Belt up

The trouble with living somewhere perpetually sunny with more money than you can shake a stick at, is that complacency tends to top the list of undesirable characteristics developed within approximately six months of arrival. Topped off with a healthy dose of ignorance and stupidity, and my guess is that’s how you end up with all the unbelievable idiots driving round this city.

I could go on about the bad driving in Dubai forever. It is an endless source of amazement which never ceases to astound me and terrify me in equal parts. However, today I want to talk about the very special collection of people who not only endanger their own lives but those of their children.

You spend nine months making them, an indeterminate amount of time giving birth to them, and the rest of your life nurturing them. So WHY THE F*CK would you let them romp around your car with no seatbelt on?

The original 50th percentile male Hybrid III's...

Buckle up, dummies

In my time here, I have witnessed so many bad examples it makes me want to weep. A few months ago I saw a child sticking out of the sunroof up to his waist, whilst the driver sped along at a steady 40km/h. A couple of weeks back I watched no less than seven children and four adults climb out of a car at a gas station, my favourite being the two tweens that were squashed into the very small boot just waiting to be rear-ended and disabled for life. I have witnessed a woman holding her baby in the front seat. Just holding her. No babyseat, just her mother’s arms to protect her from flying through the windscreen. Last year I saw a little boy of about eight sitting on his dad’s lap, steering the car as they drove along. I know he was steering because his father had a cigarette in one hand and a phone in the other. Countless times I have seen children clambering around in the back with no belts on. And best of all, children – and I mean children, not teens – driving golf buggies and quad bikes along main roads in our neighbourhood, completely unaccompanied by anyone old enough to hold a licence or understand the rules of the road.

All nationalities, all income levels, there is no exception it would seem. Whether it’s ‘treating’ the child, taking a chance, or simply the logistics of not enough seats in the car, complacency has leaked into every corner of society. I would love to know what goes through a parent’s mind when they decide to put their child in mortal danger. Because as far as I can tell it must be something along the lines of “they’ll be alright, I’m such a great driver what could possibly go wrong?” How ridiculous, for the sake of a couple of extra seconds strapping them in. It seems all the more shocking coming from a country where you aren’t allowed to leave the hospital with your baby unless you produce a car seat. It’s terrifying for the rest of us too, when a car with unsecured children in it is driving towards us or alongside us, often at high speed. One false move on anyone’s part and those children, the innocent ones, will be the ones who suffer the most. I hate having that responsibility – and I don’t see why I have to be burdened with it when so many people know better.

For some, of course, it is actually down to a lack of education. Britain in the 1970s, 80s and even the early 90s knew no better either – I distinctly remember long road trips where I and my sisters would turn our seatbelts into a sort of competition to see who could get out of them first, and for years I drove around four people in the back of my mini (!) without any thought that they might fly through the front window in the event of an emergency stop, killing me in the process. And of course there is nothing illegal about a lot of what we see here with regards to passengers in cars. UAE law says that a child under 10 must not be in the front, and front seat passengers must wear safety belts. There is no law regarding rear passengers which I suppose is why we see so many children without restraints. These days, I am fully aware of how much peril they are in, in the event of an accident, but many parts of the world are not quite so well informed. Maybe if they had seem some of the shocking campaigns run on our TV stations in the past decade or so they would better understand the dangers.

So if this neglect is truly out of ignorance, from not knowing or understanding what a car crash whilst travelling at even 30km/hr can do to its passengers, then it’s time to spread the word and strive for change. One woman is doing just that, campaigning for better awareness and trying to change the view here that rear passenger seatbelts are just an optional extra. In such a diverse population, it is difficult to make change, to create understanding. But it is so important that we do, because these children will not get a second chance.

Arrogance or ignorance, neither will save lives. Seatbelts will.

(Footnote: After writing this yesterday, what a coincidence that I witnessed a black and yellow Chevrolet driving through Motor City this morning – complete with huge ‘Buckle up in the back’ slogans pasted all over it. Can only hope there is more than one out there but it was great to see the website in motion, literally.)

