Naughty Mummy

A few weeks ago DD competed in her first gymnastics competition.  I think DH and I were more excited that she was chosen to compete, than she was herself!  She has been doing gymnastics on and off for about 18 months, but it is only in the last few months that she has improved to such an extent that she has been invited to compete.

As after school activities’ coordinator, I have watched in awe as DD’s gym moves look more and more like, well, a gymnast’s!  Unfortunately DH has been forced to live off my bi-weekly gushing update reports.  So, when the opportunity arose to watch DD compete…DH was the first to ‘sign up’.  Even knowing this would take up 4 hours of a Friday morning, didn’t deter him, nor did the thought of the boredom induced hijinks of DS’ 1 and 2!

Having dropped off DD at the designated competitor room, DH, the boys and I walked through the gym to the spectators’ section.  As we made our way round the cordoned off competitors’ area, imposing, classical music played in the background, each note announcing the momentous nature of the occasion.  A surge of pride gushed through my body and I welled up.  The atmosphere was solemn, serious.  I began to feel nervous for DD.

DD always puts her heart and soul into everything she does.  She approaches life, as most 7 year olds do, like a whirlwind of impatient energy.  She loves to win; be it reward chart stickers, summer camp medals, holding her breath under water for the longest or finishing her homework first.  Being a twin, I think there is more of an incentive to compete.  For example, when DD and DS1 are at their swim lessons, they ignore what the coach is saying about technique and just race each other.

Given this was DD’s first gymnastics competition, we just tried to focus on her doing her best and clocking up experience.  That was until we saw the competition within her age group.  Comparatively, she looked like she stood a chance of winning something.

That was when ‘naughty’ thoughts snook into my head.  In DD’s group of about 12 girls, I found myself willing her main competitors to score poorly……I would turn to DH and say, ‘if only so and so would wobble enough to fall off the beam’.  I don’t want her to hurt herself, just wobble.  When it came to the asymmetric bars, I thought ‘now if so and so would fail to get sufficient momentum to do the ‘flip’……..my DD would stand a good chance of a place on the podium’.  Then I wondered if other naughty mummies were thinking the same thing as me……..and decided the scoring was best left in the judges’ hands, and to take my own advice and let this be a lesson in doing your best and gaining experience!

DD won a medal for her beam performance.  She was disappointed not to have won more.  Even DS2 expressed his disappointment ‘I wish DD could have won all the medals’ he bemoaned (more, I suspect, because he thought she would have felt obliged to share them with her siblings as a reward for sitting through a 4 hour gymnastics’ session than believing she deserved them!).  However, all was not lost.  The next day we  found out that DD placed 5th overall out of 12 girls at her first competition, and passed level 1.  That was worth more than the medal.  Cue cartwheeling over the moon!

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Insane

Today I decided to start my new workout routine.  Well….it’s not so much a ‘new’ workout as a ‘new’ routine for me.  I have been in possession of the Insanity programme for quite some time, however I have been soooo scared to watch them, let alone attempt them, they remained safely stored in a remote part of my bookshelf.  When I have been brave enough to press play, I swear I broke into a sweat watching the sweaty, heart racing intensity of the warm up, let alone the workout, and I am sure I heard my core muscles shriek in horror at the thought of punishing my body like that (given my core muscles are buried somewhere deep under many layers of food indiscretions, I am amazed that the ‘shrieking’ sounds were not more muffled….).

Having read a number of threads on the UAE’s Expatwoman forum about Insanity, I felt motivated to lock horns with Shaun T.  I felt inspired.  These ladies had signed up for the challenge, and given the uninitiated amongst us the real insight into the pain, sweat and tears induced by Insanity.  Even so, reviews still don’t always strike the reality chord.  Somehow, at least in my reality/head, I thought I could keep up.  I am not saying I expected to do this without breaking a sweat or being out of puff, but I thought, having done many tough DVD workouts in the past, I might be able to struggle through.

WROOOONNNNG!

The baseline marker, the ‘fit test’, laid down the law and made me feel wholly inadequte and weak.  After much deliberation I risked the first real workout of month one.  The WARM UP alone nearly killed me.  I guessed my earlier assessment was completely incorrect.  As usual, those Expatwomen were right!

I puffed, I panted, I sweated, I dripped…..my muscles cried out in burning pain……soooooo many times I wanted to quit, swear at Shaun T and run away…..but I knew that would make me a WUSS.  ‘Tis true; ‘no pain no gain.’

