I have been thinking increasingly about age of late. There's a cheery way to start a blog, eh? But bear with me.
We have been in the UAE for the best part of a decade, having arrived in 2010 (him) and 2011 (me) and our current abode, in Dubai's fashionable northern suburb (ahem, Mirdif) has been our home for the longest continuous period of any of our places of residence - just over four years.
Plus, I turned 40 over the summer, and although I never got round to organising the rather low key party that I was sort of planning, (had a vague thought about it in between getting covered in baby puke and not sleeping), it has caused me to take stock a little.
Other expats have waxed lyrical about the changes that take place in your homeland while you are busy living a life extraordinary abroad. I won't go into it too much, as it's not the happiest of topics these days, but it's safe to say that Dear Old Blightie is changing beyond recognition while we are away from her, and not for the better. Change was already afoot when we left, as the Tories had just got into power after 13 years of Labour rule, but I don't think, even if we had tried our hardest, we could have imagined what was to come.
One's personal life also moves on. When you are a seven-hour plane journey away, you miss out on friends and family's weddings, births of children and christenings and other life events. Children grow, friends relocate, favourite haunts disappear, parents age, and in some cases, die.
I still have my father, and I can say what I like about him without risk of causing offence to him, because he doesn't do the Internet. In the time I've been away, he's very much got into the 'old age' in old age pensioner category. He's 77 now, he'll be 78 in May. He walks slower, his doctor has said he could probably do with a new hip, but in typical Dad style he's putting it off as long as possible so he only has to have it done once before he pops his clogs. His hearing, which was terrible anyway, from a boarding school accident in which, legend has it, he was hit in the ear with an arrow from a bow and arrow, is now abominably muffled by age. And no, he won't wear a hearing aid, because apparently it makes him look like an 'old fool'. Well, quite.
His not doing the Internet means I hear from him intermittently, in letters that turn up weeks and weeks after he has written them. Or, when our landline rings, I know it is going to be him because he is the only person that calls it, apart from some people who confuse our number with a small business called Innovation.
Our brief landline conversations usually consist of: "The baby's sleeping Dad, can I call you back?" "WHAT??? SHE'S TEETHING????" "No, SLEEPING!!!... Oh, she was, my having to shout out the top of my voice to make myself heard means she's now awake... So how are you, Dad? Did you win the pub quiz on Tuesday?..." And so on. Before he says: "OK, I'M GOING NOW, IT'S EXPENSIVE RINGING THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD, YOU KNOW?!'
He does text - SMSs mark you - none of that WhatsApp business, laboriously squeezing the keys of a flip phone that now looks like it dates from the stone age, but in reality is probably from 2010. Although I reply as soon as I get the usual "HI, ITS DAD HOW ARE YOU? I AM WORRIED I HAVE NOT HEARD FROM YOU" he claims to never receive it.
Despite outward appearances of comfortably retreating into pensionerdom, wearing a groove between his home, National Trust properties and antique markets, where he finds Wisdens and obscure cricket memorabilia to add to his extensive collection, he is also one of the few people left in the world to use a travel agency office, and he goes there to book himself flights to Dubai.
I hope he will make it here again, but I am not sure we can top his last visit in terms of the levels of "peak dad" we achieved, with our activities, which were the original point of this blog, before I embarked on this quasi-affectionate sledging of him instead.
I am writing about his last visit months after. He was here in March, when the UAE weather was in its annual phase of being peculiarly cool and rainy before setting its course on a one way mission to steamy hot for the summer. And because rain meant we could not really go to the beach or pool (not that he had thought to bring swimming gear anyway) we embarked on Dad-friendly day trips instead.
I was inspired to finally write about his visit, thanks to spotting this blog by an author who is about to publish a comprehensive history of the UAE. Other than "crikey, someone else who still uses blogspot other than me", I have found here in an extensive resource on places in the UAE, some of which I thought only I knew about, so blissfully quiet they are when I visit. This also links back to my own rant about how, as a resident of several years standing, I find it particularly irritating when people level the 'no culture' accusation about Dubai and the UAE. If you get away from the shiny skyscrapers, the super cars and "sparkling"-soaked brunches, you will find a rich history.
I will write more about our actual adventures in part 2, but I think the pictures already give you an idea about Dad's most recent visit. We packed a lot into a few days, and although just a couple of our outings were to sites of historic interest in the vicinity, I really cannot emphasise enough just how good the Fake Plastic Souks blog is if you want to know more about the country's fascinating history.
