Not Such An Average Girl

Wandering through the bustling streets of the cosmopolitan city I call my home, there is nothing that really stands out about me. Nothing to distinguish me from the hordes of mackintosh clad commuters, bargain seeking consumers and day tripping tourists going about their daily business of living, working, shopping and sightseeing. 

As my hometown happens to be Brighton (well, Hove actually) there is also a liberal smattering of mumbling crazies, dreadlocked hippies and pierced, tattooed, stretchy-eared tribal types too. OK, maybe I stand out a bit from them, as I try to keep my mumbling under control and all my tribal marks are hidden, but looking at me, what would the average person see? The answer is just another average person. 

How wrong would those average people be? I am not just another average person. Not any more. I belong to a covert, highly select group of individuals who do all we can to conceal our secret identities to the masses under our mackintoshes.  If our identities were to be revealed to the wider community we would risk being shunned, persecuted, ridiculed, and at the very worst-totally ignored. No, I am not a spy. I am an ‘Ex Expat’. 

I’m not talking about being an expat individual from Wales who has lived most of her life in England, as that detail only gains me entry into the lower echelons of the aforementioned club. Only when one chooses extreme displacement from ones native land to travel across land and sea (and not just a quick jaunt down the M4 motorway) can one gain entry into the secret society of elite exiles.

The reason we don’t reveal our identities is that on the whole, people don’t really care. Most folks aren’t interested in hearing about lives lived in far-flung, sun soaked, culture submersing corners of this wide and wonderful world, unless they fancy going there on holiday at some point. The ones that do ask questions, therefore, risk being bombarded with dazzling experiences that burst forth in a frenzy of enthusiasm, having long been kept supressed and buried deep inside.   

Among friends and colleagues in the UK who know my expat secret, there is the tacit understanding that these facts remain unspoken about, as they bear little significance to their lives anyway. Unless:

1.) They have been, or are planning on going there on their holidays, 

or:

2.) Have a strong opinion on the country having never even been there. In this case they have free reign to talk about it in whatever terms they want.

In the case of being an expat from Dubai, I have found there is a wealth of opinion out there, which people are more than willing to share with me once my secret has been revealed. Maybe in the years that I have been enjoying all year round sunshine, desert landscapes, five star hotel restaurants, beautiful beaches, warm seas and of course, tax free living, Dubai has been getting some bad press. A valuable lesson not to believe all you read in the newspapers, I say. Yes, there were some negative aspects of life in the UAE, but I for one was quite happy to put up with them as long as that sun was shining. And it was, most of the time. So don’t knock it unless you’ve tried it, even if it was only for a fortnight. 

But as Dorothy says, “There’s no place like home”, and rather than risk becoming completely displaced, Hove beckoned (in a kind of seagull squawking siren call). Now I can scream down the M4 whenever I want, to get as close to my roots as I like and return to the city of mumbling, crazy, tribal types where nobody judges you if you don’t fit in. Not being able to fit in anywhere is why most people feel at home here like nowhere else. 

There’s been a bit of adjustment, a lot of shopping for woollies and wellies, and apart from missing the sun, sand and expat friends, life in Hove is great. Walking along the prom I hear a huge variety of accents from all over the world, as the 'average' people of this city pass by. This town is full of expats.   Maybe that’s why it feels so familiar. Don’t tell anyone though, it’s a secret.

'Write of passage'

‘The school years are the best years of your life’. How many times did you hear those words uttered by bespectacled relatives when you were growing up? I remember feeling pretty annoyed at these sweeping proclamations of the supposed fun I was meant to be gleaning from institutional education, while also feeling slightly anxious for the future. If this was as good as it got, then what was the rest of my life going to be like?

Hindsight is a weird and wonderful thing, and while I don’t think my school years were overly traumatic or riots of raucous fun, so nothing particularly memorable, I am now looking back on those years through my rose tinted reading specs and thinking that, yes, they were darn good. So it beats me that my kids don’t agree that revising, taking exams and the anticipation of results, then the relief, joy or even the shared tears and disappointments are something to relish, to savour and to thoroughly enjoy.