As I worked through the sequences it clicked what Shaun T was trying to do.  I admit it is not for the faint hearted amongst us…..but I felt hope that I may improve….and that is all  that matters.

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Hair today…..gone tomorrow (if only I had known!)

I have thick hair; thick, unruly, inobedient Irish locks.  Thick curls + humid desert temperatures = frizz disaster.  On the richter scale of hair disasters, without question, it measures around ‘8’, i.e., horrific disaster almost all year round – fatalities expected.  Summer is the enemy in my ‘hair care’ strategy (!!).  In summer I feel like a sheep that has not been shorn; a sheep who is being punished because it didn’t provide a sufficient amount of offspring in the spring ( I would say ‘lamming’ season but, not being from farming country, I am not sure if that is spelled with an ‘m’ or a ‘b’!).  My scalp is constantly damp and the beads of sweat just inch their way up the strands of my hair until it feels like it does when I am working out in 40+ degrees…..soggy and greasey.

However, since I have been in Dubai, I have noticed or at least thought my hair has been getting thinner.  Whilst I bemoan my ‘thick coat’ at every opportunity, I would rather be a ‘collie’ than one of the world’s ugliest, hairless dogs.  Not too long ago I suspected my top coat was thinning.  Whilst I had length and thickness, my crown seemed ‘flat’.  For a time I convinced myself it was the weight of my growing, heavy hair pulling the ‘crown’ hair downwards.  When that excuse didn’t fly, I blamed my ‘teeange baseball cap wearing days’.  Apparently heat/sweat causes thinning of hair.  Just look at Tiger Woods, Andy Murray and other sports personalities who spend a lot of time in the sun/heat and wear UV proof protective headgear.  It seems, in the sandpit, it is not just the Nike sponsored Pros who are afflicted with this gradual yet sudden hair loss.  A regular Dubai shower will do it for you!

It seems I am not the only one complaining about hair loss.  I know, I know.  Some of us lose hair all the time.  In Dubai the pale coloured floor tiles highlight the evidence so much more than the European carpet clad floor.  But when you pull out clumps of your hair in successive hairwashes, you do begin to wonder.

Apparently it is all in the water.

However, it seems there is hope for those of us affected by this ‘disorder’, a shower head attachment which reduces hair loss and which saves the planet at the same time.  Having heard of the mystical powers of such an instrument from another celt, I found myself brandishing a shower head, in what I am sure appeared a very accusatory manner, at the cash counter of my local pharmacy.  I thought this was the answer to all my prayers.  Apparently not.  The stoopid attachment only attaches to removable shower heads……and that is not something I use each morning.  My shower head is attached to the wall.  I LOVE my power shower and I am NOT willing to sacrifice that for the ‘remote’ possibility that I may encourage my Irish ringlets to perform a Riverdance encore!

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Re-attaching the umbilical cord

A few weeks ago DS1 came home from school with a high fever.  He was flushed and complained about a pain in his head.

‘No wonder’, I thought, concerned at the thought of how much of the day he had actually been burning up.

Usually I am very stingy with meds, (a regular bone of contention with DH who administers meds at the first sign of a sneeze!), believing that in order for one’s immune system to strengthen, the body needs some time to try to fight the illness on its own.  However, as DS1 (who is such good patient) was almost in tears with the pain in his head, I reached for Nurofen.  My ‘go to pain relief’ is usually Calpol or the kids’ ‘favourite’, the suppository!  But that day I wanted the fever to come down for a sufficient period before the permitted 2nd dose (if required).

Content that he was sufficiently medicated, DS1 took up residence on the sofa in his PJs, covered by his favourite blankie and settled in for an afternoon of DVD viewing with a bowl of homemade popcorn and marshmallows.

I was happy that the weekend was getting off to such a relaxed, chilled out start.

Or so I thought.

At dinnertime DS1 came to me to tell me his lip was swelling.  Before my very eyes, both of his lips resembled a lip enhancement procedure which had gone drastically wrong.  ‘Trout pout’ didn’t even begin to cover it.  I lunged for the anti-histamine and with a very shaky hand read the dosage instructions, and administered accordingly.  Little did I know at the time that I probably could have given him the entire contents of the bottle, and it would not have made a difference!  Within seconds, he lifted up his t-shirt to show me red, raised boil like things spreading across his tummy.  Hives apparently….As a child I had hives…and these things did not look like hives as I know them.  At this point I was scampering around the house gathering my VIP bits and pieces: my car keys, bag, phone, phone charger and water.  The ‘hives’ had now spread to his neck.  His eyes became puffy and bloodshot.  My heart was racing.   My mind was panicking.  I forced myself to remain relatively calm and positive, getting him to the car as soon as possible, uttering words of comfort as I buckled my shocked baby in his booster seat.  His twin sis, sensing the seriousness of the situation, ran around helping to get everything we needed, before we sped towards Motor City’s Medicentres.

