International Tooth Fairy Duty

Posted on April 17, 2014 by Dubai Mum

Lost tooth 1, Dubai – Well….DS2 was so excited to lose his first tooth.  Bottom left.  It seemed to be wobbly for what seemed like forever.  Yet the suddeness of the ‘fall’ surprised us all.  One minute it was there, the next, it was painlessly (and thankfully blood free!) balancing in the palm of his hand. An excited household prepared for the Tooth Fairy’s anticipated arrival that evening.  The tooth was brushed (probably better than the actual teeth left in his head!), carefully wrapped in pristine, white tissue paper and placed under the softest of pillows.  This meant the Fairy would have to rummage through what looked like the Himalayas of pillows to find her booty……a test by DS2 who didn’t quite understand that in order to receive the compensation, the Fairy needs to be able to find the trade off!

Compensation: AED20/Euros 4/GBP3

Lost tooth 2 , England – It seems that once the first tooth goes, every other tooth decides to wobble.  For weeks, DS2 was tugging at various pearly whites, all in the name of seeking out the next ‘victim’.  Well….the English breakfast sausage did it…..it was the day DS2 was due to walk onto the Anfield pitch as the Liverpool mascot.  The gummy look didn’t seem to bother him.  A rite of passage.  In his mind, he was catching up with his class mates.

Compensation: GBP5 – AED 30 (the Tooth Fairy’s international colleauge in Britain is clearly more generous….perhaps because she allowed for tax that might be owed on the amount gifted….).  As a bonus he got to keep the tooth as Mummy had to see it!

Lost tooth 3, Hong Kong – After a fabulous, nerve tickling 2nd day at Disney HK, I was the one to suggest ice cream to fuel us on our way to the metro station.  It was hot, stuffy and sweaty.  Ice cream would definitely help the mood.  I am not saying it would improve it. I was just saying it might make the trip back to the hotel less painful.

How wrong could I be???  Half way down the Disney main street DS2 stoppped in his tracks.  Contorting his tongue in his mouth, he looked as if he had caught something in a place that needed to be flossed with extra fine satin.  Blood seeped along the gum line and threatened to dribble down the pearly whites in Dracula fashion.  His fingers looked way too engaged in his mouth to be up to anything other than ‘tooth pulling’.

By the time I realised why he was procrastinating, he had yanked out the tooth.  And yes….bits of the gum were still attached..

Cue the questions….

Will the fairy know where to find the tooth?

Will the tooth fairy pay me the same as the English tooth fairy?

Where does the tooth fairy live?

XE.com – anyone?

At that point I noticed DS2 getting paler by the second.  Clutching his tummy, he doubled over and parked himself on the pavement to take a moment.  It was as if the blood were draining from his head to his toes.  His cheeks whitened and then his lips blanched.  I prepared myself for vomit.  The shock of losing a tooth was taking its toll!

Thankfully a stint indoors in a temperature controlled environment did the trick and the colour steadily returned to his cheeks as quickly as it left them.

Compensation: HK$20/AED10/Euros 2/GBP1.50

Interestingly, it didn’t matter to DS2 that the HK Tooth Fairy offered the least amount of compensation (especially for a top front tooth!)……he got a colourful, crisp $ note.  In the world of 6 year olds, paper money is more valuable than coins…..

Well, it definitely seems that DS2’s dental surprises are keeping us on our toes!  We now expect him to lose a tooth each and every time we travel.  Next one should fall out in summer!  Let’s see how the Irish Tooth Fairy measures up to her international counterparts….if only there were some form of international tooth currency converter……

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An Inspiring Day

Posted on April 16, 2014 by Dubai Mum

A few weeks ago Arsenal supporting DS2 ran onto the hallowed grounds of Liverpool’s Anfield alongside the team’s captain, Steven Gerrard.  Stevie G shepherded DS2 along the line of Spurs’ players as they both shook the hand of each of the opposition.  Once he shook the hand of the final player he had a short kickabout with Stevie G.  What an experience for a 6 year old!

The stuff memories are made of but which I suspect to which DS2 is oblivious.

Almost 6,000km eastwards, I, DD and DS1 watched DS2.  DD snapped photos with my iphone.  DS1 recorded the TV footage on an ipad and I endeavoured to take photos with my new camera (how over optimistic was I given I hadn’t even read the user manual??!!).  Even so, we all gushed with excitement and pride not quite believing that the moment was real.

