The Calm is nearly here

Just a few more days till the schools are out & Dubai shuts down.

Never thought much about it but, until fairly recently, the Life Punctuation Point known as:

"End of School / Summer Holidays" that dominated my world for so long, was dead to me.

But now, behold, the Resurrection!

I am a Phoenix, thrust back into the world which is dominated by the School Year.

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Since that heady Summer when:

the jeans were still 501s,









and tights were still 50 denier.




When our boots were Biker & the trainers, Adidas Gazelles or Sambas.

 AND ....... when that University coughed up that Degree so ferally clawed into existence laboriously achieved

....................................... the doors to 8-10 week holidays slammed SHUT!

For the next 15ish years, holidays were limited to 2-3 weeks A YEAR!!!

Pretty tough going when you live in a different country to your family, it has to be said.  My Dad put it into perspective though by reminding me that when he first went overseas, he didn't return home for 3 years!!!

Let us pause a moment and think about that.

Yeesh.

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But, now I have a kid.  Things are different.

My life is back to being punctuated by School-Events (bloody Christmas concerts, sodding Dress-up Days, Leaving Presents for Teachers, school photos, holidays blah blah blah).

Especially the Summer Holidays.

Especially in Dubai.

It starts around April/May, people start announcing they will be leaving. Hate that.  See Goodbyes Suck

Also, every conversation seems to take a "So, what are your plans for the Summer?" turn.
It is just a given that you will be going away.

'Where' and 'How Long For' are the only variables.
Some people literally, are on their way to the airport as the school gates close & stay away for, like a bazillion weeks.

And this is what I have noticed, for those of us who largely spend the bulk of the Summer here in Dubai, when we find someone else doing the same, there is a Comrade In Arms air of mutual respect that blossoms. A nod of respect.
Nice one.
We are in this together.

During the non-parent years, I delighted in the quiet roads of the Summer & the general calm that settles over Dubai.
I still do.
50+ deg heat notwithstanding, I like Dubai in the Summer.

The Legend of Shep - International Travel, Forbidden Love &, finally, Healing

He is a sheep & his name is Shep.

His roots - Worthing, Sussex.

Sussex in England (in case there are others).

It was Summer when we met. The Summer of 1977.

We have not be separated since.

From 1977 till, I think it was 2003, we have never travelled without each other (apart from those 72 hours in Boston).

Even through the University Years with all HK-UK, UK-HK flights, Shep was my Tonto to his Ke-mo Sah-Be, in my hand luggage, jammed in with the green apples & chedder (standard in-flight sustenance of the period).

Many, MANY, were the eyebrows  raised at Hand Luggage Security Check at LHR.  I would, in return, raise my chin, meet them straight in the eye.

"Yes? I know", I would haughtily respond, "His name is Shep."

He was my Security Sheep but that wasn't all.




Shep even enhanced the attributes of the Window Seat (the Seat of Choice).

I digress for a second:
The Window Seat, affords One privacy and, instantly reduces, by 50%, the battleground for the inevitable elbow/arm-rest territorial combat.
An agonising scenario for the British, especially for those of the 'We Don't Like To Touch Strangers' variety.

I could jam Shep in the gap, up against the wall, and hey presto, snoozy-dribbly happiness.  PRIVATE snoozy-dribbly happiness.

See?
If that one by the window had a Shep or equivalent,
see how much more comfy that picture would be?

Shep travelled with me to every student house I ever occupied.

Shep has been by my side in 3 hospital beds.

And, Shep has cruised.  An Alaskan cruise (yup, Shep made it all the way to Anchorage).

There was even a 72 Hour, Lost in Boston incident, of which he has never since spoken.

We shall never know what happened during that time but, let us not belittle the distress a certain 24 year old endured on the road to Kennebunkport when his absence was discovered.

Nor the joyful reunion.

Thank you, Housekeeping Team of Marriott, Boston 1993.

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Things have not always been easy for Shep.

There were the tearful Teenage Years.
There were multiple 'Woe Is Me, We Should Listen To The Smiths Now' & 'My Life is a Nightmare cos' I am Missing the School Disco' incidences.

He weathered them, unscathed.

He also survived the Student Years, unharmed. Stronger for it, probably.

That which does not kill us ..... etc etc etc.  Ditto, me.

