However, with the 3rd birthday having been and gone last weekend; this week, I’ve used a new tactic with them. Mummy has made it clear that girls of a certain age definitely don’t wear nappies. 3 year olds are like princesses and fairies and they most definitely wear big girl pants. So far, it seems to have worked.

Obviously the transition hasn’t been 1o0% successful, but we’ve had a pretty good week and the ghastly Disney princess knickers have helped encourage the girls to discard the equally loved Dora the Explorer nappies.

I’ve dished out hundreds of thousands of chocolate buttons and smarties as ‘rewards’ and there’s been lots of clapping and cheering from the sidelines.

However, whilst we’ve been celebrating the (fingers crossed), permanent move to knickers, the girls have decided that their new-found grown up status also means they no longer need a post-lunch snooze. As any mummy will agree, the middle of the day sleep is the secret weapon in surviving a day at home with a small child. You just have to get through the morning and the lunchtime feeding session and then you can pack the little sweethearts off to bed for a couple of hours whilst you a) catch up with the household chores  or b) hit the gin.

Without the day time sleep, the day suddenly seems a LOT longer. And because we’re in a transitional phase of doing without the nap, tempers are a little more frayed by the end of the day, tears flow a little more easily, and petty squabbles escalate an awful lot faster (and that’s just twins mummy!).

But I’m not complaining… the thought of the number of landfill sites that my family must be responsible for filling, is really quite disturbing. We will embrace being a nappy-free zone and from next week, we’re going to learn all about the Continental princesses and fairies, who all LOVE to take a siesta….. It’s got to be worth a try.

It didn’t matter where she went, she could always be guaranteed to find someone who lived in, or had lived in, or whose offspring lived in Ebbw Vale. Which is no mean feat when you consider that it’s a small Welsh town in the valleys, only known for its steelworks and then briefly for the garden festival of 1992.

In our family, random conversations with total strangers have become known as “doing a granny” and a few days ago, I became aware that the family trait lives on in me.

I made a brief trip to the UK last week, and at check in, found myself entering into the usual polite chat with the airline lady. I was booked from Dubai to Birmingham, that glamorous (!) destination of choice, and as ‘Kelli’ (Filipina) announced her sister used to live in Abergavenny, I felt a little surge of enthusiasm. Just a few seconds later, we were weighing up the pros and cons of Monmouth (where I went to school), versus Abergavenny.

It must have sounded more than faintly ridiculous to the people in the queue behind me. A British expat discussing with a Filipina expat, both based in Dubai, two Welsh towns that neither of us have ever lived in. I was amused to discover that for the entire time her sister lived in Abergavenny, Kelli flew into Heathrow to visit her, not realising that Birmingham was at least 80 miles closer to her destination!

But perhaps the best bit was when Kelli announced that she was particularly fond of flying to the UK with Emirates, as they always offered a great Welsh menu on board…

I’ve got to be honest.. I’m still pondering that one.

“I’m not happy for my carrots / peas / broccoli” = I’d really rather not eat the vegetables tonight thanks.

“I’m a beautiful monkey” = I understand you think I’m a bit naughty/cheeky but aren’t I rather cute with it too?

“I don’t want to like a potty” – I really don’t need anything other than my nappy thanks.

“I want to eat the monkey food” – Please can I have a banana.

“It’s not school today” – I don’t want to go to nursery today. (Also applies to hair washing / bath time / eating peas)

“I love you mummy” – Translates literally… the very best quote yet.

At home this obviously doesn’t present a problem, and each time I go to my room, I fully expect to find the duvet flung back and the pillows rearranged, thanks to a little visit from my smallest friends.

It’s also become a regular treat, on climbing into bed at the end of the day, to stretch out my arms under the pillows and discover a little gift has been left for twinsdaddy and I to enjoy. Last night it was two wooden engines… Thomas and Percy I think. The night before it was a bejewelled tiara and matching earrings. Always handy to have a plastic tiara on standby in the small hours I find!

This is all fine and actually quite sweet, but unfortunately, their bed fetish now extends to any beds displayed in furniture stores.

Over Christmas, the twins tried out the children’s beds in IKEA, much to the amusement of their fellow shoppers. We smiled and encouraged them to get out, but they only obliged once a full product test had been completed.

Last week, I arranged to join a friend for a coffee in the Dubai Mall together with her youngest son. We met in Pottery Barn as its windows are currently decked in red SALE signs…a sight that I certainly can’t resist.

As we caught up with all the New Year’s Eve gossip that I’d missed thanks to an unwelcome bout of viral bronchitis, the twins wasted no time in locating a beautifully made-up double bed positioned in the heart of the store, in full view of both customers and staff. Before I could even think to suggest otherwise, they’d both bent over and removed their shoes, and proceeded to give each other a leg up onto the bed.