Before the match I was slightly apprehensive  that DS2 might not actually go onto the pitch.  DH would not be anywhere to be seen, and my normally shy, ‘I-need-to-get-to-know-you-first’ baby had to stay in the tunnel with the Liverpool’s and Spurs’ players all by his lonesome.  I worried he might find the occasion so overwhelming, that the roar of 45,000 fans migh intimidate him, and  the enormity of the occasion would conspire to frighten him into retreat.

Subsequent tunnel cam footage showed me he was nervous.  His apparent ‘disinterested’ look is actually the look of anxiety bordering on sheer terror.  Seeing that visage made me even more proud of my little man.  Not an easy feat for anyone, and he walked onto the sacred Anfield ground with composed aplomb.  Indeed he looked ‘too cool for school’.

A 40 minute drive from Liverpool’s hallowed home and Nana was tuned into her local radio to catch the match commentary.  Sobbing (her description!) with tears she beamed with pride and joy that her grandson was privilged to experience this momentous occasion….and give Grandad the chance to share in the experience.

A 45 minute flight further west of Liverpool, Irish Nana and Grandad (and a legion of Irish fans) were waiting with bated breath to spy DS2 strut his stuff onto Anfield.  Nana, gushing with pride, even told the local parish priest about her grandson’s TV appearance.

‘Nuff said.

Fast forward 3 weeks to our school’s Easter break to Hong Kong.

In Kowloon’s Eastside Bar, surr0unded by South Asian Liverpool supporters priming themselves for the Man City game, I wanted to rush up to them and explain that when they watched the Spurs’ game they witnessed the history of DS2 walking onto the pitch as the Liverpool mascot…(the thought of charging them to have their photo taken with him also crossed my mind!)

A moment in the making for everyone.

Still taking stock. Proud. Stunned. Privileged.  Grateful.

 

 

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It’s not just Mother’s Day

Posted on March 30, 2014 by Dubai Mum

Today marks a day that is special to all of us, a day to celebrate how fantastic our Mums are as well as taking time out to think about what an honour it is to be a mum.  On a daily basis we are privileged to witness effortless and enviable mindfulness in action, pure joy and unconditional love; truly a blessing.

For our household today represents another major event.  Just before today’s kick off between Liverpool and Tottenham Hotspur at Anfield, DS2 will walk onto the pitch holding Liverpool captain, Steven Gerrard’s hand!  As the team’s mascot, and wearing his new, shiny Reds’ kit, he will set foot onto one of the world’s most sacred football grounds to shake the hand of each Liverpool player.  In the stadium 45,000 excited fans will be cheering on their teams and possibly singing the emotive anthem, ‘You’ll never walk alone’.  Around the world, goodness knows how many more football fans will see my baby lead out a world famous team.  This has to be one of the best prizes ever!

I will always remember the day DS2 won the prize that sent him and Daddy and Liverpool Grandad on the weekend of a lifetime!  DS2 took it all in his 6 year old stride.  In practice, his plan was to aim for the higher points.  Having watched Robbie Fowler, AKA ‘God’ to Liverpool fans, struggle to score any points, DH and I advised DS2 to err on the side of caution and aim for the lower points.

Out of 22 kids participating in a penalty shoot out on Dubai’s marathon day, he was one of two kids to win the top prize.  As an Arsenal supporter, DS2 was pretty nonplussed about the prize of seeing one of England’s oldest and most successful clubs.  He just wanted to win.  Most kids wore either a Liverpool kit of some sort or casual clothes.  Not DS2 who, without apology, stepped up to strike the ball in his Arsenal shorts.  He took his time.  He surveyed the situation.  He studied the ball.  He studied the target.  Robbie Fowler observed his actions with a confused look on his face.  To this day I am not quite sure whether he was focusing on DS2’s Arsenal shorts or amazed at the concentration levels of one so young!  The rest is, as they say, history.  A 6 year old fought off older and bigger competition to make Daddy’s and Grandad’s dreams come true – a VIP tour of Anfield, lunch and the possibility of a ‘meet and greet’ with the players.

Overwhelmed at winning and struggling to understand the level of excitement amongst the adult spectators, DS2 didn’t know what to think and started to cry.  Bear hugs and kisses soon sorted him out.

