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".
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