In two days' time, Jack and Emma finish another school year. Rhys finished his nursery year yesterday. The long summer now stretches out before them all. Even longer than when I was their age - I had 6-7 weeks for summer holidays, whereas they now have nearly 10.
At the end of next week, Michele and the three kids will head off to the UK, where they have a packed schedule of activities and catching up with friends.
I will be here. At work.
I do have 3 weeks leave coming up, at the end of July, which is longer than usual and which I am very much looking forward to. Not least because it will involve 2 weeks in the USA, which is about as far away from Dubai as it is possible to get. One needs to get out of Dubai at least once every 6 months or so, in order to experience 'real life' and preserve one's sanity.
But 3 weeks, versus 10? It seems woefully inadequate. I remember the last few days of a school year - helping to take down wall displays; sorting through library and school books; making sure everything was emptied out, put away, and generally clean and tidy. As if preparing for some kind of nuclear winter. But the satisfaction you got from sorting all those things would send you off into the summer with a sense of having metaphorically dotted the i's, crossed the t's, and nicely tied off another year on the way to adulthood. Yet viewed from the other end of the spectrum, some 15 years into working life, summer holidays are now something you plan months in advance, then have to forget about and not let yourself thing about too much too soon for fear of it causing your work attention to suffer in the intervening period.
And then suddenly, when you feel physically overdue the break but yet are strangely unprepared for it mentally, your vacation is here. You spend the first few days of it getting used to not doing the usual working day routine. It takes a while to wind down. But then you're measuring the leave in terms of 'days done versus days still to go'. Hoping that time will slow down. Not wanting the end to come.
You may have a few days of quality time in the middle (although you need to have booked at least 2 weeks off to get that). But as the holiday nears its end, you start wondering about what awaits your return (unless, like me you are the kind of person who can't help but check in via the blackberry each day, so as to derive greater comfort from knowing what awaits you (and so being able to mentally prepare for it) rather than having no idea that there could be a ticking time bomb on the desk when you return). And you start mentally ramping back up ready for work again. You will have left some things for colleagues to 'cover'. But they won't have killed themselves to do these things completely, or to the fullest extent. Everyone knows that cover work is left on the corner of the desk, and attended to in your absence only to the bare minimum.
And then, before you know it, you're back at work. It's all over for another year. You assume that things will have changed and big events will have happened while you were away. They haven't.
How much more enjoyable life would be if everyone were allowed more than 25 days leave a year. The kids get so much more. Why such a disparity? A week or two off every 7-8 weeks would make the working weeks in between so much more productive. The endless trudge of week after week repetition of the working office life would be broken by more leisure time. More time with the family. More holiday time that is used as actual holiday time.
The obsession with the daily grind and the demands of the modern world are such that nobody would ever introduce such a scheme. But that's not to say that it doesn't make sense on some level.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Sunday, June 02, 2013
The Rules of (Dis)Engagement
Yesterday (a weekend), and due to some timetable clashing of children's activities, it was my job to take Rhys to the birthday party of one of his nursery friends (aged 3). Don't get me wrong, the party itself was very well organised, and the parents concerned were very nice people who had gone to great lengths to ensure that their son had a fun-filled, 'Fireman Sam' themed, day. (I was particularly impressed... no, envious.... alright, jealous of their handiwork at having managed to construct a really rather good fire engine out of some cardboard boxes, some blue drinking cups, a hoover hose, a step ladder and a lot of red paint).
But here's the thing - Dads don't generally attend birthday parties. Unless you are duty bound to attend, due to the birthday child being one of your own (in which case your role is generally relegated to making drinks and taking photos - Mark, the father in question yesterday, performed both roles admirably), it is a rare thing to see a Dad at a birthday party. But there I was.
I did have the obligatory chat early on with Mark about our respective jobs and office locations, the Dubai economy, property prices and the like. But unfortunately this didn't fill 2 hours. Moreover, he had photos to take and drinks to pour. Which left me with a selection of 6-7 Mums to talk to instead.
Let's just say that wherever in the world any riots should next break out (rioters being, usually, male in the majority - perhaps Dads even), the police need not worry if they run out of crash barriers or riot gear. For all that would be needed to ensure maximum lockdown is a wall of Mums.
Surely there is no more difficult a barricade to break down, break in or break through. Like a line of perfectly linked concrete jigsaw pieces, there was no way I was going to be allowed in, or through their impenetrable wall of disdain. They had me locked out faster than you/they could say "Mani/Pedi".
But here's the thing - Dads don't generally attend birthday parties. Unless you are duty bound to attend, due to the birthday child being one of your own (in which case your role is generally relegated to making drinks and taking photos - Mark, the father in question yesterday, performed both roles admirably), it is a rare thing to see a Dad at a birthday party. But there I was.
I did have the obligatory chat early on with Mark about our respective jobs and office locations, the Dubai economy, property prices and the like. But unfortunately this didn't fill 2 hours. Moreover, he had photos to take and drinks to pour. Which left me with a selection of 6-7 Mums to talk to instead.