YesterdayDH informed me of DS2’s  meltdown which occurred in the hotel room.  He wanted to come home.  He wanted Mummy.  My heart broke.  After an excited and unsettled night, he had to rise at 4am (DXB time), fly 7 hours and cab it to the hotel.  Throw in some fizzy drinks treats and junk food, and it is no surprise that this young man was a wreck by the time he reached the hotel.

Thankfully he had a good night’s sleep, and as I type is on his VIP tour of Anfield.  At work I instructed every football fan to dash home, tune in and record!  Excitement levels in our house right now are off the scale and there are still 90 minutes to go….

As an adult I understand the enormity of the occasion.  It is exciting, exhilarating and uplifting.  I visualise this being a milestone in my son’s life, a moment which will inspire him, a day when his talk of being a professional footballer (albeit not for Liverpool apparently) will drive him to be one.  Maybe I watch too many Hollywood movies….as long as he enjoys himself, that is all that matters.

 

 

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Lord of the Dance Dubai

Posted on March 28, 2014 by Dubai Mum

I was as excited as a 6 year old on Christmas eve when I heard that Michael Flatley was bringing his show to Dubai.  I immediately decided I would take the family to experience the breathtaking show which honours a core part of Irish culture (turns out I mistakenly thought DH and DS2 would be out of town), so it was me and the twins, as well as a lovely Irish-Scottish friend (who competed at a very high level in Irish dancing in her day!).

It has to be said that DD was keen to see what this ‘Irish dancing’ lark was all about.  DS1, on the other hand, was not soooo bothered and would have preferred to stay at home with FIFA14 to keep him company.  Celtic friend was definitely up for it.

As the seating was ‘free seating’ we had to set off early to secure a decent vantage viewing point.  I didn’t want to be at the back of the hall looking at flecks of poodle haired ringlets bobbing up and down from a blurred distance.   Not permitted to take in an ipad, it was tricky keeping two 8 year olds occupied.  There’s only so many times you can hear the question ‘How many more minutes before it starts?’  It is truly amazing how, after the 50th time, you can block out the sound of your first born’s voice!!!

High on nachos and popcorn, the twiglets (as I referred to them in utero) were content.  An ‘aha’ moment. I now think the cutesey twosies were happy to come to the show with me for the trade off of popcorn, nachos, hot dogs and ice cream!!!!  They remember the venue for the salt/sugar bounty that was at the Michael Jackson, Cirque du Soleil show before Christmas!!!  Cheeky beggars.

5pm.  Curtains up.  Let the Show begin!

Jaw dropping, heart beating perfection appeared before our very eyes.  I was entranced by the agile, nimble, unreal speed of the footwork.  The dancers hardly inhaled oxygen as they smiled through demanding routines in fluid, mesmerisingly quick synchronicity. A frisson of excitement swept through my body.  The hairs on my arms tingled and encouraged a shiver to run down my spine.  Half way through the first half, I was lost in my reverie of Irishness and beginning to pine for home.  That was until DS1 asked ‘why did Messi change his number to number 10?’  Irritated and confused, I replied ‘I don’t know.  Just watch the show.’

At the interval, he insisted on pursuing this line of questioning.  Thankfully Celtic friend had the answer.

Mental Note: employ Celtic friend to educate me about any major football team in the world…..

After another visit to the concession stand and the kids were anaesthesised with junk.

An amazing display of glorious Irish culture unfolded before our very eyes.  Whilst DD was entranced, DS1 was not so focused.

At a critical point in the show when the dancers were at their fervoured pique, the next big question came:

‘Mummy, where was Jesus born?’

‘Will tell you later, hon’, I replied.

Once lesson at a time.  Irish culture today.  Religion tomorrow.

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Turning Back Time

Posted on March 3, 2014 by Dubai Mum

Not too long ago, I was at a party in a friend’s house.  Hosted by my lovely Emirati friend it was a ‘ladies only’ party.  The dress code, as stipulated by the hostess, was ‘short and sexy’.  Reluctantly I donned a short-ish dress, way-too-high heels and applied a more dramatic make up style than I would normally use (read: a thicker layer of mascara and eyeliner)!  Perhaps it was the thought of the all female company which made me feel more daring and yet comfortable at the same time.  Perhaps it was the thought of the beautifully (and perfectly) made up local ladies which made me feel I needed to make more of an effort!   Feeling empowered, I mingled like a demon and began to dance the night away.

