Life getting a bit easier?

Posted on by

At stupid o’ clock this morning, the grey light of dawn only just creeping round the curtains, my human alarm clocks dragged me from some rather enjoyable early-morning dreams.

If just one boy appears, there’s a chance he’ll go back to sleep. But when you hear the pitter patter of two sets of feet running across the marble floor, it’s usually game over and a full 17 hours before you get another go at the whole getting a good night’s sleep thing.

So, at 5.40am – a weekend, of course – I was resigned to a day of muddling along in a tired, fuzzy-brained state, nothing unusual in that. Then something really astonishing happened.


Suddenly, it was 8.45am. The house was quiet. The boys not in bed, but not making a peep. They’d vanished – and I’d slept through the whole thing!

I found them downstairs, glued to the TV watching cartoons in Arabic (learning something, perhaps?)

They’d let me go back to sleep – a first! And there were clues everywhere that they’d looked after themselves.

The puddle of milk. Chairs dragged across the room so they could climb up to get snacks from out-of-reach cupboards. The kitchen scissors on the floor, used to open packets of M&Ms. Biscuit crumbs everywhere.

Why, next weekend they might even pack their own lunch boxes and head off to joy ride the Metro all day.

It’s another definite sign – along with ditching the toddler car seat, breezing out the house without the stroller and our semi-successful interventions to cut down on whining – that they’re growing up and life’s getting a bit easier.

Bitter-sweet? Maybe. But, mostly, utterly wonderful (I do love my sleep), even if I pay for it this afternoon when their early start leads to crabbiness in spades.

A fire and a sandstorm all in one day!

Posted on by

It was mid-morning when the school sent text messages to all the mums.

I say mums, but ours actually came to DH, as the teachers still seem to think he’s a better bet.

The first words, “The Civil Defence has advised…” were carefully chosen to make sure we sat up and took notice.

“…that students should go home due to the possibility of fumes coming from a fire in the industrial area.”

Of course, this unscheduled evacuation sparked a flurry of text messages and phone calls among the mums – to spread the word that any afternoon plans were toast.

“Have you heard?”

“The kids are coming home!”

“I was planning on an 11am Ashtanga yoga class, followed by a gellish manicure and a triple berry smoothie at the Lime Tree Cafe,” I imagined inconvenienced mums saying. “And the nanny insists on resting in the afternoon, I might actually have to take the kids to Magic Planet.”

My work plans thwarted yet again, we headed out when BB got home – and were plunged straight into our second excitement of the day.

While driving along, the 4WD was suddenly engulfed in a billowing sand storm. One minute the sky was clear and blue, the next minute a yellowish mist had descended, the wind was gusting and there was sand swirling everywhere. Visibility quickly reduced to about an arm’s length.

Apart from the high temperatures, we don’t get much in the way of extreme weather here so everyone in the car with the exception of me was loving it.

I was having visions of being swallowed up by the desert, while innocently on our way to watch Horrid Henry. I could see the headline in my mind, ‘Expats vanish in Barsha triangle’

Either that, or we’d get into an accident on the road, which you could hardly see through the thick, fog-like dust.

Thankfully, DH was at the wheel, and noticing that I was clutching my seat, he smiled and said kindly, “Don’t worry, the visibility is at least 50 metres – still legal for landing an airplane.”

Which is precisely why he’s in the right job, while I – my eyes nearly closed by this point – could never do it in a million years.

The sandstorm rolling in

Sand flying about everywhere (and if you happen to be outside, sand gets in your eyes, mouth, ears, hair and up your nose)

With visibility so poor, driving becomes hazardous

Why working from home isn’t working

Posted on by

There’s something I’ve learnt about work in Dubai – it’s quite different from being gainfully employed back in the UK or US.

You can ‘get away’ with things here – so you hear stories such as my friend’s tale about a meeting in which her boss got angry and swirled around to tell her colleague, “My, you look spotty!”

On the job section of a website called Dubizzle, you’ll quickly find adverts that specify what nationality they’re looking for, or not. For example, ‘Models & promoters needed (No Filipinos)’; and another stating, ‘Only expats or Russian girls may apply.’

