that there is no such thing. It is not something he’s seen on Disney Channel. It’s not something he’s seen on the ads on Channel 5; it’s something out of his imagination.

‘If I get that, Mummy, I’ll be able to make every toy I ever want and never ask you for anything again,’ he says. ‘Please?’

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Just tell me where to buy it…’

The Christmas “open house”

It’s at this time of year that my inbox starts to clog up with invitations to “exclusive open house” events, at which local artisans, fashion designers and small-business owners set up tables to sell their beautiful homemade or self-imported goods.

I’m all for “mumpreneurs” running businesses that allow them to have some kind of satisfying work while retaining a presence at home for their children – and they usually sell lovely things – so I try as far as possible to support the ones I know.

But the “open house”? Honestly? Jumping into a tank of piranhas might be more fun.

Take one I went to the other week.

I walked through the open door and the buzz of chat stopped immediately as 25 pairs of eyes gave me the “Dubai once-over.” You know: The “Oh my God, she’s wearing that?” look, followed by the “What’s she doing here? She doesn’t look our type; bet she doesn’t even live in this community” look (“Oh god give me strength,” I thought, poking a flip-flop further into the living room).

To be honest, I could see why the eyebrows would have raised, had the Botox allowed: The sellers were as dressed-up and made-up as if they were going for a night out at the opera. I’d never seen so many tonal silk scarves in my life. Furthermore, despite it being only midday, they were all clutching glasses of bubbly (“They’ve been at it since 10am,” said the friend I’d popped in to see).

I, on the other hand, had been working at home all morning and was dropping in to the “open house” en route to the first of two hot and dusty school runs, so I was wearing something simple: A strappy vest, ¾ length jeans and flip-flops (I did, of course, have a great handbag). It looked alright, but polished it was not. My makeup was bare minimum and I’d committed the ultimate Dubai Mum faux pas of no lippie.

Not even a Bobbi Brown neutral.

When I finally got both flip-flops into the room (not even Havaianas, dahling), there appeared to be no genuine customers, so the sellers, tipsy, loud and, honestly, a bit precious, were all trying on each other’s stuff. Even if I’d wanted to get my wallet to their tables, I’d had to have broken through their ranks first.

Some of the other sellers had the alcohol munchies – they were stuffing spring rolls into their chops in the kitchen while trilling that faux-naughty, giggly line of “I’ll just try one of these….mmm…. there’s so moreish, Jessica! Did you make them yourself?”  (No, she bought them frozen from the supermarket and got her maid to deep-fry fried them you numpty).

My overall impression of the first “open house” I’ve actually attended in two years was that of intruding at a private party. Sorry girls – next time I’ll buy from you directly.