That was until a friend turned up.  Happy to do the French ‘mwah, mwah’ I was taken aback when she  announced  ‘you smell like my mom’!

Well, if I didn’t wobble on my ridiculously high heels…….

I was wearing my favourite perfume.  Granted it has been a favourite for almost 20 years….but it has that timeless quality.  Otherwise it would not have lasted.  Granted this friend would have been 10 years old when I started using it……but really? Your Mom??????

Is this how it is going to be?????

Clearly it is.

As I inch towards old age, I am reminded of that fact at every turn!!!!!

One of my favourite girlfriends at work recently looked at me with a bemused look on her face.  Encouraging of and impressed with my weightloss over the past year she has been constantly advising on ‘my new look’.   Her new project began silently.  Vigorously and dramatically poking her finger at her forehead (well she is Moroccan and dramatic arm/hand movements are par for the course for all conversations).  Clearly she was trying to tell me something.  Knowing full well what she was trying to communicate but pretending I didn’t, I played dumb.

Continuing with the hand gestures, she announced for everyone to hear:

‘You need botox here’ as she drilled her index finger into what I like to call the  ‘expression’ lines on my forehead.

Needless to say, after these two incidents I was feeling a tad sensitive about my advancing years.  Indeed I was feeling quite insecure and vulnerable.  How do I peel back the years to match my inner 25 year old??

Dubai is like what Irish folklore identifies as ‘Tir na NOg’.  Translation – ‘The land of the young’.

Dubaians, mainly women, are constantly on the trail of the latest wrinkle decreaser, the elixir of eternal youth.  Botox, Juvederm, Fillers, Vampire Facials, Dermabrasion……all available here (apart from the vampire facial which was banned this week!) in all salons and medical centres across the Emirate.  There is definitely a certain pressure to ‘keep up’.

As a working mum of 3, I don’t have time for what I call ‘nonsense’.  But secretly I would love to try one of these treatments to see how much time it would shave off!

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A life of discarded uniforms

Posted on March 2, 2014 by Dubai Mum

This made me smile. Being a hoarder I do the same! Am not quite sure why I hang onto the discarded uniforms….if they ever take up the activity in the future, they will all be too small! Hope the yoga socks weren’t too pricey!

mrsdubai's avatarDubai's Desperate Housewife

It started with a ballet outfit when DD was four.

Having done ballet aged three in a pink tutu, DD’s ballet school declared that four-year-old ballerinas must wear white. Out went the pink leotard, the pink tutu, the pink socks and even the pink leather ballet shoes (onto which I’d hand-sewn the elastic straps – spare a moment, please, for my pain). In came a white ensemble made from spun gold and angel breath – well, you would think that, given how much it cost – and, into the dressing-up box went the pink outfit.

From the drawer of discarded uniforms: one dance kit and one leotard From the drawer of discarded uniforms: one dance kit and one leotard

A term later, DD gave up ballet. To be fair, she’s not a natural. Into the uniform drawer went the white outfit.

Then DD took up gymnastics. I think this was the year of the London Olympics. She really enjoyed watching the gymnasts. After about…

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The Power of PCs

Posted on March 1, 2014 by Dubai Mum

Living in Dubai, one gets used to a less rigorous approach to many things.  As a newbie Westerner, there were many things which surprised me when I landed on Dubai’s shores: the lunatic driving, the bureaucracy, the number of passport photos which are required to become a legal resident!  So many of the systems here are so longwinded it feels like your decision to move here is being tested.  ‘Centralisation’  is a concept which only appears to be in the neverending ‘consultation’ phase.  It’s exhausting.  But once it’s done, it’s done, and you are good to go!  You learn to adapt and go with the flow.

Not long after settling in this wonderful Emirate, I found a job that slotted right in with my Mummy demands.  Even with a couple of years of Dubai life under my belt, I realised there was still more to which I needed to adapt.  My office is a law unto itself.  My first few months there felt like I had been sucked into parallel universe between the hours of 8 and 12 noon.  Throughout my probation period my face was frozen with the same ‘is this really happening?’ expression.