Thankfully we live less than a 5 minute drive from a doctors’ office.  DS1 was seen immediately by a wonderful doctor and nurses who gave him all the care and attention he needed.  I don’t want to go into detail regarding what other symptoms DS1 suffered at the doctors’ office because I find it too hard to talk about.  Suffice to say, DS1 was transported to hospital in an ambulance where he spent the night under observation in the ICU.

DS1 is now an epipen carrier.  The suspected culprit is ibuprofen….but we can’t be sure as the timing of the reaction and the fact that he has tolerated ibuprofen in the past, makes it difficult to make a conclusive diagnosis.   The top specialist in Dubai said it could have been an insect bite, but advised steering clear of ibuprofen.  Unfortunately, a blood test cannot be used to test for  this type of allergy.  The only way to put it to the test is to give him another dose (under medical supervision!) and wait to see what happens…..The doc advised against this for now.

Anaphylactic reactions are something I had, in the past, associated with nuts.  I avoided them during my pregnancies for this very reason.  But, now we know DS1 is not allergic to nuts.  Whilst I appreciate a nut allergy (or any other food allergy which can be verified by testing) can be extremely challenging (especially for a child), there is a certain comfort in knowing what causes such a severe reaction.  There is a certain element of control which parents can exercise over their child’s environment; avoidance being the key priority..

The school requires an epipen for DS1.  Check.  School policy requires me or DH to accompany DS1 on school outings.  Check.

Playdates, parties, sleepovers….what do I do??  Can I ask another parent to watch out for the tell tale signs of his allergy and stab him in the leg if need be, and then get him to the nearest hospital?  Seems a big ‘ask’.  Can I sit in someone else’s house for playdates, parties etc? What do I do with my other 2?  I have made it a point of not asking for ‘sibling availability’ at parties because I want each of mine to make their own friends, find their own feet and ‘survive’ on their own.  The thought of sitting outside the Atlantis party venue with 2 kids who cannot join in is my idea of purgatory!

This all comes down to the fact the control freak in me is panicking.  What if it happens with DS1’s siblings?  What if they have such a reaction when in my helper’s care and I am not there to drive them to the nearest medical facility? I have become ‘slightly’ manic about all 3 of them.  The first sign of an headache, I am hoisting up their tops to observe their tummies/torsos for any signs of an allergy.  I take temperatures.  I check eyes, neck glands, and pallour.  I know it is silly and overcautious…..but…..until I can be sure about the allergy culprit, I am not sure I can let this go…..

DH thinks I am crazy.

I have officially whipped out the umbilical cord and re-attached it to my second born and the tethers from the other 2 are tickling my tummy……

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Firestarter and Speed Demon

are the new monikers DS1 and DD have assumed for their recently started go-karting careers! On their first karting experience last week they were registered using their first names.  Today, they were happy to use their registered names….until they saw the list of results which are printed out after each session.  DD and DS1 placed in the top 4 out of 9 ‘karters’.  1st place went to ShockerFarooqui.  ‘Thunderbolt’ didn’t quite live up to his/her name and neither did ‘Slow Coach’ having recorded one of the fastest laps for the month!  DS1, who has already declared his desire to place first next week (he is making a rather grand assumption that Mummy and Daddy will be willing to frequent the kartdrome again next week, all whilst dragging along DS2 with promises of the world to make up for the fact he can’t join in!), realised his racing name might influence his lap times.  I am still not quite sure why I suggested ‘Firestarter’…..it was one of my favourite songs back in the day……I just hope he doesn’t live up to that name on or off the track!  Besides, I am not quite sure if he needs a speed-inducing nickname.  Today, on his 2nd go at the karting track, he bettered his first time by almost 5 seconds!  If he continues on that track (excuse the pun!), he will be snapping at Lewis Hamilton’s heels in no time!