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One of the most wonderful things about getting older is all the friends you collect as you go through life. This past few weeks have taken some interesting turns, not least because of all the people I have met in the past twenty years (and then some…). I have been so inspired by an old school friend in recent months that I felt compelled to take action and jump start my career, which was rewarded last week with my MA acceptance. Encouraged by a few of the many talented, fun people I have met whilst performing, I have uncovered via the power of Facebook a previously unheard of hotbed of creativity and artistry in Dubai, and begun to experiment with the boundaries of my acting skills (and discovered that apparently there are boundaries to them – good to know). I have ended up co-ordinating ‘background artists’ for a UK TV crew shooting over here, because a friend from college is on the production team and messaged me to ask if I could help. I have shared a rare but precious skype session with an old work colleague in South Africa who never fails to brighten my day. A dear friend from home called me on the telephone, which doesn’t happen very often and was a real treat. Not counting the several friends I have emailed or facebooked just to say hi.

But how much do I take this for granted, that I am in touch with all these people, from school, college, work, my hobbies – and spread all around the world? I’d like to imagine that it’s 100% down to my sparkling personality, but in reality I think it has an awful lot more to do with modern technology. The internet and its merry band of men, i.e. Facebook, Twitter, email, Skype – they keep us in touch with each other no matter where we are of course – but in particular they are a serious contribution towards making expat life much easier than it would have been in days gone past. And I am extremely thankful for that.

Realistically, if I was me now, in the 80’s, I reckon barely half of the people I am in contact with would even receive a Christmas card. Long-distance phone calls would be reserved for family only. I would only have a very small pool of people from which to pick my friends, and it really would be the place where everybody knows my name, for better or for worse. In fact whilst writing this post I did some digging on what life in Dubai was like thirty years ago to try and get a feel for what I would have been up against and it made me realise that back then it was a true hardship posting. In fact it kind of made me a bit ashamed at all the fuss I’ve made about being here.

Sheikh Zayed Road in 1990. 1990!

But then I dug around some more. Yes, it was hot (no A/C back then, of course!) and there was nothing to do – it would seem from these archives that the first coffee shop (cafe, if you will, rather than a roadside pitstop) didn’t even open until 1981 – but it was also a much more caring, social, friendly place to be. There isn’t much I found to read about personal experiences, rather a lot of old photos and some descriptions to go with them – but where there are comments from people it seems they genuinely loved their time here. It was a special and unique experience of a select few rather than the mass exercise in money-making and spending that it has become today. There was room for sisterhood because these expat women had no-one else. They were literally cut off from everyone they knew and loved and only had each other to rely on. I guess that would make you the odd lifelong friend or two.

I wonder what my life would be like if we’d been here then instead of now. Would I have morphed into a ‘Jumeirah Jane’ and partaken in hosting competitive coffee mornings and elaborate dinner parties for my villa compound friends and my husband’s co-workers? Would I ever have been brave enough to come here in the first place, send my kids to UK boarding schools in their teens so they were prepared for ‘real life’, be content not to work – not be able to work – and learn to consider social standing in this tiny community as a career ladder to be climbed? Would I have despaired at the heat, the sand, the basic amenities and the lack of contact with my family and friends back home? Or would I have embraced the kinship of my fellow ‘Janes’ and joined the party? Indeed – would I have been happier without all the technology to remind me of life back home? I wonder if this is why their memories are so fond, that they didn’t have anything to distract from their lives as they stood, and therefore just had to get on with things. I know when I am busy I miss home the least. Detachment from your old life is a very simple way to ease homesickness and so in that sense I wonder if the Trailing spouses of the 80s had a easier in that sense.

Sheikh Zayed Road 2008.

But not being able to Skype, or Facebook, or sms anyone, or email – gosh, if someone took that away from me now I would be utterly distraught. Communication from home fills in my days, colours my world with something other than sand and sun, and makes me feel not quite as ‘foreign’ as I would otherwise. How else would I know about politics, VAT on pasties and snatchels? Not even counting the volume of news I get from my friends on a near-daily basis, filling in the gaps left by living thousands of miles away.

No, I think I’ve got it better. I get to see my niece growing up eight time zones away, my son knows his grandparents and ‘plays’ with them while they watch, and I can still be inspired by someone I was friends with nearly thirty years back living in the depths of the English countryside. My predecessors may have made lifelong friends in Dubai out of a necessity to survive, but I’m kind of glad to have mine spread about – sitting at their computers all around the world, keeping me virtual company and at my disposal whenever I need to laugh or cry or just touch base. All hail the world wide web.

