who like’s atlantis
who like’s atlantis it is very big and very beautifull it got’s the most amazing slide calld the leap of theaf and it’s in dubai but  it got’s other slide’s it gots  slide’s for little people and it gots the shark tank that’s my favorite and helena’s favorite is the leap of theaf she went on it but i don’t think she liked it i think it was scary here’s waht she fot  about it she was teraffihd but she did it  in the shark it started all dark and then it became light but then you came in this little aquarium with baby sharks and lots of fish’ s and then you arrive at the finish of the shark tank .we had a special taxi who also carried the soot case’s but he was only a luggage carrier but it was fun and th eleap of thaf was the scaryest thing in the hotel .we loved it !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

No, not the vegetable juice, a car. My new car to be specific which is a black super sexy Volvo CX90 V8. It is super fast, super safe with a sun-roof, leather interior and little electric buttons that move the seat until it is perfect for you.

This morning as I drove to work from belly dancing Robert Palmer’s Addicted to Love came on the radio. What a great song. I don’t think I’ve heard it for about five years. Funnily enough I still know all the words. This was closely followed by Blondie’s The Tide is High. Does it get any better?

I wonder whether it is a manifestation of my chameleon nature that I have become totally car obsessed since we moved here. Normally I would have said unless it’s a Porsche or a Ferrari I don’t care what it is. I have changed my mind. The difference between driving this car and the rental Toyota Camry we had is a little bit like the difference between camping and sleeping in your own bed. Huge.

Talking of sleeping, I have had two weeks of interrupted nights. I may as well be breast-feeding a new born baby. Every night I am woken at least three times by Rupert rolling in after drinks at the “press club” (a hotel bar), the cat being attacked by the cat downstairs, Leo wandering into my room, the call to prayer etc etc.

Maybe I should sleep in the car, it’s certainly comfortable enough. And I could buy the Robert Palmer CD.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

Yesterday I really did have breakfast at Tiffany’s. I was invited to an editor’s breakfast to promote the launch of their flagship store in the UAE at the new Dubai Mall. It was not a bad way to start the day but then it got better….

Fast forward (literally) to 2pm and I find myself in a red Ferrari speeding through the Atlantis tunnel at an undisclosed speed. It was an amazing feeling; we put the windows down and Tim (the owner of the car and the car-club I am writing about) put his foot down. The feeling of power was phenomenal, the speed a mixture between scary and exhilarating, the leather interior exquisite. It was one of those rare times when the reality is better than the fantasy. I even recorded the sound on my phone, but have no idea how I can download it here.

Following the Ferrari, I went to interview a matchmaker who matches Indian and Pakistani families for marriage here. He was very entertaining, and single. Which is odd for a matchmaker. Rather like a shoe designer wearing no shoes.

Today it is my belated birthday treat, a day at a spa. I am looking forward to it enormously, of course, but cannot believe I am going to miss Federer/Safin in the Oz Open. I can’t think of anything I would rather do than watch them, except maybe go for a drive in a red Ferrari.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

On the way home from school today we were listening to the radio. Suddenly ‘Knowing me, Knowing you’ came on. I raised the volume and the girls and I started singing along. For some reasons songs always sound so much better when they are unexpected.

From the back came a lone voice of protest. It was ignored. Then tears. Then more complaints.

“You don’t care about me,” wailed Leo. “You just care about your stupid music.”

I was mid-chorus when Bea turned the radio off.

“We do care about you,” she said.”But this song is only on once, and you, you’re on all the time.”

Then she turned the radio back on and we went back to our singing. You’ll be pleased to hear Leo has recovered from being ignored by his mother for 45 seconds. A record I think, but Abba songs just have to be sung aloud to.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

This morning in my yoga class our focus was ‘what you are good at’. We had to go around the room, saying who we were, where we were from and what we were good at. I watched and listened to everyone else.

“I am a good mother,” said one lady. “I am good at caring for people,” said another. “I am good at loving others,” came another. The closer it got to my turn the more panicked I got. For some reason washing-up gloves kept popping into my head. “I am good at washing-up?” I don’t think so.

“I am good at multi-tasking,” I thought of saying. Or “I am very efficient.” Help that sounds too boring. “I am good at being nice to my children even when they are horrible to me,” no, that goes for every mother there is. I needed something a little more original. Suddenly it was my turn…

“Well, I guess I am…,” I began.

“No,” said Elina smiling at me our teacher. “Don’t guess, you ARE.”

I started again. “I am good at….writing.”

I suddenly realised I had never said it. So now I have. I was a little embarrassed but got over it pretty quickly and into triangle pose.

What are you good at?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

I have just finished writing a timetable for the children’s after-school activities. Just looking at it exhausts me. Leo has football three times a week and now that he has been put forward for the RAD Pre-Primary ballet exam (YES!) he has to take his one ballet lesson a week even more seriously. Last week his image was somewhat ruined by showing up in the wrong ballet pants. In fact they were Y-fronts, never a good look, and an especially bad one over a white leotard. But despite this blip he has made selection and I am very proud of him.