After their first foray onto the Dubai Autodrome’s indoor karting track, it was very clear DD was a speed demon, hence her equally risky racing name, even though she didn’t know what ‘demon’ meant!   DS2, who unfortunately meets neither of the kids’ karting qualifying criteria of age (7 years) or height (120cm), is already pondering his nickname for when he gets the green light to burn some rubber on the track.  I guess my pet name for him ‘Boo Boo’ won’t make the cut!

Watching DH watch the kids, I get the feeling he would love nothing more than to jump into a kart and show them how it’s done.  ‘Re-living my youth’ would have to be his racing name……Unfortunately for him, I think that might just be too long for the results screen!

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Shoe shopping in the sweaty desert

As DD was off at a pizza making birthday party, DH and I took the boys to Mall of Emirates (MOE).  We wandered about, looking for bits and pieces that we had promised/bribed earlier in the week.  As we passed Debenhams, it was impossible for me to ignore the ‘50% off’ sign splattered across the store’s expertly polished windows.  DH sensed the nail polish red sale banner was speaking to me and suggested he take the boys for lunch so as to give me a chance to rummage through ‘end of season (and sometimes one really does have to wonder if the Dubai ‘season’ is from the last century) ‘ racks which would be about as likely to bear fruit as the loins of a grizzled 99 year old.  DH thought his credit card was  safe!

Well, it turns out my fat feet ensured his card was safer than I would have liked!

I thought I was a 38 European, a 5 UK shoe size.  No idea what that is in US….on those sizes it’s trial by error.  Correction, I was a 38 European, 5 UK.  Then I had babies.  3 of them.  Then I moved to Dubai where flip flops/Birkenstocks/Bartulas are par for the course. Yes, they are super-comfy but I do feel they are responsible for the unconscious widening of my already broad feet.  The mere thought of daylight and sunshine, and more importantly space, from the constricted, toe-crunching width of my ridiculously high working heels, has my toes celebrating a freedom pah-tay to thwart any future purchase of fab shoes! 

There were so many beautiful shoes…So. Many. Beautiful. Shoes, I didn’t know where to start!  Images of work attire, enhanced by ‘F-off’ (fancy off) heels flit through my overexcited  mind.  I didn’t care what outfit I was planning on wearing, it was all about the shoes.

But, my feet did not agree.  As I placed the ‘right’ shoe of what I thought was the perfect pair, on the floor in front of me, I swear I saw my feet inflate to resemble sweaty, clown-like feet.  My toes recoiled in sheer horror at the mere thought of being mercilessly forced into what looked like Madonna’s 1990’s conical bra (for a foot, that is!).  My toes resisted with the force of a baby being woken from the sweetest of slumbers.  My ‘foot width’ formed a united front with my toes and conspired against me.  But this did not deter me.

I wiggled, I shoved, I squeezed my reluctant trainer-sweaty feet into the delicate, classy, sexy heels I wanted to wear.  Of the 6 ‘to die for’ pairs, I came away with 2, and if I am honest with my feet….only one of them actually fits without inflicting major podiatric damage!  Damn you ‘aging’, damn you humid, sticky climate, damn you shoemakers who think a half size is for freaks!

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Save me!

Yesterday at school pick up a bunch of 7 year old kids rampaged through the sliding classroom doors brandishing what looked like some kind of ivory weapon.  Mums and carers stumbled backwards in a daze, only to be ripped out of their stupor as each little darling tried their hand (or mouth!) at  their shiny new recorder……Ahhh….it’s ‘learn the recorder time’ at school.

Yesterday, each of the children received their spanking new recorder, the first instrument to be taught in their school.  There were eardrum piercing whistles, very loooonnnnggg blown notes, pretend professional recorder prowess mixed with squiggles of delight as the mini maestros led a merry (though not quite in key) dance through the school yard like the Pied Piper of Hamelin!

The thought of two recorder-playing 7 year olds in the car journey home was too painful for me to imagine, let alone endure.  I had to come up with something quick.  As we clambered into the stuffy, overheating car, I told everyone that playing the recorder was banned in the car….for health and safety reasons….Mummy needs to focus on the crazy Dubai drivers.

That ban went unheeded (no surprise there then!), leading to much teeth nashing, warnings and last chances, all courtesy of Mummy at the speed of flying bullets!

It didn’t stop in the car.  The recorders were played at the dinnertable, in the garden (pity the neighbours!), in the loo.  They were even taken to bed, carefully wrapped up in their cotton, drawstring sleeping bags.  Really????