Desperately seeking…nothing, actually.

My brain is empty of thought. I have no words. I am not sure why this has happened but I think it’s something to do with being over-taxed. Or taxed at all, I should imagine. There are a thousand things I could write about this week, and indeed a fair few I should write about, but I can’t seem to find the right angle.

And then it occurs to me: Could it be, that for the first time in a fairly long while, I am actually busy and stimulated and…OMG…happy???

Some happy tomatoes

There may be some evidence to suggest this is the case:

1. My son has ceased to pee on the floor and has used the toilet without fail for the past 4 days. This is of course his achievement and not mine – but I also feel that finally I might have got something right and his success is testament to my amazing parenting skills and tireless patience rather than his sole ability to transform from baby to boy in just under two weeks because he was ‘ready’. Hence on Friday, while he is presented with the electric piano that he has coveted in ELC for the past three months, I shall be rewarding myself with an hour in a darkened room being pummelled with essential oils, because hell, I earned it.

2. I am busy. Really busy. And not just with boring house ‘to dos’ but actual projects that are fun and engaging and sociable. And man, that feels good. Of course I also have the boring stuff to do but it doesn’t seem so bad when the rest of the time is filled in with things I actually want to be involved in. My husband is being incredibly supportive about me keep zipping off here and there and I am wondering quite a lot why I moped around for so long doing nothing. I tend to think it’s just my time now, to start to spread my wings again, and I can only say how lucky I feel, that I have the support to be able to do that.

3. On that particular subject, I was offered a place on a Master’s degree course to study professional writing this week and I am completely and utterly thrilled about it.

This last point is, of course, me blowing my own trumpet that I am actually good enough at spouting crap for someone to think I could eventually do it for a living. It came as rather a surprise to me but I’m not arguing with their decision. Panicking slightly, but not arguing. As any of my blog followers who have read my earlier posts will know, I have struggled for a long time to find something meaningful to do, to have something to aim for that (hopefully) has income attached to it whilst still being able to enjoy the benefits of being a stay at home mum and cope with the business of Trailing. It is somewhat ironic that I have ended up a writer, having started writing in part to figure out my place in this world. But it feels like the right thing for me, for the future, and I can’t wait to see where it takes me.

So it would appear I have finally found the answer to my career conundrum, got myself a hobby that I love, and have less child-related stress than I have done in months. The only problem is if I stay this happy about it I’ll have absolutely nothing left to write about and if I stay this busy I’ll have no time to write it either.

Dammit. Boredom, loneliness and misery, where art thou?

In Memoriam

My paternal grandmother passed away yesterday. It did not come as a surprise, she had terminal cancer diagnosed a long while ago, so we all knew it was only a matter of time. But when you are living thousands of miles away a ‘matter of time’ does not have the same meaning. Distance puts an invisible and impenetrable barrier between me and my loved ones. Unless I am ‘lucky’ to be home when death strikes, I cannot help, I cannot support, and I cannot say goodbye when goodbye matters most. Until last year all four of my grandparents were still alive but all over 85, and clearly not going to live forever. With each trip back I have to quietly say my goodbyes to these old people whom I love so much, in case it’s the last time I see them. I strive to make my peace with it but the bottom line is I’m not there.

There is a school of thought that death is easier to cope with if you are far away. You don’t have to deal with any of the nasty, you don’t have to see what’s happening, you don’t have to help, simply because you can’t. There is no way of being with them in an ambulance, or dropping a hot dinner round to their home, brushing their hair, or holding their hand at the bedside. There is no true understanding of what that person is going through, nor the terror, grief and worry of the other people who are there to provide all the support that you can’t. I have no real clue to what my dad has been doing these past months to assist his parents, just as I have no proper understanding of what my mum went through caring for my grandfather before he passed away last year. I am sheltered from all of this. And when a person dies, I am sheltered all over again, from everyone else’s grief, because I am not there to see it.

I toy with the idea of flying back for the funeral but I feel guilty, as if I have just turned up for the easy bit and missed all the hard stuff everyone else has been through. I cannot be part of the process, I can only turn up to the party. But it is not easy sitting here by myself. Grief is a lonely business when you are far away. I might not be able to help or support my family but there is no-one to help me either. A comment from another post I read on this subject said this: “We must be self-reliant in a way most grievers do not have to be…Grieving solo is one of the hardest things to do…(and) can also prevent us from the closure that other people receive from going to the funeral, the wake, the reception.”