We are right in the middle of exam season, and kids all over the world are hunched over their papers, sat in silence at their desks while invigilators peer at them for signs of weakness, or are holed up in their bedrooms surrounded by giant tomes cramming for the next day’s test. At least in the UAE we are blessed with a good climate most of the year, and sitting upstairs swotting while the sun shines doesn’t fill youngsters who live here with a sense of loathing. The sun only ever shone in the UK during the run up to the exams, when we where banished to our box rooms, and seemed to stop as soon as the last exam was sat. That was the one thing I didn’t like about revising during the warmer months, as sunshine was a precious commodity and not something to be wasted. The same does not apply here. At this time of year it’s already too hot to squint into the pages of textbooks, trying to get to grips with Pythagoras’s theorem, or the pride of Mr Darcy whilst simultaneously working on a tan, so they may as well be studying in their air-conditioned wombs for hours on end. But just try telling that to your little darlings, and see what reaction you get!

The pressure children are under during this time cannot be underestimated, and the stress statistics are staggering for all ages undertaking exams. This pressure is not relieved in any way by parents and teachers themselves constantly telling them that the results they get in the important exams will affect the rest of their lives. That’s a pretty dramatic statement for a teenager to handle. We all want our kids to do the best that they can but not to the detriment of their health. However, I have found that making comments like ‘If you think this is stressful, wait till you get a real job’ don’t seem to soothe situation or help in any way. Don’t forget it’s a stressful time for us parents too, especially as we try to make sense of the intensely confusing examination timetables, and my reoccurring dream now is of my daughter missing a test because I forgot to write it on the calendar.

It’s all about reaching for the A stars these days, and I don’t want to sound like an annoying Auntie when I say that in my day, they were few and far between, hence exams were harder, but they were, so there. I’ll be proud as punch if the stars are shining for my daughter in August on results day, although I will refrain from posting and boasting any results on Facebook, as that sort of posturing is vulgar and shows a lack of sensitivity to those who won’t have done as well as they wanted. I just hope and pray we fall into the first category and not the second, and there will be thousands of other parents with similar prayers to mine.

So to everyone sitting exams this summer, good luck, do your absolute best, don’t miss any, keep calm, and remember to enjoy them. After all, these are the best days of your lives. I say that as one looking back through my rose tinted reading specs, which also recall long hot summers in Pembrokeshire, when all I can remember were blue skies and sunshine. I’m not sure how reliable these specs are. Maybe I should get a new prescription.

'Halloween is a scream!'

It’s amazing the things we pass onto our children: eye colour, mannerisms, a certain taste in food, or the urge to dress up as one of the un-dead, smear ourselves in fake blood and scare the heebie-jeebies out of each other.

Kids love to dress up, from raiding mum’s shoe cupboard to skipping round the local supermarket dressed as a fairy princess or sword-wielding prince. Halloween’s popularity has increased over the years faster than a witches broomstick, and the majority of kids embrace the chance to put on a costume and feel the thrill of scaring each other in a fun and friendly fashion. That rush of adrenalin mixed with the rush of sugar is a heady combination that is totally addictive. Of course there are also some adults who never grow out of the urge to don a ridiculous outfit and show off, myself included. There’s no greater feeling than terrifying hordes of tiny children with a carefully constructed zombie costume. Hearing their petrified screams as they run away from my ‘mwah ha has’ warms the cockles of my cold, Nosferatu-loving heart.

I know I am not the only ‘grown-up’ with this compulsion, as one look around the streets on October 31 will verify, so when it comes to packing away the pumpkins for another year, I always feel a little bit sad. Unless someone has a themed birthday party, it’ll be another 12 months before I can get my fangs out again.

I was into Vampires a long time before they became trendy, but thanks to Edward and Bella, everyone is into them.

In films and on TV, the vampires, werewolves and fear-inducing creatures of today have technological advances on their side, as well as a fine set of abdominal muscles in some cases. These computer-aided apparitions are far scarier than the ketchup covered schlock of generations past, and I embrace this progress. Some of those old monsters would be laughed out of cinemas now, with their furry tails between their legs. We all want to shield our children from bad things but watching scary movies is relatively harmless, despite the increase in technology, and should be made compulsory for anyone over the age of the recommended film classification guidelines (all right, not compulsory, but certainly not frowned on as some parents do). Every child has a different scare-o-meter and as parents we have a sixth sense as to what we know our kids can watch, but sometimes we are guilty of over protecting them, when really they could benefit from a little bit of fear.