After another car ride home today with DD and DS1 engaging in a recorder playing competition in the back of the car, I felt like I might fling the next recorder I saw out of the nearest window.  This thought relaxed me.  In fact it brought a smile to my face.

That was until…….I found DD staring intensely at the computer only lifting her head every few seconds to scribble something down on an A4 piece of paper which had been carefully placed under the mouse.  I tiptoed over to get a closer look at what she was doing.  Peering over her flowing, post-swim hair, I spied drawings of recorders filling the screen.  Huh???

A closer look revealed she was using diagrams to learn how to play ‘My heart will go on’ by Celine Dion.  You know…the Titanic theme tune…….

My heart melted.  I have no idea how she found this on the internet.  But she decided she loves the song and wants to learn how to play it.  The diagram consisted of a drawing of recorders showing where each note is in the song (i.e., one recorder picture for each note).  DD was copying the drawings for each note (mental note….hook up the new printer!).  I explained to DD that it might be more efficient and environmentall friendly if she learned the notes and just wrote them down.  Then I caught myself in a memory recall….I recalled my ‘tin whistle’ days.  The first tune I learned was the nursery level ‘Row, Row, Row your Boat’…..and I never managed to perfect that simple tune.

And yet, here is my beautiful DD trying to skip the music’s nursery steps to master one of the world’s greatest hits.  If my ears could smile….they would be smiling right now, and I am sure they will be in the car on the way home tomorrow.

 

 

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Football Fanatics

It recently occurred to me that a lot of my time is unwittingly (and unwillingly) taken up with football in some form or fashion: be it DS 1’s and 2’s obsession with having every English Premiership football kit, football war in the back garden each afternoon, retrieving footballs from the neighbours’ gardens, being quizzed on the English Premiership league table, the names of players, positions…..the list is just endless.

I am not quite sure how this all crept up on me.  DH is a football fan.  He has always kept up with all the latest in English football, watching games on TV and reviewing pundits’ analyses on games, players, transfers and the like.  This never bothered me.  I guess because it never seemed to take over anything.

But now, with 3 boys in the house, each of whom follows a different team, and who are all vying against each other with the same level of competition and determination expended by the Premiership teams jockeying for pole position (have I gottten my sporting metaphors mixed up??!!!), my life very much revolves around football.

Take last night for example.  Liverpool v Chelsea.  In ‘sitting-in-front-of-the-TV life’ this was DH v DS2 with DS1 only cheering on DH’s side out of the good old cause of ‘sibling rivalry’.  His side, Arsenal (DS2), needed Chelsea (DS1) to draw/lose with/to Liverpool (DH) so Arsenal (DS2) could retain their league table position or move upwards whilst Chelsea (DS2) would then have no chance of catching up.  Anything for one up on his big bro!

That’s just it.  It is no longer about just DH following his teams and keeping up on his own time.  Football has ignited what feels like tribal warfare in my front room!  DS2 turns on the TV at every opportunity and finds the sports channels repeating the football games he has missed (even if the commentary is in Arabic).  He has been known to rise at 5am, creep downstairs to turn on the TV (but then proceeds to betray his earlier cunning by turning up the volume to the maximum, and waking the whole house).  DD fights him tooth and nail over his excessive football watching.  Surely Hannah Montana is preferable…..eerrrrr….obviously not!  Whilst DS1 cuts out football related photos from the newspaper to stick to his wall, DS2 can be caught kissing the photo of any player in an Arsenal kit!   On the weekend, DS2 dressed as follows:  Arsenal away kit (for those of you unfamiliar with that – it’s black and purple, oh and, shame on you for not knowing that!), red Liverpool socks pulled up to his junior boxer shorts. and green canvas high top trainers!  I have to say, that was the only time I was glad I had to take DD and DS1 to a pool party!  Pool party with 2 kids v being seen with DS2, dressed as a stooge for Trish and Susannah???  No contest.

Last night as the boys shouted at the TV, DD and I gave each other a knowing look.  I think we both reaslised we need to find our own  distraction, something we can both enjoy without the boys!

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Water twins

Today my DD and DS1, the twins, attended a birthday pool party.  Generally, I do not like pool parties.  The control freak in me panics.  Too many kids in water at the same time.  No lifeguard.  Parents standing around chit chatting.  Kids doing cannonball jumps and flips.  Throw in a lot of inflatable attractions…..a bouncy castle with a slide leading directly to the deep end of the pool, dinghys, and ‘blown to bursting’ animal figures…..On top of that again, add a bunch of overexcited  6-7 year olds running (despite repeated requests from every parent not to run) around the sodden, slippery tiles by the pool, jumping in as and when and they felt like it…….