And I am discovering for the second time now, that the process for grieving is difficult when you are doing it by yourself. I rely on phone calls and emails to keep me up to date with funeral arrangements, but no-one really wants to talk to me about how they are feeling over the phone, it just isn’t the same. No-one will ask me how I’m doing because they will unconsciously (or consciously) assume that I am somehow less attached for being far away. I will watch other people with less attachment, less history, less loss than me become more involved than I can possibly be in the grieving process because I am not there. I wrote an email and sent text messages to tell my grandmother we loved her but it’s unlikely I’ll ever find the right time to ask if they were delivered before she slipped into her last sleep. I cannot comfort my dad, my sisters, my grandfather. I cannot sit and have a cup of tea with them just to have the company of another human being who is going through the same thing. I cannot hug anyone. No-one can hug me back. I hate that I am not there to help, I resent that I am not there to be part of the grieving, I am devastated that I could not say goodbye when it was truly time.

Every expat must face the possibility of someone they love passing away while they are abroad. We face grief all over again when we return for visits because life has changed unalterably, again, and whilst everyone else has gradually come to accept the change, it is thrown at us like a bucket of cold water. My grandmother (she would have loved that I’m calling her grandmother, and that I’m writing about her, by the way) probably had the most understanding of my situation of all my family. Her own siblings emigrated to California decades ago and she has dealt with all the pleasure and pain that this brings. She was a meddlesome old bat sometimes (and she knew it) who I didn’t always agree with, but she managed to keep herself relevant and even with her great-grandson bouncing around the room claiming all the attention, she would always take time to ask how I was doing, how I was feeling. I write this for her, because I know she would understand where so many others might not, how I am feeling right now. This is my goodbye, Nanna. Rest in Peace.

Nanna & Grandad with my son, summer 2011

Chicken nuggets or fish fingers?

We’ve just returned from a 3 night break in Ras Al Khaimah, staying at The Banyan Tree in a beach pool villa. Jealous, much? Well in theory, you should be. But how about if I tell you that both me and my husband are sick and kept eachother awake half the night coughing? And that just as we both finally dropped off each night, our darling little boy sleeping at the other end of the room would initiate his much-loved ‘shout out to the masses’ sleep-talkings, and wake us up at least twice more during the night just for sh*ts and giggles? How about the fact that we were summoned daily, exhausted, somewhere between 5.30 and 6.30am, by a little voice announcing he was getting in the bed and then proceeding to jump on us and shout ‘wake up mummy!’ until I gave in and put the light on?

Holidays are certainly not what they used to be. In fact a small part of me that I refuse to acknowledge for fear of never going anywhere ever again says staying at home is significantly easier. In the evenings whist our son slept in the villa we sat in semi-darkness on the somewhat windy and rather cool-for-the-time-of-year beach, eating our room service as fast as possible so we could get back in the warm. Our nightly routine involved silent peeing and tooth-brushing without breathing in the open plan bathroom, followed by dressing in child-proof night gear and reading until we could barely keep our eyes open (approximately 9.30pm). Hardly the stuff of Mills and Boon.

Days we would have traditionally spent lazing on a sun bed or at the spa were instead a frenzy of activities based mainly around trying to ensure our son didn’t hit his head on anything sharp, fall off anything high, or drown in the pool. I had brought a limited number of toys with me on the basis that we would be spending our time building elaborate sand castles and frolicking in the waves. However, the horrific six foot sandbank that greeted us when we walked down to the sea put paid to my romantic notions of wiggling our toes in the gently lapping water – and the dredged sand that made up the ‘beach’ was full of broken shells sharp enough to cut diamonds, and didn’t really lend itself to the reconstruction of Camelot. So we were left with a bit of a gap in the schedule. Fortunately it didn’t matter over such a short time and we compensated with long walks, shell collecting and swimming in the gorgeous little pool on our deck. Aside from the lack of sleep, we had a lovely few days together as a family and it was well worth it to get out of Dubai for a few days.

Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner of Champions, apparently

But the food! HOTEL PEOPLE OF THE WORLD: Children cannot eat chicken nuggets and fishfingers for lunch and dinner every day for 3 days, or 5, or a fortnight. Well, actually I’m sure they can – but seriously, this is not the first 5 star hotel to offer such a limited menu for children, and I don’t understand why we as parents accept it and then worse still, pay a premium for it. Why doesn’t anyone ever say ‘we’ll serve your kid whatever you like off the menu, in a half portion’? Or, just a suggestion, how about offering choices that include vegetables or something that’s grilled instead of fried? How about offering an actual sandwich, with good things inside it, instead of some sloppy greasy melted cheese thing? And why does EVERYTHING have to come with fries?

Putting together a child’s menu appears to be very simple for most establishments. If you can fry it, put it on the list. Ta Da! A typical kids menu is born! So, because I refuse to let my son think he can eat this crap every mealtime when we are on holiday, along with the clothes, toys, books, potty, emergency blow up bed in case he wouldn’t sleep on the hotel bed, his favourite duvet, beach buckets and spades, music, dvd player and ipad, I also brought with me a tin of sweetcorn, some cut up raw veg, fresh brown bread rolls, peanut butter, marmite, jam, raisins, yoghurt, snack bars, fresh blueberries, raspberries, bananas and a couple of pears to fill in the gaps between the fishfingers and chicken nuggets.

For the record, putting together a menu that pleases parents AND children really isn’t all that hard, and the kitchen doesn’t have to work much harder either, nor does it cost them any more than buying in all that frozen rubbish. Below is my suggestion, the start of a campaign to encourage better holiday food for children. If you call yourself 5 star and child friendly, never mind about the kids clubs and the pool – start with the basics of providing good quality food. It would make such a difference.

Meat and 2 veg:1 choice of meat/fish from the following: Grilled chicken, Sausages (proper ones, not bloody hotdogs), Fishfingers, Salmon, Home made chicken nuggets or Home made burger

2 choices from the following: Fries, sweetcorn, tomatoes, baked beans, peas, mashed potato, sweet potato, broccoli, carrots, pasta, noodles, rice

Soup of the day & a sandwich: Choose fillings from Tuna mayo, PB&J, Cheese, Ham, Soft cheese, Egg, Marmite

Pasta: w/sauce options as per the adult menu

Dessert: Yoghurt, Fresh fruit (a variety, not just melon, which no-one ever eats), Ice cream, Apple crumble & custard

Snacks: Crudites with hummus or yoghurt dip

Also available: Mini-pizzas, Omeletes, scrambled egg or boiled egg with toast

See? Not difficult, not expensive, just better. Which is where a luxury hotel should really be aiming for.

To boldly go where no man has gone before

Use the pot, Luke…(yeah so I got my Trek and my Wars mixed up. So sue me)

Potty training: The final frontier. The last voyage my son must make to go from baby to boy. He knows how, he knows when, he knows why. And yet still he pees on my sofa. I know it’s supposed to be a process and they do it when they’re ready but dear Lord HOW LONG must it go on for before he gets it?!

It just seems to be taking waaaay too long. The potty has been in use since September but only when he feels like it. I am tired of inventing different ways to get him to sit and he never seems to remember to go on his own, so I am tired of cleaning up after him too. I’ve tried books, star charts, incentives, and ignoring the whole process, but to no avail. He goes on it when he wants, and when he doesn’t, he goes where he stands. I fear the poor boy has poo confusion now, that I’ve made some terrible cock up of the whole process, and he will still be in a diaper when he’s 20.

I am in daily conference with God to fix it, fast – as in ‘oh for the love of God, please use the potty’, rather than actual prayer, which would be a little inappropriate (‘Dear God please stop my son peeing on my furniture, amen’) I know he’s a boy and boys take longer than girls, but seriously, I’m done. I hit the wall. Will someone please just make it so my son sh*ts in the pan?

The Big 5-0-0-0

Well firstly, a big thank you. My blog reached it’s 5,000th hit this weekend, which I have to say, feels like a great achievement. When I started writing, I didn’t have a particular plan in mind but I certainly didn’t think 500 people a month would be reading what I had to say! It is very gratifying that so many people are interested and keep coming back for more of my random ramblings.

After all, there's so much to say about living in the desert...

