Lance Armstrong, the pleasures of sleep and singing in the rain

We left Dubai as part of the annual summer exudos last week. Dubai is awash with testosterone every summer as the mothers and kids head for more temperate climes, leaving the Dads sweaty in the searing heat and bereft of their usual civilising wifely influences. Alpha came with us for the initial jaunt - a very quick dash to London then on to France - but flew back to Dubai last night. He's now adrift in a sea of maleness with only the cats and a DVD boxset of Family Guy for company. Hopefully he will return to us at the start of August with his facilities intact.

It was odd being back in London again after a five-month absence. This is the city I adored for 18 years, a flawed angel that brought me moments of sheer joy interspersed with despair. I thrived on the sheer energy of the place, the contrast of grandeur and shabbiness, the anonyminity, the excitement of feeling that anything could happen, the wide expanse of possibility. I also sank under its difficulties; the crush of the tube and the boredom of traffic jams, the constant rush-rush-rush and panic of always being slightly late, the expense of daily living, the 'computer says no' mentality, the underlying menace lurking in dark streets on the wrong side of midnight, the pinched pale indoor faces of my children.

Making the jump from resident to visitor was a bizarre experience in a city I know so well; the shock of the taxi fare eating up the contents of my purse (where it used to be expected), being aware that an open handbag offers an invitation to any lightfingered stranger (suspicion was once second nature), the novelty of sudden rain, being able to realy look at its beauty - which before was always marred by the band of tension squeezing my temples. Strange. It was very strange.

Now we are in the middle of the French countryside. The view from where I am sitting at the heavy wooden kitchen table is green - a lush lawn spotted with the remnants of windfall apples, fragrant roses, wildflowers and a fat hedge surrounding the garden. Beyond that is a pitted lane and the farmer's house, the only residence within walking distance, and then fields as far as the eye can see. Birdsong and the happy shouts of my children cut through the silence. Sometimes you can hear the sound of a car bumping down the lane, maybe once or twice a day. Going to the boulangerie for our daily dose of warm baguette is a major excursion. I'm so relaxed I can barely bring myself to get dressed in the morning. I'm sleeping for 10 hours each night and, shamefully, also indulging in a nap in the afternoon. Kind of degenerate, huh?

The Tour de France is passing through the local village this afternoon. Watch out for me, tangle-tressed and sleepy-eyed. I'll be the one in my pyjamas, dreamily munching a pain au chocolat as Lance Armstrong shoots by.

The Economics of an Ice Cream Cone

It’s summer and with a young child, ice cream is a joyful, daily ritual. But as I’ve been shelling out dollars over the past days, I began to realize just how our economy plays out — even with something as simple as an ice cream cone.

In New York City, Mr. Softee is our basic ice cream man — a truck that features a smiling ice cream cone with a swirl of vanilla on his head that is a bit Carmen Miranda-looking to me.

One truck usually pops up outside my daughter’s school downtown when warm weather hits. The deal is simple — you hand your kid $1.50, and she comes running back with a vanilla cone covered in rainbow sprinkles.

Three weekends ago, the little one was treated to a cone in SoHo Vanilla ice cream, please, with sprinkles. With $1.50 in hand, my husband turned back to me and asked me for another $3. One for me too? Nope. In SoHo the treat was $4.

Then, last weekend, we all ended up on the Upper East Side — a rushed visit to my daughter’s doctor when her temperature hit 104ºF. With The Plaza hotel and tourists in the background, her beloved cone clocked in at $3.50.

New York is always a numbers game. But how can the price of a basic summer ritual be jacked up nearly 300 percent? When it’s 90ºF outside, and a 6-year-old is staring longingly at the ice cream truck, $4 is a bargain. And when you’ve taken a $34 horse and carriage ride through Central Park (for 17 minutes) on your first trip to New York, what is $3.50?

One family may decide to spend $30,000 for a Volvo station wagon because they believe the safety features validate the price. Another will choose the Honda Fit, at $15,000, because the rest of the money doesn’t justify the extras.

Price is what the market will bear. Price is what people collectively agree to spend. If the tourists stopped buying $3.50 soft serves and opted for $1 Popsicles, I’d bet Mr. Softee would adjust his prices. And if we stopped buying $13 packages of organic diapers, or $95 American Girls, so too might those numbers.

As for me? I’ve got a fiver in my pocket for the rest of the summer. Just in case.

Amazing how I get anxious about every summer approaching....(how will I get my work done?!?!?) And then that magic rhythm hits and I realize how much more wonderful it is to have the work flow ebb without the rush of school letting out, homework insanity, dinner crush and bedtime.

Viva la summer.

A pain in the neck and 15 pre-tweens enjoy a sugar high

As the world continues to mourn for Michael Jackson (an event on which I am decidedly neutral despite having bopped along to Thriller at numerous school discos in my heyday) I am sitting on my front porch enveloped in a humidity blanket, sipping a fortifying glass of red wine and attempting to sit with the correct posture to alleviate the annoying pain in my neck. No, Alpha is nowhere to be seen, this is a literal pain in the neck brought on by a strain in my shoulder girdle - and no, I didn't know I had one of those either until I strained it. The pain was in my right arm but has now shifted to my neck, a bit of a relief as it means I can now type and drive again without too much wincing.

Firstborn reaches the grand old age of seven tomorrow so today was her birthday party, foolishly held at home (under the mistaken belief that having enough space for birthday shenanigans would make the whole affair easier). 15 small girls consumed huge quantities of sugar, Firstborn had an emotion-fuelled meltdown and Alpha narrowly missed being whacked in the goolies during a frenzied pinata session (little girls can be vicious in the pursuit of candy), so I feel confident in saying that the event was a resounding success.

This will probably be the last party Firstborn will have where a game of Pass the Parcel is an acceptable pursuit. Next year I expect her to demand a PA by Paris Hilton (currently in Dubai at the moment in search of her Best Friend, some drivelly airheaded reality show she's whoring herself for... yawn... which has sparked a frenzy of debate in the Gulf News), a feast of caviar and her own recording session, so I'm determined to enjoy the innocence while it lasts.

Viva pre-puberty. I'm all for it.

Michael Jackson: August 29, 1958 – June 25, 2009

I seem to have managed to delete all the comments we got from my last post. Due to my rage of crossness upon finding ridiculous spam posts (Natasha, I DO NOT want to see you naked), I deleted the lot by mistake. Oops. Genuine posters, keep 'em coming. Spammers, b*gger off.

Anyway, I've started painting again and am in a frenzy. Here's one I've almost completed and another I've just started. You don't have to like them - I just wanted to express how proud of myself I am for having put a paintbrush to canvas again after so many years... it's something I've been talking about for a long time.

Onwards and upwards.

Dubai titbits

Some of the choice quotes I've heard in the past week:

• "I have to rush or I'll be late for my personal trainer."
• "I was so upset last night when I heard that you'd been saying that my daughter was being mean to your child that I couldn't make my husband his dinner."
• "You just won't believe the trouble I've been through with my maid recently. I am beyond annoyed."
• "You're flying Economy? Really? I told Colin that if he books me and the kids into anything less than Business Class for our trip home this summer then I'd rather stay here in Dubai. I just can't bear it otherwise."
• "And I said to her, Honey, if you're going to do it then you'll have to go to the Lebanon. The doctors there do the best breasts in the world. It's not something you want to take a chance on, is it?"

MAD!