Clients being greeted by a receptionist straightening her hair at the reception desk; a saree wearing office manager who seems to think her sole role is to monitor the emails of previous employees and not to manage the staff/office; no onsite IT support; managers who stroll into work at midday and who have a long lunch from 1pm to 4pm; the odour of McDonalds/Curry/Biryani/KFC wafting through the corridors; secretaries dressing as if they are ready for a night working the bars;  secretaries scampering around barefoot; no spam filter to block the v!agra and b@@b enhancement emails (probably because they were of interest to some!); and salaries according to nationality.

Re-reading what I just wrote, I am amazed I ever adapted….living and experiencing it each day makes it your norm.  Like I said…..you adapt and carry on.

That is until that moment when something wrestles you back to reality.  Feeling stunned; as stunned as if I had been zapped by a tranquiliser gun strong enough to floor an herd of elephants……DH’s email security rejected one of my recent posts (the cheek!)…..Now, DH is one of my 15 followers….and only by force.  I signed him up to be the primary recipient of my posts.  I wanted to run everything past him first and often get his opinion before I clicked on ‘publish’.

But now my proof-reader/editor/censor was blocked from reading my posts!!!  And all because of the rigorous (yet standard in the Western business world) spam/virus filter that his company uses.  An international company with offices around the world uses a spam filter to protect its IT systems from viruses and unwanted rubbish advertising!  Imagine that!

I have to say, I was quite taken aback.  How could this be?  This didn’t look like anything I had experienced in Dubai.  So what if he is part of an international company with a real, tried and tested IT policy??  We are now in Dubai.  Things here are different.  Why can’t my hubby read my latest post???  Sure, it contained a few choice words like shi%$ (hardly offensive) and an acronym which would be considered offensive to a WW2 agressor (but that is the acronym of my kids’ school!).  I am sure this must have been a mistake.  After all we live in a very liberal, non-PC world on this side of the world.

Dodging between realities is tiring; in fact it is exhausting.  I came to Dubai with my Western experience.  I adapted to the way of  life to work here (and dare I say it, the working life here is so much more fun, integrated and colourful than in the West), and now I am reminded of the the Western tethers.  The power of PCs.  Shame.

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On Being Irish Part 2

Posted on February 24, 2014 by Dubai Mum

The other day at work, I was speaking to an Irish/Scottish friend who said a word that I, as an Irish expat, have not heard or used in eons.  The word was ‘messages’.  Any guesses as to what that might mean????  To us Irish, it means ‘groceries’, a list of groceries which need to be purchased.

I swear I haven’t used that word since 1996!  When I did, the German/American person to whom I was speaking looked at me with a contorted facial expression that truly belied her utter confusion (and suspicion that I just might be a lunatic).  Well educated, well travelled, she had no clue to what I was referring.  And now, I can see why!  How do you get from ‘groceries’ to ‘messages’????

My recent conversation with one of my kind (or at least half of my kind!) got me thinking about other aspects of my language/vocabulary/behaviours I have adapted in order to be understood in an expat world.  Having departed my homeland almost 20 years ago, the usual suspects crop up and require translation!

The letter ‘R’ is pronounced ‘are’ and not ‘or’

The letter ‘H’ is pronounced ‘aitch’ and not ‘haytch’

A pint of Genius = A pint of Guinness

Amadan = Fool

Banjaxed = Broken/not working

Be Gosh and Begorrah= No translation needed anywhere in the world!

Bog = Loo

Bogtrotter = A person from the countryside

Bold = Naughty

Bucketing down = Raining heavily

Built like a brick $hit house = Built like a body builder/monster/tank

Cod = To tease/joke/kid

Culchie = Someone from the countryside as opposed to the city

Delph = Crockery

Dry Shite = A boring person

Eat the head off = Verbally attack

Eejit = Idiot

Feck = self explanatory!

Flah’ed out = Very tired

Fluthered = Very drunk

Gawk = To stare

Giving out = Telling off

G’way outta dat (that) = Don’t be silly

Go through someone for a short cut = An even more serious telling off (seems we do a lot of telling off in Ireland!!!)

Gobshite = Idiot

Gobdaw = Gobshite (see above)

Gone in the head = Crazy

Grand = Lovely/fine

Hammered = Very drunk

Header = Crazy person

Head the ball = Header (see above)

Holliers = Holidays

Holy Show = Utter embarrassment

Hooley = Party

Hot Press = Airing cupboard

It was greaat craic = It was great fun

Janey Mack = Gosh

Jammy = Lucky

Jaypers = OMG!