After just five minutes of living in Dubai you realise that with so many people from South Asia terrified of losing their jobs, working conditions are not always what they should be – and nor is the pay.

But I didn’t mean to dwell on the negative stuff, because actually the chance to work with such a diverse mix of people from all over the world (not to mention the tax-free extra dirhams) has been wonderful. My intention was merely to point out some differences I’ve noticed.

So yesterday, when a publishing company I won’t name asked me to come into the office for “a couple of hours” to do some proof-reading, what they really meant was “would you give up 10 hours of your time to re-write swathes of copy put together by writers from Syria, Egypt, etc, whose first language is most definitely not English.”

Spot the difference: H&M adverts featuring sexy Brazilian model Giselle were censored for the Dubai market

I’m also finding out that there are certain things you won’t ‘get away with’ in the media industry here. I’ve been told that designers and journalists who have put together a layout with a camel above a sheikh have lost their jobs – and international publications have been known to have inappropriate images (like a rear view of a naked woman at the back of The Times Style magazine) blacked out with marker pen.

This is apparently done by those doing time in the UAE. And anything deemed offensive may also be ripped out. One publisher had government approval to write about wine for a food book. Once the book was published, the decision was apparently reversed and the book was sold with the wine chapter listed on the contents page, but no chapter actually in the book!

To date, I don’t think I’ve said anything on my humble blog to get me deported. And working down in Media City, where there are numerous good-quality magazines, from Time Out to Esquire, has been a really positive experience.

And when I went to see the movie Friends with Benefits the other night, it had been so heavily cut, there was no evidence of any benefits at all!

Perhaps my biggest challenge has been the projects I’ve taken on from home, because at the moment I’m finding working at home to be the equivalent of walking up the Burj Khalifa backwards in Jimmy Choos.

It’s just too tempting to think, “I’ll just squeeze in that mammoth grocery shop / go through that drawer of clutter / lie down for a quick nap.” And, the hardest one to resist, hearing the kids the other side of the wall being looked after by our nanny.

I keep finding myself at the computer at 11pm trying to catch up. Hence I was intrigued by a couple of jobs landed by friends of mine recently (as a quick aside, it never ceases to amaze me how expat women here who don’t want to work full-time, don’t want to have another baby but want to do something to stave off boredom, reinvent themselves – sometimes several times over).

So my friend who was a nurse, and discovered that the pay here for this particular profession is abysmal, is now a chocolate taster for the Mars factory! And another pal, who used to be an airline pilot in the US, became a mystery shopper (she actually got paid to shop!) and now reviews movies for Virgin Radio Dubai.

Perhaps the answer is to only accept jobs that take me into an office in Media City, where household distractions aren’t a problem – except all the girls down there are young and thin, with sashaying hips, trendy clothes and perfectly flicked frizz-free hair.

Anyway, enough – I’m procrastinating again and must get back to editing a delightfully bad feature (because there’s only so many times I can tell them my lack of productivity is due to our internet being down).

PHOTO CREDITS: TNT Magazine; Collider.com

On having two mummy’s boys

Posted on by

Nursery is a marvellous invention, especially as it’s so nearby so we don’t even have to get in the car – LB could practically walk there himself (except imagine what a terrible parent they’d think I was if LB dropped himself off in the morning!)

But it’s amazing how fast the session goes by. All over by 1pm, it means that by the time I’ve got my act together, bought some groceries and tried to squeeze a bit of work in, that’s it, LB’s ‘school day’ is done. And when he gets home, he knows exactly what he wants to do.

“Play wif Mumm-eeeee.”

And so we play – but inevitably, after a while, my list-of-a-hundred-things-I-need-to-do looms large in my mind. So I suggest that I just have to do something and I’ll be back in a minute.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOO,” he roars, his little fists pummelling me with all his might. “STAA-AY.”

“Play trains wif Mummy.”

So I stay longer, pushing a train around and making some accompanying noises. We play a tickling game and I try to remain patient.