Once up on the neatly tucked quilt, they both started tugging vigorously at the folded sheets below. By the time I’d realised just how determined they were, they were both cuddled up under the covers, heads on pillows and chins resting serenely on the blanket as if butter wouldn’t melt.

Only the promise of croissants would budge them as I literally bribed them out from under the bedding.

If only they were so keen to get into bed at home each night, life would be so much simpler.

25th Dec – Lunch = Roast turkey plus all the trimmings

25th Dec – Dinner = Turkey sandwiches plus most of the trimmings

26th Dec – Lunch = Roast turkey plus some of the trimmings

26th Dec – Dinner = Turkey risotto with hidden sprouts

27th Dec – Lunch = Turkey sandwiches – trimmings thin on the ground

27th Dec – Dinner = Mince pies / Chocolate truffles and festive crumble…

28th Dec – Lunch = A tactical spag bol as twinsmummy knows the turkey curry is imminent

28th Dec – Dinner = The unavoidable turkey curry

29th Dec – Lunch = More of the unavoidable turkey curry

29th Dec – Dinner = Are we allowed to go out and buy any non-turkey related grub yet?

a) red

b) gold

c) covered in jaunty-looking robins

d) look beautiful arranged artistically in the Pottery Barn window

e) all the above

Last week, my mum and I managed  a couple of child-free hours to hit the shops and during this time, I indulged myself in a spot of utterly unnecessary Christmas retail therapy. Totally sucked in by the gorgeously styled table displays, I found myself at the till of Crate and Barrel with snowflake shaped ramekins that I’d decided were obligatory for our festive celebrations.

We already own white ramekins that match our daily dinner service, purple ramekins that match our smart dinner service, and a dozen blue Le Creuset ramekins that are oven-proof, dishwasher-proof and twins mummy-proof. Then there are the two heart-shaped ramekins that come out once a year in recognition of Valentine’s day.

It’s therefore perfectly clear that I don’t own nearly enough ramekins so it was Crate and Barrel’s lucky day.

I can’t mention what else I bought in case twinsdaddy is reading this but suffice to say, he’s also benefited from my seasonal spending!

Yesterday I decided to unwrap my ramekins and find them a spot in my fit-to bursting kitchen. The girls spotted the tissue paper packages and started cooing and aaaahing expectantly so I advised that it was now most definitely Christmas as mummy had bought snowflake shaped ramekins.

More cooing and aaahing.

The girls took one look at the ramekins and I think were a little disappointed after my big festive build up.

I tried to build enthusiasm. “Aren’t they pretty? They’re like big red snowflakes.”

Ooh yes said the blonde, “It’s like Christmas. Mummy got big red CORNflakes.”

We could start a new festive trend!

As their flight left at 8am, the grandparents were up and away before any of the children awoke.

When I went to help the big brother dress for school, he was predictably glum. He’s always the same and requires a big helping of TLC to get him through the first day ‘sans grandparents’. We had lots of hugs and reassuring conversations of how it would be ‘no time at all’ until we see them again, and by the time he trooped off to school, his bottom lip was no longer wobbling.

I was a bit nervous broaching the subject with the girls. The brunette has clung to my father like a little shadow for the past 7 days. She realised early on that if she played helpless, he’d invariably pick her up and carry her wherever required, or feed her spoon after spoon to save her the effort at meal times!

There was no need to worry.

I gently mentioned in passing that Nana and Babar had gone to the airport and then sat back and waited for the howling to begin. The blonde merely shrugged and clarified that they were “going on a plane to Eeeen-gland” while the brunette pointed out the glaringly obvious reason for their departure….

“Nana and Babar have gone to feed Freddie”.

Which is a good point really, as the poor cat must be starving by now!

The face of a child whose balloon has just popped.

There is the initial look of utter shock, followed swiftly by the bottom lip wobble and almost certain tears as realisation dawns. The balloon that was so round and so bouncy just a mere second ago, is now a flaccid piece of rubber lying on the ground.

This is the face that looked up at me in despair just  a few minutes ago as we prepared to head off to nursery for the twins’ National Day party.

The day hadn’t started all that well as the twins took one look at their miniature abayas (bought despite twinsdaddy’s utter horror that his two-year olds should be wearing them at all), and flatly refused to wear them. I’d tried to buy pretty ones that had sparkly detailing around the cuffs and collars but they simply weren’t good enough for my princesses-in-waiting.

I wasn’t going to force the issue. They’re just too young and frankly, I’m with twinsdaddy on this one. I’m not wild at the thought of my daughter’s wearing traditional Arabic dress.

So, abayas safely tucked away in a bag, my back up plan was balloons printed with ‘I LOVE UAE’ which I swiftly blew up and handed to both the blonde and the brunette. These were much more happily received and we headed to the car.

As the blonde walked around the back of my car to get to her door, the balloon brushed against the garage door, and against a rough piece of paintwork.