Let's just say that wherever in the world any riots should next break out (rioters being, usually, male in the majority - perhaps Dads even), the police need not worry if they run out of crash barriers or riot gear. For all that would be needed to ensure maximum lockdown is a wall of Mums.
Surely there is no more difficult a barricade to break down, break in or break through. Like a line of perfectly linked concrete jigsaw pieces, there was no way I was going to be allowed in, or through their impenetrable wall of disdain. They had me locked out faster than you/they could say "Mani/Pedi".
Thursday, May 02, 2013
"...My heart was filled with pride...."
Tomorrow will be Michele's and my 10th wedding anniversary. Quite where the last 10 years have gone, I have no idea. Were it not for the fact that, tomorrow being the weekend, any thoughts of a lie-in will no doubt be trampled all over in the usual way by the 3 by-products of our 10 years of married bliss, I might otherwise have refused to believe the calendar. But 10 years, and 3 children to show for it, it is.
Almost all of that time has been spent living in the UAE. This was not our intention. Michele left the UK, newly married, to move to a country and a people she knew nothing about. It was a brave and trusting decision on her part. But, it being entirely due to my job, she effectively did it for me.
Michele does lots of things for me. And I don't mean purely the traditional home chores that I take for granted too often, and show appreciation for too infrequently. I mean that Michele gives me support when I feel frustrated or defeated; she manages to be tolerant when I am being intolerable; she shows tenderness and comfort when I am too modest to ask for it. For all of this and more, she is the reason why our marriage works.
I love her now in ways I couldn't even have contemplated 10 years ago. When you get married, you know you're in love. Hopefully this was visible in our eyes on our wedding day. But in the same way that a child's eyes show excitement if he opens the curtains to a new snowfall, the real fun part is later being allowed outside to run around and roll in it, and to see if there's enough snow laying round about - deep, and crisp, and even - to be able to build something special with it.
Marriage, like a new snowfall, looks clean and beautiful at the start, but as soon as you start walking through it, it may lose its initial beauty. But that's because you get no fun out of it unless you really get out into it. Even if that means the occasional snowball fight becomes unavoidable along the way.
Michele gets frustrated when I don't argue with her (a bad thing for a lawyer, that), and amused that I cannot successfully lie to her (without smiling and giving the game away). She annoys me when she makes notes for herself on scrappy bits of paper that she then leaves in various places, and so loses. Or when she starts a task, completes 99% of it, but then gives up bored. Different people, different ways of doing and thinking. But, as was once stated in one of my favourite films, we still go together "like peas and carrots".
How would I describe Michele in 5 words? Generous, friendly, unselfish, understanding, and yes, beautiful. She would probably describe me as soppy, occasionally grumpy, generous and sometimes funny, but too often serious. But it takes all sorts, and who's to say which combinations work and which do not.
I don't plan to show her this message. Instead, she will just discover it one day. She'll probably cringe, since she doesn't take compliments well. But she deserves all the happiness I hope I am able to give her, and more.
The title of this blog post is one of the lyrics from the song we chose as our first dance at our wedding. It describes how I felt 10 years ago. The full length version reads:
I had a dream last night
I dreamt you were by my side
Walking with me baby
My heart was filled with pride...
The same song also includes the words:
Come and live with me
We'll have children of our own
I would love you more than life
If you'll come and be my wife.
Well, she did. We did. And I do.
Happy Anniversary to my 'chele. I love you. xxx
Almost all of that time has been spent living in the UAE. This was not our intention. Michele left the UK, newly married, to move to a country and a people she knew nothing about. It was a brave and trusting decision on her part. But, it being entirely due to my job, she effectively did it for me.
Michele does lots of things for me. And I don't mean purely the traditional home chores that I take for granted too often, and show appreciation for too infrequently. I mean that Michele gives me support when I feel frustrated or defeated; she manages to be tolerant when I am being intolerable; she shows tenderness and comfort when I am too modest to ask for it. For all of this and more, she is the reason why our marriage works.
I love her now in ways I couldn't even have contemplated 10 years ago. When you get married, you know you're in love. Hopefully this was visible in our eyes on our wedding day. But in the same way that a child's eyes show excitement if he opens the curtains to a new snowfall, the real fun part is later being allowed outside to run around and roll in it, and to see if there's enough snow laying round about - deep, and crisp, and even - to be able to build something special with it.
Marriage, like a new snowfall, looks clean and beautiful at the start, but as soon as you start walking through it, it may lose its initial beauty. But that's because you get no fun out of it unless you really get out into it. Even if that means the occasional snowball fight becomes unavoidable along the way.
Michele gets frustrated when I don't argue with her (a bad thing for a lawyer, that), and amused that I cannot successfully lie to her (without smiling and giving the game away). She annoys me when she makes notes for herself on scrappy bits of paper that she then leaves in various places, and so loses. Or when she starts a task, completes 99% of it, but then gives up bored. Different people, different ways of doing and thinking. But, as was once stated in one of my favourite films, we still go together "like peas and carrots".