And then, Alan came into our lives.

This is Alan.

Alan had designs on Shep.

Carnal designs.

Unhealthy. Unnatural designs.

First time we noticed it, we said "oh sweet. Look, Alan is giving Shep a hug".

Alan was NOT giving Shep a hug.

Trousers said "Is he .....................?"

Me: "NO! God. Gross. Of course he isn't!"

Moments later.

Me: "OH!!!!! God!! Yes HE IS!!! Alan, stop it!!! Stop it, Alllllll-aaaaaaannnnnn, st-oppppppppppp!!!!"

So, what to do? We had to do what we could to keep them apart.

But, one day, Alan 'got' to Shep.

And this happened:
(WARNING: Those of a nervous or sensitive disposition, look away now)

Injuries incurred 

Yes. Alan literally sh**ged the stuffing out of Shep.  Shep was sh@gged to pieces.

TO PIECES, PEOPLE!!!!!!!!

But, all is not lost.

Take heart, Dear Reader.

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Some years (& Alan too, in fact) have passed since The Great Unpleasantness

Alan did show greater restraint in his latter years.

But, sad to say, however, Shep never quite recovered.  And, I am ashamed that I never sought help for Shep.

Until today.

I should have done it sooner, granted.  Trousers IS a vet but ... I didn't.

Until today.

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Thank you, Dear Colleagues.
We shall not forget your kindness & patience.

OFFICIAL STATEMENT:
We ask for some privacy at this emotional time, while Shep and I process the trauma & dramatic developments of today.
We are confident that our future is bright & that one day, we will be able to travel together again. 
xxxxx

Together Again

Show Us Your Thing

Everyone has a Thing.

Or 2. Or 3.

You know, a Thing.

Maybe you can't quite remember how it started but now, it has become something that you compulsively have to do (or definitely NOT do).

I am going to have to give you a f'instance, innit?

But, before I do, remember, you asked, and you must not judge me.

Also, when you DO judge me, as I know you will, bear in mind that you have a Thing too and we are going to find it.

Your little sneaky, hidey-away, Barely Even Knew It Was There, Thing.

Right, I am going to man-up and start us off:

The One About New Magazines or Newspapers

I am a bit better now but it really bothers me, when I've got a freshly purchased mag or paper & I'm not the first one to open/read it.

I know when this started.
1990.  First Year at Uni.

This newsagent is more upmarket to that one back in the 90's

Lemon Sherbets - 20p would get you the
small pile outside the bag.
These people must be millionaires.

Living in Halls (of Residence), every Sunday morning, a few of us would drag ourselves to the newsagents (on Roehampton Lane, SW15, London. In case you know it) for our post-fry-up, Student Hangover Survival pack (which still totally works, btw) of Ribena, Frazzles and 20p worth of Lemon Sherbets.

Whose mouth is watering?

Also, 2 newspapers.

The News of The World (I hang my head in shame now)

&

The Times on Sunday.

We felt that these 2 publications would provide us with all the information we might require, with the broadsheet somehow cancelling out the filthy shame of the NoTW.  Even then, you felt a bit grubby after reading it.

Anyway, back to The Thing.

The words "ooooo, can I have a quick look at your paper?".

I hate those words.

Although I never said as much. Just handed it over. Seems I had no spine in the early 90's.

"NO!, fellow Inspiral Carpet-humming, 50 denier be-tighted, DM-shod, Have My Own Kettle now so can Make Tea in my room using Marvel milk powder*", I wished I could scream "get your own paper!!!".

*one felt dead sophisticated to invite another lever-arch folder toting, "What time is your next lecture?" student back to One's room to offer them a tea, or oh my days!, a COFFEE.

I hauled my arse to the shop.  You didn't.

The anticipation of opening a virgin newspaper (I wonder. Is it possible that Dad & I are the only people to never take the one from the top, always take the 2nd? We might share a Thing) is bliss.

The smell.  The crisp pages. You know it is pure because they are still a little pinned together from the paper-cutting process (or something).  The static between the pages of the magazine supplement.

The second someone else opens it, all that fresh, 'you are my first' loveliness it is lost forever.

A tad dramatic perhaps but this is my Thing so I get to be a bit potty about it.

AND they always return all untidy. Pages all akimbo. Awful.  Violated. Soiled.