BANG!

The echo in the garage seemed to continue for some time.

The blonde’s face said all.

Shock… fear… followed by utter devastation.

The tears flowed whilst the brunette helpfully summed up the situation.

“The balloon is broken mummy. My balloon is not broken mummy. My balloon is still big. I like my balloon.”

The balloon was swiftly replaced but the mood was set. By the time we reached nursery and the blonde heard the loud arabic music being piped around the building, she was firmly off the idea of celebrating anything.

“I don’t like that music it’s too noisy”, she complained as we got out of the car, two balloons still intact.

“I don’t like go to the party”

“I don’t like that black dress”

I handed the abayas to their teacher and whispered that there had been some resistance and that if she wanted to try later for the sake of the group photograph, then that was up to her and I wished her the best of luck.

Just don’t mention the balloon.

I like to think that after 3 years living in Dubai, I’m pretty familiar with the place and more importantly, where I can get my hands on all my expat indulgences.

I know where I can buy proper Waitrose biscuits that are guaranteed nut-free; which shops carry British magazine titles, specifically those that satisfy my property-porn habit; and which cafes can produce a proper English fry up (complete with pork bacon!) when required.

For the children’s needs, I can now locate a decent shoe shop where the assistants are (almost) capable of measuring a child’s foot properly; where to find advent calendars and even, somewhere that sells Roman soldier costumes for 7 year olds.

However, when faced with the challenge of sourcing white wool; I drew a blank.

I started off with the fabulous Magrudy’s who have a stash of hobby and craft essentials. I quickly spotted the wool but was dismayed to discover they only had two colours in stock – the very un-white-like blue and equally un-white-like pink!

From Magrudy’s I trawled the department stores, full of hope that somehow, John Lewis’ well-stocked sewing and knitting department, had recently transported itself into Dubai’s Debenhams. For future reference, it hasn’t.

Then to the more lateral thought train… surely the ‘hyper’ markets would sell wool. I mean surely that’s the point of them. They’re supposed to sell everything aren’t they?

For those as old as me, it was reminiscent of the two Ronnie’s ‘four candles’ moment in terms of comprehension achieved.

Me: Do you stock wool?

Assistant: Huh?

Me: Wool! You know… wool. Fluffy. Wool. Coloured. Wool.

Assistant: Huh?

Me: Wool! For knitting (accompanying knitting hand gesture just for good measure)

Assistant: Huh?

Me: Wool. For making jumpers. You know. Cold. Brrrrr (shivering) Jumpers. Wool. Knitting.

Oh god I give up! Utterly pointless.

Needless to say, I found none in Carrefour!

Eventually, someone in the know disclosed that white wool had been spotted in Jumeirah. She went off in search of it on Thursday last week. I haven’t seen her since but trust this has nothing to do with the wool search, though anything is possible.

The wool is needed for the Oompah Loompah costumes for this week’s year 3 performance of Roald Dahl’s finest so it will soon be apparent if the wool mission was successful.

And my second challenge of the week?

Traditional Arabic dress for 2 x 2 yr olds…. Don’t get me started.

Then, after 6 days of grinning, I went from the sublime to the ridiculous. I could barely walk, such was the pain from my L K Bennett Shilo’s (and I don’t care how many members of the Middleton family wear them, they’ve clearly never stood on a motor show stand for 6 days).

From non-stop standing and grinning, I moved to non-stop lying and grimacing.

I underwent laser eye surgery.

It’s something I’ve been half-heartedly considering for around 10 years but my squeamish self has always prevented me from following through.

However, after reading somewhere that the optimum age to guarantee a successful outcome is between the ages of 25 and 40; and the realisation that I was most definitely not too young to undergo the operation; I booked myself into Moorfields Eye hospital quicker than you can say ‘twinsmummy abandons white stick’.

And so for the past 6 days, I’ve been in varying degrees of discomfort, all the while trying to decide if my current visual haze is greater or less than my previous visual haze.

However, today the contact lense bandages have been removed. This procedure was actually more unnerving than the surgery itself as there was no lovely numbing anaesthetic involved; I didn’t have the benefit of lying down, and I was fully aware that a man with an (albeit tiny) pair of forceps, was aiming straight for my eye-ball.

Glossing over my momentary panic (sweaty palms, trying to recite the Welsh national anthem in my head… don’t ask); I walked from my surgeon’s consulting rooms with a most definite feeling of clarity. Not from my eyes I hasten to add, they’re still pretty blurry and confused; but instead from the realisation that I most definitely should have done this many years ago.

And for anyone in Dubai who’s interested in just how successful the procedure has been, I’ll be back on the road from Monday so  you can judge for yourselves… my commute to work involves a fair chunk of the Sheikh Zayed Road so best avoid that if you’ve got any concerns!