Bea and Olivia have decided to start piano again and also to take up the guitar (Bea) and the violin (Olivia). Added to which they have ballet twice a week.

I decided that my timetable is rather lacking in culture in comparison, what with belly dancing, pole dancing and yoga. So I have taken up a generous offer from the company of Arabic lessons twice a week. I wonder what will sound worse; my Arabic or Olivia’s violin practice?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

The other night we went to see a lovely film about the Moroccan 14th century explorer Ibn Battuta’s epic journey to Mecca. He risked everything to get to a place he had long dreamed about and which he felt would complete him as a person.

It was not a question of getting on a plane in those days. He had to trek across deserts and mountains on a horse and a camel. It took him several months. En route he was robbed, beaten and almost died.

About half-way through Olivia turned to me. “Why does he want to go to Mecca anyway?” she asked.

I tried to explain, I tried to imagine the Christian equivalent; Lourdes or maybe the Vatican for Catholics? I tried to help her grasp the idea of something being so important, so essential to you that you will risk everything for it.

Then I realised that most of probably don’t have something like that. We might have a person, but not a place. The closest I got to was Top Withins, a derelict farmhouse on the Yorkshire moors which features in the book Wuthering Heights.

I have been there several times, but the first time I saw it was almost a religious experience. I had dreamed about seeing it and wondered what it would feel like. It felt like I had arrived somewhere very important to me. I sat at the base of a tree and imagined Emily Bronte walking on the same moor, conjuring up her hero Heathcliff and working on her book.

I’m sure Ibn Battuta was inspired by more than a book, but my point is that maybe even if we don’t have a religious place we yearn to visit, we might all have something that comes close? What’s yours?

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

Olivia and Bea continue to impress me with their high-tech abilities. Now they are ‘chatting’ to each other via computers. Here is a transcript of their latest conversation:

Olivia Wright to Beatrice

hi beatrice
how are you?
i love you
but we need to be nice today!
we are going to be very,very,very,very, and very nice today!!!!!!
love
olivia
Bea Wright to Olivia
hi olivia
i love you to and yes we will be very,very ….. nice today

Olivia Wright to Bea

I love you you are the best!

Bea Wright to Olivia

okay thanks for that but I’m not  really the best im just stupid

Olivia Wright to Bea

no your not

Bea Wright to Olivia

yes i am

Olivia Wright to Bea

no your not! olivia love’s you

Bea Wright to Olivia

yes i am and did you get my message that i sendid  to you i love you

Olivia Wright to Bea

ok
Bea Wright to Olivia

Good then were all set !!!!

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

One of the things I noticed about coming back to Abu Dhabi was how much more settled (and nicer) the children are being. It seems to me that going home to Sainte Cecile and realising it is all still there and not about to go away has made them more settled.

It is hardly surprising they were fraught by the time we got here. We had left home in June, travelled around Europe and then landed in August in the hottest place in the world which was totally unfamiliar to them (apart from the odd oasis like M&S).

Apparently there is a phrase for this unsettled (and unsettling) behaviour. It is called ‘Expat Children’s Syndrome’ and it is the subject of my next article. So any views you have or experiences of children behaving badly which you think could be the result of moving abroad, please let me know.

Meanwhile I am delighted to report that the girls have joined a new ballet class (with the most stunning Russian ballerina teacher) and are going twice a week. They will start piano twice a week soon too. Leo has football three times a week and is mad about it. Rather like his father telling me about his rounds of golf he insists on talking me through every match, very sweet.

So not much time for them to suffer from Expat Children’s Syndrome.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009

So I was watching the Murray-Nadal final when my mobile phone (on silent) vibrated. There was a message from an unknown number. “No school tomorrow” it read. This was good news. Jet-lag had set in and getting up at 6.30am was not a great prospect. But who was this mystery bringer of good tidings?

“Great,” I replied. “Are you sure?” I was hoping the response would give me some clue as to who it was. It came within seconds. “Yes,” it read.

Rupert and I congratulated each other on our good fortune and then continued to watch the tennis. Then my brain started working. Why was someone from a French school sending me messages in English? None of the mothers speak to me in English, the teachers are all French. There was only one thing for it. I called the number.

“This is Angela,” said a voice. Angela is staying with us. Angela has a blackberry. Olivia and Bea have been taught by my friend Mo to use a Blackberry. They don’t like school.

I was not sure whether to be furious or rather proud of their high-tech skiving attempt. Whatever else it made us laugh and brought back memories of tricks I used to pull, like putting the thermometer on a hot light bulb before showing it to my mother. That seems rather old-fashioned in comparison.
Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2009