I tried to pretend nothing had changed when the paper came back to me. We tried. We went through the motions. Paper & I. But, we both knew it was over.

You may think this is pretty bad but, Sweetie, it gets worse.

Although, as they say things have to get worse before they can get better.

It was on this day that I compelled myself to make a change.  To have a little word with myself and vow to no longer allow myself to be That Person.

It was a Sunday morning.

And I found myself in the Halls of Residence laundry room (I don't really recall going there that much during the normal course of events) ...........

........... standing at the ironing board, iron in hand (again, think that must have been 1 of the 6 times during the 4 years at Uni that I ever stood there)  .........

...... effing-well IRONING my paper!!

Dear God.


It was like the fog cleared and I stared at the iron in my hand.

Holy SH*T! Girl, you are at a crossroads.  Which path do you want to go down? Choose wisely because, there is no going back if you chose to continue down the one signposted 'Bonkers Lady who Irons Newspaper'.

Phew.  I chose good.

I feel I dodged a big ol' cuckoo bullet.

UPDATE
I am MUCH better now but, bear with me if I hold on a little longer than seems right as I hand you my paper, I am still a Work In Progress.

So, there you have it.

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Go on, your turn. Show us your Thing.

You know you want to.

Knife-Wielding Bad-Ass. Me?

Just as a matter of interest, are we, The Trousers & I would like to know, the only people who don't sleep with some sort of weapon by the bed?

I dunno.  I think that it is fairly unusual security step for most British people to take.

Or so I thought.

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Recently (yesterday) over a lovely piece of salmon, with friends, I was reflecting on the fact that, on my last night of living in my first-ever shared (student) house (in London) one of my housemates (female) revealed she always slept with a rounders* bat under her bed.

*Americans, this is like a teeny baseball bat

And another, purposely, had an empty wine bottle.  For the same specific reason.

Just as an aside, in those days (as indeed now), anything kept under my bed would not be easily, or swiftly, retrieved amongst the jumble of suitcases, lone socks, mugs & Sunday newspaper supplements "I'm getting round to reading". 

That said, the dusty tumbleweeds, under a 'Student in the 90's' bed alone, could have brought on an asthmatic attack strong enough to floor a charging elephant - so, perhaps I WAS surrounded by a grimy ring of safety.  

Perhaps I WAS, as they say in things like Lock, Stock or Snatch, "tooled up".

I'm not sure I'm really pulling off the Saaaf Laaaandahn villian thing so, I'll stop trying.

Anyway, my point is that apart from the Filth (I refer to the ACTUAL filth, as opposed to the Cops, the Fuzz, PolicePeople) it never occurred to me to weaponise myself.

And, I sort of assume the same of most people I know.

Additional Bit of Information

At this point, I need to add a small adjustment to the above-stated assumption.

When I first moved to the UK, to start Uni, in that Saaaaaaaf Lahndahhhhn, my Dad DID give me a knife. 

The Trousers, whenever he hears this statement, collapses into roaring, tear-wiping fits of laughter.

Rude.

Well, I mean,  it sounds quite serious, right?  Admit it, for a second there it gave you pause, right?  It had to have been somewhat unexpected.

Apparently, my husband does not see me as a Knife-Wielding Bad-Ass.  

That's a good thing, I think we can all agree.

The fact that it was a Swiss Army Knife (Classic - Champ, 91 mm) apparently adds to the hilarity.

Mock if you wish, but, should anyone leaving a Camden Club in the early 90's, have needed some fish de-scaling, I was ready. 

And, yes, "proper tooled-up".

Moving On

This was all decades ago but very recently, it was revealed to me that I was not the only one (female) among my acquaintances who was also weaponised in the 90's.  

She, this lovely lady, went everywhere with a fruit knife apparently.

There's more though.

During the course of the evening's discussion, in the charming setting of a Golf Club in Dubai, it was further revealed that this delightful lady & her spouse had had other security contingency plans, hidden under the bed.

I cannot recall, & stand to be corrected, whether this practice has continued since their residency commenced here in the UAE or whether it was solely reserved for life in the UK.

The details are unimportant.

I merely wish to enquire this:

Does anyone else have a baseball/rounders bat, bottle of wine, hammer, stinger, knuckle-duster, bazooka under the bed?

And:

Should I?

Probably the best I could manage!