We have been in the UAE for the best part of a decade, having arrived in 2010 (him) and 2011 (me) and our current abode, in Dubai's fashionable northern suburb (ahem, Mirdif) has been our home for the longest continuous period of any of our places of residence - just over four years.
Plus, I turned 40 over the summer, and although I never got round to organising the rather low key party that I was sort of planning, (had a vague thought about it in between getting covered in baby puke and not sleeping), it has caused me to take stock a little.
 |
| A communal nap for the Septuagenarian and Desert Baby 2 |
Other expats have waxed lyrical about the changes that take place in your homeland while you are busy living a life extraordinary abroad. I won't go into it too much, as it's not the happiest of topics these days, but it's safe to say that Dear Old Blightie is changing beyond recognition while we are away from her, and not for the better. Change was already afoot when we left, as the Tories had just got into power after 13 years of Labour rule, but I don't think, even if we had tried our hardest, we could have imagined what was to come.
One's personal life also moves on. When you are a seven-hour plane journey away, you miss out on friends and family's weddings, births of children and christenings and other life events. Children grow, friends relocate, favourite haunts disappear, parents age, and in some cases, die.
 |
| Dad at the International Cricket Academy, Dubai. I am fairly sure it was a coincidence that he managed to time his visit to coincide with English county cricket sides playing training matches there, and so we rocked up on the day that Stuart Broad was there. Fairly sure. Note the biosphere of English weather that formed around him. |
I still have my father, and I can say what I like about him without risk of causing offence to him, because he doesn't do the Internet. In the time I've been away, he's very much got into the 'old age' in old age pensioner category. He's 77 now, he'll be 78 in May. He walks slower, his doctor has said he could probably do with a new hip, but in typical Dad style he's putting it off as long as possible so he only has to have it done once before he pops his clogs. His hearing, which was terrible anyway, from a boarding school accident in which, legend has it, he was hit in the ear with an arrow from a bow and arrow, is now abominably muffled by age. And no, he won't wear a hearing aid, because apparently it makes him look like an 'old fool'. Well, quite.
His not doing the Internet means I hear from him intermittently, in letters that turn up weeks and weeks after he has written them. Or, when our landline rings, I know it is going to be him because he is the only person that calls it, apart from some people who confuse our number with a small business called Innovation.
 |
| The peakiest of the Peak Dad moments at the Al Mahatta Museum. Happening upon an Avro Anson, the same model as the plane my dad used to fly as an air cadet before the family tradition of chronic short sight put paid to even the idea of a career in flying. I think the moment he saw it might be the closest to tears I have ever seen my dad, apart from at family funerals. |
He does text - SMSs mark you - none of that WhatsApp business, laboriously squeezing the keys of a flip phone that now looks like it dates from the stone age, but in reality is probably from 2010. Although I reply as soon as I get the usual "HI, ITS DAD HOW ARE YOU? I AM WORRIED I HAVE NOT HEARD FROM YOU" he claims to never receive it.
 |
| Grandad teaching Desert Baby 1 to fly at the Al Mahatta Museum. |
I hope he will make it here again, but I am not sure we can top his last visit in terms of the levels of "peak dad" we achieved, with our activities, which were the original point of this blog, before I embarked on this quasi-affectionate sledging of him instead.
 |
| DB1 and grandad at Dubai Museum, where for a few dirhams you can swot up on the history of the Emirate in one of the older parts of Dubai. |
I am writing about his last visit months after. He was here in March, when the UAE weather was in its annual phase of being peculiarly cool and rainy before setting its course on a one way mission to steamy hot for the summer. And because rain meant we could not really go to the beach or pool (not that he had thought to bring swimming gear anyway) we embarked on Dad-friendly day trips instead.
I was inspired to finally write about his visit, thanks to spotting this blog by an author who is about to publish a comprehensive history of the UAE. Other than "crikey, someone else who still uses blogspot other than me", I have found here in an extensive resource on places in the UAE, some of which I thought only I knew about, so blissfully quiet they are when I visit. This also links back to my own rant about how, as a resident of several years standing, I find it particularly irritating when people level the 'no culture' accusation about Dubai and the UAE. If you get away from the shiny skyscrapers, the super cars and "sparkling"-soaked brunches, you will find a rich history.
I will write more about our actual adventures in part 2, but I think the pictures already give you an idea about Dad's most recent visit. We packed a lot into a few days, and although just a couple of our outings were to sites of historic interest in the vicinity, I really cannot emphasise enough just how good the Fake Plastic Souks blog is if you want to know more about the country's fascinating history.
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