I have had a passion for writing for a long time. In college I wrote poetry for some reason – teenage angst I think – and although I have no doubt it was awful, it started a lifetime habit of expressing myself and my feelings through the written word. I take enormous pleasure in writing. In my twenties I dabbled in fiction but I quickly realised that I find it easier to get creative when I write about reality. For me, sharing my experiences, ideas and opinions and writing them down for someone else to read is just as exhilarating as being up on a stage in front of an audience. Knowing that my blog has attracted and retained a readership that stretches way beyond my nearest and dearest is extremely rewarding.

I have written a lot about where life is taking me. Living in this temporary expat bubble can often feel like marking time. Indeed, if you read my earlier blog entries I have often expressed my opinion that there is little point in starting something if you never know when you will have to finish it and move on. In my time in Dubai I have not only applied this to myself in terms of career but friendships too. I have also, for far too long, held the belief that having a baby has somehow diminished my capacity to achieve. Not only is this complete rubbish (surely raising a child is the biggest achievement of all, for starters!) but it has also been to my detriment, I realise now. I have ambition and have stifled it because I have been too busy wishing my life different. However I’m pleased to report this train of thought is shifting, finally. Through writing this blog I have been able to think a little more clearly about how I might change things for the better in spite of my circumstances, or even because of them. It has helped me to discover how my ambition might shape itself in the future, and for that I am thankful, that I have been able to write my way to a better place.

Keep reading.

Simple pleasures

English: a picture taken in the desert of kuwa...

The view from our house this week. Ok, so I might be exaggerating a little...

I’ve been extremely busy and just a bit preoccupied the past week or so and it’s fair to say I’ve neglected my usual maternal duties, or even any sense of duty except to myself if I’m honest. It’s a bit of a baptism by fire this week then, as I find myself single-parenting again during one of the worst and certainly the longest sandstorms in my time here. Even as we creep towards March the weather is still good, stunning even, except the past four days have seen our entire garden and house covered in sand over, and over, then over again. I hate sand. It gets everywhere and our garden is covered. The fake grass can’t be played in until I arrange for it to be vacuumed and the parks are still too blowy to be fun to run around in. And quite honestly the last place I want to go with my son to play is in a playground consisting entirely of sand with a slide, a couple of see saws and a sandpit in it. A sandpit in a sandpit in a sandpit. No thanks.

So the past day or so we’ve spent indoors, and what a great time we’ve had of it. My son is getting to the age now where you can actually start to have fun, I mean proper fun, doing all sorts of silly things to fill the time. Top of the list has been playing in the ‘blue house’ aka a pop up tent usually reserved for the beach. It’s been really great to watch him use his imagination and fill the tent with ‘sleeping’ stuffed toys, toys that are being ‘good’ and therefore are allowed in, and on occasions, Mummy, who must be forced to knock at the door before entering and then not allowed to leave under any circumstances unless it involves ice cream.

We have skyped family for hours, played the piano as loudly as possible, and had picnics in front of the TV for lunch. We have done drawing and I have watched, amused, as he struts around the house with a pad of paper making ‘lists’ that mainly consist of snippets of my own meal planning and shopping lists. I have spent a considerable amount of time rescuing our various electronic devices from being a) procured for imaginary play that will undoubtedly end in breakage or b) if they aren’t portable, ruined by having shoelaces, drink mats, or other suspect objects poked into them.

I look back to last week when I was merely a person acting on the stage for a few days and I do miss the freedom and the individuality it gave me, a chance to lose the mummy shackles for a short time and be just ‘me’. But today I realise I am taking just as much pleasure from hanging out with my little boy this week as I did last week by not hanging out with him. Being away has renewed my enthusiasm to be here. It proved to me that a change is as good as a rest – and I must continue to find this balance in my life, because I really do enjoy being a mum a lot more when I’ve had some time to be myself too.

Another one bites the dust

And so we bid farewell to another icon of our times, Whitney Houston. Her battles with drink and drugs are well documented, as is her shambolic and difficult relationship with her ex-husband. She joins the ranks of celebrities who lost their lives prematurely in tragic but all too familiar circumstances – Heath Ledger, Amy Winehouse, Michael Jackson, Paula Yatesand her partner Michael Hutchence – and they are just the relatively recent deaths that instantly spring to mind, flanked by many more.