Mothers who refuse to let their children watch anything remotely scary are setting them up for a fall, as by the time they are in their teens they won’t know their orks from their elbows. When their peers are on either ‘Team Edward’ or ‘Team Jacob’ and they are still on Team Tom and Jerry then their credibility in the classroom will be slaughtered. Introducing a hint of horror at the right time and in the right doses does the world of good, that’s why Halloween is a party for all ages to embrace. I love the way their imaginations run riot at this time of year, as they attempt to out-scare their pals with outlandishly creepy creations. One of my proudest moments was during a Halloween party held at my youngest daughter’s junior school a few years ago, when she freaked out the teachers by wearing a white blood-splattered nightie whilst carrying a plastic severed hand. That’s my girl.

Some say Halloween is commercialised gobbledygook that has been made popular to increase the profits of severed hand manufactures and Haribo, but I say so what? Let your children’s imaginations run wild and werewolfish, gather round the pumpkin lanterns to tell tales of ghosts and goblins or watch a vampire movie and let them decide whose team they’re on. (Team Jacob all the way!) Enjoy your chance to dress up this Halloween no matter how young or old you are. Go on and get your fangs out and put your claws away. Let’s banish those evil spirits and the miseries that bah-humbug the whole tradition with a blood-curdling cry. ‘TRICK OR TREAT!’

'Last Minute Christmas Shopping'

‘Present to follow.’ What would those words mean to you if they were written in a card? You might be lead into believing that you will receive a lovely gift in the near future. You may be lulled into thinking that the empty card with its empty promise is a binding contract of bountiful pleasures to come. I think you are being a tad naïve. In my family, the utterance of these three little words is a secret code, passed down from generation to generation, to mean one thing, and one thing only. ‘You are getting nothing.’

It’s not that my family are averse to gift giving. On the contrary, we love to give and receive and are known for our generous natures and party spirits. We just can’t seem to perform under pressure.

At this time of year, the pressure to purchase is immense and, coming from a long line of rubbish present givers, I am thrown into a complete kerfuffle mixed with a curious sense of denial. This is not helped by the smug comments of those organised individuals who take great pleasure in announcing to the world that they finished their Christmas shopping sometime in July.

That is just weird. How can they get into the festive tradition of rash and reckless panic buying when they have their stockings well and truly stocked towards the end of summer? There is something quite comforting in knowing that there are only so many days to go until the big day and we are not alone in our inability to buy.

The clock keeps ticking away and we are reminded daily of the fact that time is running out. No wonder people panic and want to get it all done before the dreaded countdown. On the opposite side of the festive fence are the people who thrive on leaving everything to the last minute. It’s like a game of ‘chicken’. How late can you leave it?

I love to announce to all who are listening, especially those early birds, that it’s 6pm on Christmas Eve and I’m just off to the shops. I see behind their pitying looks into the depths of their souls, which shine with admiration for my wild and whacky bravado. Maybe they should try it next year, as it might be a revelation. You mean you don’t need six months to prepare the presents, as it can all be done in a few hours? True, those hours are wracked with anxiety, but that’s what it’s all about. There’s no time for self-doubt or looking around for another option, and we late birds don’t have the luxury to think about a present and come back to it. (Although in Dubai, it will probably have gone anyway if you don’t buy there and then). It’s in times of crisis that we make the most important decisions. That’s the way to shop.

The other way to shop, of course is online. What a marvellous invention the internet is when it comes to buying presents. I have discovered the joys of this type of shopping for friends and family back in the UK and it has gone a long way towards making me slightly less disorganised. I still tend to leave it to the last minute, or the last possible posting day, but at least my family haven’t had to make do with those three little words from me for the last five years.

It’s amazing the range of items that are available to buy at the click of a little finger. My sister would never have received my most inspired purchase to date without the help of the Internet: a pair of purple, furry microwavable slippers. Well it does get cold in Pembrokeshire in winter, (Spring, autumn and summer).

It’s a shame my family haven’t made the same technological discovery, however. The excuse is they can’t seem to convince anyone to ship microwavable slippers and the like to the UAE, giving even more credence to the old family saying. The only things they can ship here, at great expense, are books or CDs. Well a book or a CD would be better than nothing and certainly better than furry slippers in these temperatures.

At least my family members are never guilty of the terrible phenomenon of ‘re-gifting’. I have a friend who is notoriously renowned for giving un-tagged offerings to unsuspecting souls.