How would I describe Michele in 5 words? Generous, friendly, unselfish, understanding, and yes, beautiful. She would probably describe me as soppy, occasionally grumpy, generous and sometimes funny, but too often serious. But it takes all sorts, and who's to say which combinations work and which do not.
I don't plan to show her this message. Instead, she will just discover it one day. She'll probably cringe, since she doesn't take compliments well. But she deserves all the happiness I hope I am able to give her, and more.
The title of this blog post is one of the lyrics from the song we chose as our first dance at our wedding. It describes how I felt 10 years ago. The full length version reads:
I had a dream last night
I dreamt you were by my side
Walking with me baby
My heart was filled with pride...
The same song also includes the words:
Come and live with me
We'll have children of our own
I would love you more than life
If you'll come and be my wife.
Well, she did. We did. And I do.
Happy Anniversary to my 'chele. I love you. xxx
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Speaking up
When your choice of radio stations is as bland, uncontroversial, and clearly censored as regards content that even smells remotely contentious as the various offerings that are available in the UAE, I have long preferred to set the ipod (now housing just short of 9,000 tracks) to shuffle when driving to and from work.
But more recently, and admittedly some years behind the rest of mankind (a symptom of 'getting old' I'm sure), I have discovered the pleasure of podcasts. Rather than trying to use the 'TuneIn Radio' app to download (in irritating real time) full radio shows from the UK, I am now to be found mixing up a little bit of Simon Mayo's Radio 2 show, with the best of Radio 4's Today programme each day, with educational lectures from the London School of Economics (recent discussion of Margaret Thatcher particularly good), and a sprinkling of The Economist. Oh, and the Simon Mayo/Mark Kermode weekly film review show from Radio 5.
A random sampling of these podcasts fits nicely into the 25-30 minute drive to and from work each day, and saves the need to pull my remaining hair out at the frustratingly banal drivvlings of the local stations (and I single out the adverts for particularly deep levels of awfulness).
Plus - the added bonus is the knowledge that, after 37 years, I have been able to finally take note from my Dad that there are aspects of Radio 4 that warrant listening to, in preference to the 'noise you kids like to call music'. Don't think I'll be tackling The Archers just yet though.
But more recently, and admittedly some years behind the rest of mankind (a symptom of 'getting old' I'm sure), I have discovered the pleasure of podcasts. Rather than trying to use the 'TuneIn Radio' app to download (in irritating real time) full radio shows from the UK, I am now to be found mixing up a little bit of Simon Mayo's Radio 2 show, with the best of Radio 4's Today programme each day, with educational lectures from the London School of Economics (recent discussion of Margaret Thatcher particularly good), and a sprinkling of The Economist. Oh, and the Simon Mayo/Mark Kermode weekly film review show from Radio 5.
A random sampling of these podcasts fits nicely into the 25-30 minute drive to and from work each day, and saves the need to pull my remaining hair out at the frustratingly banal drivvlings of the local stations (and I single out the adverts for particularly deep levels of awfulness).
Plus - the added bonus is the knowledge that, after 37 years, I have been able to finally take note from my Dad that there are aspects of Radio 4 that warrant listening to, in preference to the 'noise you kids like to call music'. Don't think I'll be tackling The Archers just yet though.
Monday, April 22, 2013
Accounting 101
It is our financial year end at DLA Piper. The time when everyone is metaphorically squeezed until every last drop of billable time is drained from us, so that it can be included on bills that can then be despatched to our clients before the end of the month.
As part of this exercise, and for curious reasons that I won't describe because I don't understand them, the firm is apparently entitled to include the value of these last-minute issued bills in this year's figures, regardless of the fact that the mere issuance of a bill is (whisper it quietly) not actual cash in the bank, nor even a guarantee of payment. Why we get to pat ourselves on the back for having achieved annual targets when this achievement seems based upon an exercise in false accounting that could ultimately come unstuck seems to me at least to be no grounds for celebration if, by coincidence, we just make our target.
Perhaps this explains why the likely achieving of annual targets will be greeted by little more than a pat on the back, and the immediate circulation of next year's targets (which will be this year's figures, plus an uplift designed to make everyone raise their eyebrows and echale from puffed up cheeks) which, come 1 May, we will begin pursuing all over again.
Am I too simplistic in my undertanding of accountancy I wonder?
As part of this exercise, and for curious reasons that I won't describe because I don't understand them, the firm is apparently entitled to include the value of these last-minute issued bills in this year's figures, regardless of the fact that the mere issuance of a bill is (whisper it quietly) not actual cash in the bank, nor even a guarantee of payment. Why we get to pat ourselves on the back for having achieved annual targets when this achievement seems based upon an exercise in false accounting that could ultimately come unstuck seems to me at least to be no grounds for celebration if, by coincidence, we just make our target.
Perhaps this explains why the likely achieving of annual targets will be greeted by little more than a pat on the back, and the immediate circulation of next year's targets (which will be this year's figures, plus an uplift designed to make everyone raise their eyebrows and echale from puffed up cheeks) which, come 1 May, we will begin pursuing all over again.
Am I too simplistic in my undertanding of accountancy I wonder?
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