Jaysus = Not exactly praying to Jesus…..

Kip = Nap

Kitchen press = A kitchen cupboard

Knacker = Pikey

Knackered = Shattered

Mitch = Skip school

Moth’ = Girlfriend

Nixer = Job done for cash in hand

Not giving a fiddlers’ feck = Not giving a damn

Ossified = Had more than one too many

Perishing = Freezing

Pictures = Movies

Pissed = Annoyed

Quare (a distorted version of ‘queer’) = Very (used for emphasis)

Raging = Furious

Scab = A person who constantly borrows money/frugal

Shenanigans = Goings on

Shift = To snog/kiss

Sloshed = Drunk

Stop the Lights! = No way!

Tear a strip off  = A serious telling off

The Black Schtuff = Guinness

The jacks = The loos

Thick = Stupid

To be sure, to be sure (must be repeated) = Of course

What’s the craic? = What’s going on?/What’s happening?

Wrecked = Exhausted

Wet the baby’s head = Celebrate the birth of a baby with a drink of the alcoholic variety

And that’s just some of the Irish slang!  Just writing this post has forced me to dredge my memory for sayings and phrases that were a part of me and my everyday life.  I now have to focus intensely to recall them.  As much as I enjoy living in melting pots, be it in Dubai, Hong Kong, London….nothing brings a smile to my face as quickly as someone who throws out those Irish phrases without a care in the world as to whether they will be understood or even misunderstood!

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School narcolepsy

Posted on February 23, 2014 by Dubai Mum

Really feeling the pain!

Circles in the Sand's avatarCIRCLES IN THE SAND … Marianne Makdisi

So from the high that was Amsterdam, comes the bump of real life, and dealing with a problem that presented itself just before half-term.

You know something’s not right when you get a call from school asking you to pop in. I duly did so, the very next morning. And while everyone I spoke to couldn’t have been nicer (or more helpful), the writing was already on the wall.

My son fell asleep (twice) at school.

He denies it, of course. Son2 is not stupid and knows sleeping at school is frowned upon. He has an elaborate story about his friend L telling him to lie down on the grass outside and close his eyes. When the teacher found him snoozing on the little, landscaped hill, he was actually awake and just playing a game, he claims. Hmmm, nice try!

It’s possible, I suppose (a pig…

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On Being Irish

Posted on February 23, 2014 by Dubai Mum

On being Irish causes a lot of friction in our English – Irish household (alphabetically put!).  Irish Mum.  English Dad.  DD and DS1 born in London.  DS2 born in Dublin.  All now living in Dubai.  For the kids, Dubai makes up the majority chunk of their tender years.

For as long as I can remember, DS2 has insisted that he is fully, 100% Irish.  He does not entertain the thought that there is an ounce of English blood in his scrawny 6 year old body.  Indeed he seems quite repulsed by the suggestion that this is the case.  His rationale is that ‘if you are born in Ireland, you are fully Irish’.  Having parents from different countries is irrelevant.  So, following his thinking his siblings are English (something which they are happy to agree with, but which I suspect is more out of a feeling that they have potentially more international sports teams for which they could play compared to those which their Irish genes could offer!).

Each St. Patrick’s Day, I send the kids to school with treats and a little info on why the Irish celebrate March 17th.  They skip to school excitedly with a tricolour of balloons, tagged with Irish blessigs, and of course a sugary treat to share with their friends.  Last year a teacher (with an Irish sounding name) said to DD:

‘I didn’t know you were Irish!’

As quick as anything the little Madam responded:

‘I’m not.  I’m English‘!

St. Patrick would turn in his grave!!!

Back to DS2.  The fact that the country of birth is irrelevant in determining nationality is a difficult concept for a 6 year old to comprehend. But he is adamant he is Irish and only he and I are the true blue Greens.  The fact that all 3 have Irish passports is lost on him!

He wants to be the future Johnny Sexton of Irish rugby. He wants to play for Donegal’s Gaelic Football team.  He wants to be the next Liam Brady of international Irish football.  For such a small country, he has so many heroes and icons to look up to, and aspire to be.

At the end of the day, I honestly think it is more about colour preference.  He likes ‘green’ (Ireland).  ‘White’ (England) for him is ‘meh’.

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