The late great Whitney Houston - I never liked her songs much but you can't deny her incredible talent

Is fame the cause of these untimely deaths, or would they have died young anyway? It’s difficult to tell in the 21st century when drink and drugs are readily available to anyone who has the money and the wherewithal to find them. And whilst the cause of a coroner’s verdict of accidental overdose or suicide is very obviously down to a habit gone wrong or a mental illness played out to it’s bitter end, the bigger question might be how that person ended up there in the first place.

A celebrity’s journey to rock bottom is a very different one to the prostitute found dead in her flat from a heroin overdose, even though the result is the same. The ego, the drive, the need for attention, the never ending ambition to be the best – you would have thought the average famous person had more in common with an olympic champion than a penniless hooker. And some do. The superstars that make it through the endless media scrutiny and a million temptations and survive intact, sometimes despite themselves – Madonna, George Clooney, The Beatles.

But for every Madonna there is a Britney, for every Clooney a Charlie Sheen, and for every Macca there is a Cobain. And then you realise how fragile the world of the celebrity can be and how easy it is to succumb to the downward spiral. Broken hearts, tumultuous relationships, eating disorders, nervous breakdowns – they are laid bare in all their un-glory for us to see as the modern day media plays judge and jury. Some stumble back from the brink and recover. It is a small miracle that The Rolling Stones survive intact after so many decades of self abuse, but somehow they realised they had to enjoy the party without destroying themselves in the process. Not an easy task and their aged faces bear the scars. Britney Spears is another survivor. So many feared the worst for her back in 2007 after the famous head shaving incident, but look at her now – a picture of health and happiness and possibly the most successful come-back career in modern times (if, in many people’s opinion, a little undeserved) .

Lindsay Lohan, on the other hand, may not be so lucky. Once hailed as a potentially great actress, she lurches from one real-life drama to another like a car crash happening in slow motion. Her gradual slide towards self-destruction has been seen many times throughout Hollywood history. We often think of it as a contemporary issue but the problems go back a lot further. Judy Garland, screen and stage star of the 1940s and 50s battled with alcohol and drug use during most of her career and was married five times before her death at the age of 47. Marilyn Monroe died aged 36 from an overdose after a life plagued with personal and professional problems. Clearly for many, finding a way out is impossible after a certain point in time – either because their mental anguish is beyond the reach of therapy or because their physical health has deteriorated so far that it becomes impossible to get it back.

So are celebrities more susceptible to addictions, bad relationships and emotional self destruction because they are famous, or do they seek fame and succeed at finding it because they have a more ‘addictive’ personality? Is it nature or nurture? I suspect that like all of us, it is a mix of the two. Having met the odd actor in my time, it’s fair to say that for the most part, famous people – or people that want to be famous enough to eventually achieve it – have enormous egos, they thrive on attention, and they are also incredibly emotionally fragile. All three of these characteristics in proportions we mere mortals can only imagine. They live in a cocoon filled with money, power, other beautiful people and adoring fans. They have a warped concept of right and wrong because the people that surround them do too, usually for different and more selfish reasons. They only have their own inner moral compass to rely on and if that’s not set right then there are a thousand different things that could go wrong.

Musicians, singers, actors – they all start out wanting recognition of their talent, born out of incredible self-belief that they are somehow more amazing than anyone who has gone before and must be applauded. Without them feeling this way we wouldn’t have the Whitney Houstons of this world. Even in today’s reality TV world gone mad, there are, I am sure, still many people out there who will forever remain ‘undiscovered’, not because they aren’t extremely talented, but because they choose not to shout about it. Reality TV has, in fact, bred an even more bizarre celebrity type – one with no talent but the self belief that they deserve ‘fame’ in any case. Being famous for being famous. Or not very famous, in fact. If this little subset fall into the jaws of self destruction it is because they thrive on the publicity that comes from being self destructive. Reality TV ‘stars’, in my opinion, have very little to do with actual ‘stars’ and they certainly share very few traits.

It’s not that I feel sorry for the average superstar. But I think about the person inside the ‘personality’ and wonder what it must be like to be so sure of yourself and yet doubt yourself at the same time, both to such extremes. Even in modern-day times, many women who can command huge fees to appear in a movie become irrelevant to the industry the second they hit 40 or put on some weight. Rock stars who are too easily flattered by all the attention it can garner often don’t have the ability to cope with it and end up in a mess of drink, drugs and unwise sexual exploits. And as well as the inner demons to fight there are the ones with cameras. With the media industry plaguing personal as well as professional lives of the rich and famous 24/7, looking for anything to pounce upon that will sell a paper or a magazine, it’s no wonder celebrities have a conflict of interest when it comes to the press. Of course everyone likes to be the subject of a good story and many would say there’s no such thing as bad publicity. But no-one I know would like their cellulite magnified and splattered across the front cover of a gossip mag, or to be chased down the road by dozens of paparazzi during a traumatic marriage break up, or for their loved ones to know they took too many drugs and died alone in a hotel room. Who starts down the road to fame and fortune wanting that as their epitaph?