I once received a clutch bag from her that had a note inside confessing undying love. (No, the note was not meant for me.) Now, call me old fashioned, but I would prefer a gift that was bought for me, not one that had been given already, rejected and then passed on. Although I confess I kept the note. I sent her one back this Christmas, with my own version of those special three words. ‘Present to follow.’ I hope she likes the bag.

'True romance'

I know some of you romantic people out there think that Valentine’s Day is commercial claptrap, and love and commitment must be demonstrated on a daily basis, every day of the year. I think that’s fine if it works for you but I prefer to keep those mushy things confined to the day they were meant for. February 14 is the day that allows us all to declare our undying love for the people we care about, without restraint, while the rest of the year we just get on with the day-to-day business of living, loving and fighting.

One of the most annoying things about insufferable romantics is the way they brag about their loving relationships to all who have the misfortune to be within earshot. I really do not need to hear how Mr and Mrs Perfect love each other more now than when they first met, just after I’ve had an almighty row with my one and only about whose turn it is to clean out the cat litter tray.

I think these people are in denial anyway, as most of the time it’s the ones who seem to have the perfect relationship and boast about it, that surprise us all by acrimoniously splitting up soon after. ‘Methinks they doth protest (their love) too much.’ The one day we are able to shout from the rooftops without guilt or jealousy is the day Saint Valentinus set aside for lovers. The rest of the time, we really should keep quiet about it, as nobody likes a bragger.

I have known friends whose husbands regularly bring them flowers, run them baths and surprise them with gifts but that kind of blatant disregard for romantic tradition does not sit well with me.

I wouldn’t want to feel that sneaking suspicion that the bringer of such fancies has done something they shouldn’t and it’s a gift wrought with guilt. What have I done to deserve this? Answer = nothing (ask the cat). What has he done to deserve giving this? Answer = something fishy. There’s a time and a place for all that so get yourselves ready as it’s coming soon.

The great thing about living in the UAE is the law on PDAs (that’s Public Displays of Affection BTW), which means we are not forced to watch others demonstrate their sanctimonious love in outward displays of touchy feely, back-rubbing, hand holding, eye gazing, spit swapping nastiness. Nobody wants to see that nonsense, except on one day, when it is entirely socially acceptable to be affectionate to your partner, albeit in private.

There’s nothing like a good old rant and rave, moan and complain the rest of the time, as we confirm to each other that life, love, relationships, kids and marriage are hard work but we are all in the same boat. The sea is choppy and we don’t need to hear about the ones that manage everything by plain sailing as it makes the rest of us feel sick. But beware as plain sailing has its dangers too. There may be rip tides and turbulence unseen beneath the water that are far more damaging than a good old fight on the surface. After all, once the tide turns, making up can be fun.

At least when we are in a relationship we know who’s sending us cards, as we demand them, plus the flowers and chocolates too. Woe betides the brave person who bucks this convention with a hearty cry of ‘I don’t go in for all this money making rubbish!’ (they won’t be feeling the love from their other half, trust me). There’s no mystery, but that’s no reason for there to be no romance either. I was never a fan of the question marks signature anyway. Why go to the bother of sending a would-be Valentine a card without letting them know it was you who sent it? That way lies the path of confusion and many a relationship has got off on the wrong foot with the wrong people because of that questionable sign. Maybe kids these days are more blatant in their card giving and don’t go in for all this mystery. I will wait to see what my teens bring home in the next couple of weeks, although I will try not to be too disappointed if they come home empty handed or overly proud if they receive cards but remain confused. I think at this time of year cards, flowers and chocolate giving should be made compulsory by law – everyone deserves to feel some love, even if it’s just on Valentines Day.

Cut It Out

I’ve got a thing about labels. I don’t mean buying expensive ones as there wouldn’t be much point. My clothes could be from Dolce & Gabbana and Karen Millen, but they may just as well be from Dodgy Old Pullovers and Millets. I have no way of proving the source of any item in my wardrobe as I have a terrible phobia of scratchy, itchy, sensitive skin-enemy, hive-inducing, information-imparting… labels.

Every tag must be cut out before I can even contemplate putting a new purchase on; even those loops that help to keep clothes on hangers have to be snipped within minutes of getting them home. You recognise me now? I’m that strange woman with the hanger marks in all her shoulders. I know you laugh at me behind my puckered back but I just can’t help it. Washing instructions must be guessed at and I’ve had more than my fair share of laundry disasters. That lovely white silk blouse, which should really have gone to the dry cleaners, is now part of Baby Teeny Tiny Doll’s extensive wardrobe. I’ve ruined most things that require hand washing and please don’t get me started on grey bras and colour runs.