Today’s pool party was the first I have attended where it was not required that I join my munchkins to be their safety net.  They are both good swimmers, see the water as an amazingly exciting friend, and scoff at my attempts to reinforce ‘water safety’ rules. I left DS2 with DH.  If I had taken him to the party, I would have been in the pool for the entire time, trying to dissuade him from mimicking DS1’s kamikaze flips from the bouncy castle!

The last party to which I took my children saw me spend 99% of my time in the pool, pulling out one or the other of them to help them out of the deeper parts of the pool, or free them from under the large inflatables.

Today, as I stood there talking to another Mum, my head jerking towards the water for what felt like every 5 seconds, I realised something: Yes, I am a control freak.  Nothing new there.  But, I also realised that as my first ‘borns’ are twins, I have always considered the simultaneous safety of two.  As I write this, I hear parents of more than one sighing ‘Yeah and????’ I appreciate that.  Going from 1 to 2 presents its challenges, but having 2 from the ‘get go’, is quite something else.

My twins were the kind that ‘give them their freedom’, they would be off in polar opposite directions.  They were serious climbers before they could walk.  A trip to the playground saw me standing midway between the two as they clumsily clambered on the rusty, rickety rides in a damp Surrey school playground.  As I stood there, my head moving from side to side as if I were watching a tennis match, I remember thinking, and trying to gauge the level of danger for each, ‘who should I run to first should they both need me at the same time?’  ‘Could I reach both if I need to?’  During that time of motherhood I believe my peripheral vision and 6th sense of  ‘whereabouts’ increased significantly.  This 6th sense has not left me.

To this day, that is how I react when I am with my kids.  I scan all the time.  I am always on the lookout.  I cannot relax.

Today’s pool party was a mega success for the birthday girl and my 2.  But Mummy is still trying to decide if it was the heat or the ‘security watch’ that has left her feeling so exhausted.

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Aftershocks

Mild aftershocks rippled through Dubai’s high rise buildings late last night. Ceiling lightsbulbs swayed and house plants shivered.  Even still the city slept peacefully and welcomed a warm, overcast day this morning.  It seems the real aftershocks were to be felt among Dubai’s residents.

This morning, when I arrived at the office, I was greeted with ‘you missed it all the excitement yesterday’.

Just for the record, I miss all the excitement that goes on in my office as it seems ‘excitement’ is strictly reserved for the afternoon slot.

‘The desks were shuddering’ said one colleague.

‘S was praying’ blurted another (couldn’t blame her!).

D, in a confessional moment, named one of his biggest regrets as not having gotten married.

It must have been a scary experience to feel the office move; 30+ floors up and everything swaying.  I am sure I would have thought about bolting.  Some did.  Some staff made a dash for the lifts (obviously not familiar with the correct evacuation drill procedures!).  It was reported that a client made a very swift exit from the office, so swift he left his brief case and paperwork behind.

‘Wow…that was a big one’ commented the level headed MP.

Managing partners are managing partners for a reason.

By this time everyone had emerged from their stuffy, cubby hole offices wondering if the trembling, which was the equivalent of a 4-5 Richter scale reading, was more than their overtired imaginations.

‘Should we stay or should we go?’ they asked.  ‘If we do, can we use the lift?’

Conspiracy theories  were abound.  Is Iran causing these quakes deliberately?  Will there be a tsunami next? Was it a terrorist instigated attack?  Do you think North Korea had anything to do with this?

When ones office is staffed with so many different cultures, many of which give overwhelming credence to superstition, the banal and witchcraft, what people do, think or say does not come as a surprise.

Even so, one theory, proliferated by the office FBI agent (whose supporting friend is Google!), that struck me was that the US is triggering earthquakes in Iran using extremely low frequency technology.  Let’s face it, the US is not on good terms with Iran.  In fact it is never likely to be.  Iran’s nuclear power is a major bone of international contention.  The first quake last week was 60 miles from one of Iran’s known nuclear power plants……I have no idea if our agent’s intelligence is close to the truth, or whether it is even possible, but it is food for thought, at least until I get a chance to my own research.

Before long, the managing partner undertook a walkabout telling everyone to get back to work.  According to him, this is ‘life’.

 

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