So back to my question: would they have died young anyway? I believe the answer is yes. People bandy about the word ‘tragic’ and it is so, that someone with so much potential for greatness dies prematurely. Tragic for us as their audience, tragic for their loved ones, and undeniably tragic for themselves, that they couldn’t fight the demons hard enough to keep them away and enjoy the limelight. But true stars could never have been anything else. Talent cannot be learnt, it can only be discovered, nurtured and celebrated. And these people that we mourn were each in in their own way, undeniably talented. Truly tragic, then, that they cannot be protected from their own bright burning star.

Learning Curve

A Russian Medal for Motherhood - an aspiration for us all

The month of January has mainly consisted of various parenting lessons and life experiences, quite a few of which I’d rather have lived without. It has certainly exposed the best and possibly the worst side of my parenting skills to date and I feel at the moment that Mother of the Year award really could go either way. However, it prompted me to think a little more about the stuff you don’t think about before you chuck your last pill packet away and decide to start a family. The thing is, most of it you couldn’t possibly know beforehand and even if someone told you, you would never listen. So here it is, for all those potential mothers out there – a list of the stuff you should try to remember but will forget and/or ignore about 5 minutes after you finish reading it. To those who are already on the dark side – did I miss anything?

1. Childbirth is not the difficult bit.

2. If you gain 4 stone while you are pregnant it is not ‘all baby’. It is mostly cake, and it will take you a very long time to lose it.

3. You will not sleep a full night again. And that’s not for the next 6 weeks, or 6 months, its possibly FOREVER, because by the time your little one is 13 and refusing to come out of their room until lunch has been and gone, you will be so used to lack of shut eye that the ability to sleep will have faded along with your hopes and dreams of losing that 4 stone.

4. No-one, absolutely no-one, thinks your kid is cute when you are sitting next to them a) on a plane or b) in a restaurant that doesn’t have clowns, balloons or face painting.

5. The amount of time and effort placed into food preparation for your little one is directly in proportion to the amount they will hate it.

6. Drinking is the answer. Getting drunk is not. Rolling into the office a bit late and spending the day downing coffee, advil and junk food is a walk in the park in comparison to dealing with a toddler on 4 hours sleep and a hangover from hell.

7. When your child falls ill or something goes wrong for them you will feel so sick with worry and the love for them will pour out so hard that you can barely believe you had a beating heart before. Three days later you will revert back to playing ‘mummy word bingo’ and seeing how many times you can say ‘no’, ‘please pick it up’, ‘don’t touch that’ and ‘hurry up we’re late’ before you resort to silent screaming and copious eye rolling.

8. Juicy Couture tracksuits are not just for Paris Hilton. They, along with a decent baseball cap and a pair of large sunglasses, are an essential investment that allow you to go virtually anywhere without looking like you didn’t have time to shower/do your hair/apply make up before you left the house. However, you might want to rethink losing that 4 stone before wrapping your behind in brightly coloured velour.

9. Talk through parenting styles before your baby is born. It will give you time to adjust to your new role as ‘mean mummy’ and you won’t spend the rest of your life wishing that you fought harder to be ‘good cop’.

10. If you think something is wrong with your child, take them to a doctor. Google is not a doctor. Neither are you, your husband, or your mother.

11. Whatever ‘it’ may be: It doesn’t matter how many times you think you’ve nailed it, there will always be another mum who does it better.

12. Giving birth does not automatically qualify you to bake prizewinning cakes or sew couture fancy dress outfits but everyone will expect you to do both to competition level within three to five years.

13. Going back to work is not the easy option.

14. Staying at home is not the easy option.

15. You will think you are a terrible parent at least once a week for the next 20 years. Sometimes you may have a point.

Where's my ruby slippers?

There's no place like home. Especially if you don't live there.