I sincerely hoped to avoid passing this foible onto my children but it seems the little sponges pick up things even when we don’t want them to, especially the things we have some sort of OCD about. Sharks in the sea, spiders in the bath, egg shells in the scramble. I have a friend in the UK who’ll never be able to visit me as she’s terrified of getting on a plane. Her 13-year-old daughter has never even tried. I recently took a load of excited kids to an adventure park and spent the day consoling one child who refused to go on any of the rides – even the baby ones. ‘Oh she gets that from me’ said her mum, cheerfully, when I returned the traumatised child to her at the end of the day. ‘I’m afraid of heights, speed, merry-go-rounds and water’. If she’d only told me that before, I would have understood. After all, everyone can be a bit neurotic at times. Or am I labelling again? Pass me the scissors – I need to cut it out.

Groundhog Day

Is it time to go back to school again? Where did those two months go? They slipped by in a haze of jim-jamma laziness, late nights and sleep-ins. I was full of good intentions to forcibly adjust their nocturnal body clocks, thereby easing them back into that 5.45am alarm shock, but sadly, it never happened.

With the beginning of term looming, my kids are more likely to still be wide-awake and full of beans while I’m yawning away and sloping off to sleep before them. I had meant to start chasing them up the stairs at around 8pm at least a fortnight ago in preparation, but after weeks of burning the midnight oil, they look at me now as if I’m crazy. Of course they’re not tired at 8pm. Not yet, anyway! After a week of those painfully early mornings though, they will be begging me on their jamma bended knees to tuck them into bed-ee-byes at a decent time. It’s just a shame every year that before the status quo is established once more, we have to go through all the mood-swings, tears and tantrums. And that’s usually just from me.

We get up ridiculously early here in order to get our kids into school for the 7.30am start, and for what reason? It can’t be for the purpose of avoiding the heat of the day, as us parents will wait patiently in the playground surrounded by a pool of our own sweat for at least the next couple of months. All I want is one extra hour before that dreaded alarm goes off, it’s not too much to ask, is it? Even if your kids were enrolled in a summer camp course over the holidays, and were still ruled by the alarm clock, it feels like a lie-in to get up at 7am. That’s why I love the holidays as late nights and lazy mornings are a luxury. It’s another challenge, however, to keep their brains active for the duration of the long vacation.

Many a sworn oath of mine is broken on an annual basis when it comes to keeping my broods’ brains ticking over the endless summer break. Tell me I’m not the only mother who doesn’t keep up the book reading, the handwriting practice or the mental maths repetitions. I always remember to do it towards the end of the holidays, but it’s not easy shouting out times tables when you’re fighting in the queues for schools shoes, especially as I’m embarrassingly fuzzy on the answers myself these days. (Curse those tricky sevens!) I’m sorry to say the only vaguely educational activity my kids did all summer was swap watchingHannah Montana for Horrible Histories.

Is it worth investing in those shop-bought exercise books, only for them to be found, at the end of the holiday, languishing unloved and empty at the bottom of a suitcase? Or is it better for my kids to try and beat Granny and her cronies at cards, which involves equal amounts of numerical dexterity as pages one to 76 can impart. Granny and her gang are all wicked card sharks, Scrabble and Trivial Pursuit players who hold no stock in making allowances for tender ages. Charades contains many beneficial educational qualities plus interactive skills, and there’s a whole heap of fun to be had getting Uncle Albert to act outCamp Rock in his cardie and slippers. Perhaps I should get Uncle A to test them on their seven times tables too, as he’s got a sharper memory than me, judging by his recollections of historical significance. Or maybe it’s better to just play sometimes and catch up with family and friends.

I know people in the UK who complain that their holidays are too short at just five weeks, and their kids have barely mastered the art of doing nothing before they’re whipped back to lessons again, kicking and screaming. There’s no moaning about short holidays over here though, as by the time September has rolled around our kids are so sick of slobbing around in their jammas, they can’t wait to see their friends and get back to some kind of regimented order. I feel a pang of conscience that I should have spent more time honing their skills at long division, but my girls return relaxed and rejuvenated. At least they are looking forward to finally going back to school after so long. Well, apart from those early mornings of course.