I say try because it’s really difficult! In my mind, he could be playing happily while I tick one or two things off my list. But, no, there’s something that in my pre-parenting days I was clueless about: clinginess!

It means that, quite often, both boys sit on top of me on the sofa fighting over me, I walk round with a screaming child attached to my leg, and have to do everything one-handed because the other arm is being pulled in a different direction.

It’s a special behaviour reserved for mummies.

And I should have known I’d find it challenging: I had a clingy cat once (for 10 years!) and that was hard enough.

This afternoon we did manage to come to a few compromises. LB let me make a cup of tea without screaming, on the proviso he got his fourth ‘pink milk’ of the day, and played by himself for a while after I obeyed orders to “SIT on SOF-AH and watch.”

(I know I spend way too many evenings happily sitting on the sofa, but somehow being immobilised on the couch during the day is as frustrating as looking at our lovely garden and not being able to use it.)

When BB gets home from school around 3.20pm, the dynamics change as I’m suddenly outnumbered.

“How was school?” I enquire brightly, hopeful that one day he’ll actually tell me what he did.

“Super bad.”

The TV goes on while he decompresses and the three of us sort-of-get-along for the rest of the afternoon, while I field demands from left, right and centre.

Like, “Mumm-eeeee, I want a mouse!” from BB today.

Then both boys, practically bouncing off the sofa, chanting in unison, “We-want-a-mouse. We-want-a-mouse!”

I know the answer is to start the day expecting to get absolutely nothing accomplished, then when you do achieve zilch it doesn’t feel so bad – or you’re thrilled because you’ve ticked one thing off your list-of-a-hundred. And, perhaps, over the past year, I’ve got a little too used to office life again, which – and I know I keep saying this – is a lot simpler.

At bedtime, the clinginess resurfaces in both of them. We’re trying really hard to get the boys to go to sleep without one of us being in the room. A battle, for me at least (DH makes it look easy-peasy; when I try, you can hear the screams down the road).

Tonight, as I attempted to persuade them that I’d be back to check on them in five minutes, they cried on cue, then BB whimpered, “But, mummee, we really, really like you.”

Despite it being 9.30pm by this time, my heart melted and I had to forgive them for the previous eight-and-a-half hours of clinginess.

And the day will come when they’re not so needy of me and can play together nicely, while I get a few things done.

Won’t it?!!!!

Celebrations: It’s a boy!

Posted on by

My dear friend has had a beautiful baby boy – the cutest bundle of sleep-stealing, life-changing loveliness.

And it was all so exciting, because the wonders of modern technology meant she was on Facebook throughout much of her labour – right up until her last petrified post stating that if the baby didn’t turn in the next 15 minutes, she would have to have a c-section.

I tried to reassure her, and as her friends and family around the world did the same, I could barely tear myself away from the computer to go to bed. In fact, I actually got up in the night to check on her progress.

Happily, all went well – though she was naturally none too impressed that here in Dubai you’re given aspirin as pain relief afterwards, rather than the fabulous narcotics you get after a c-section in the States.

Of course the arrival of such a gorgeous baby boy takes me right back to the birth of my two, and so it was with utter amazement that today we celebrated the third birthday of my littlest boy.

Time flies, it really does – and as the years roll by, I think my memory might be taking flight too. Because, despite having learnt this lesson before, I thought it would be a good idea to hold a little birthday tea party for LB.

There’s clearly something about child rearing that makes you wake up in a tidy (and in the morning child-free) home and think, “Aw, LB’s turning three – wouldn’t it be lovely to have all his little friends over, sugar ‘em up and let them run wild?”

I’d planned to keep it on the small side, ie, just LB and his brother, but at about 10am I started inviting people, which, when you live in company accommodation, tends to snowball – plus BB took it upon himself to invite a couple of friends from his school bus.

I should also know by now that birthdays that start at 5.30am always end in tears – not from LB but from his more highly strung brother, who ate his body weight in chocolate, acted totally demented and will surely have a hangover tomorrow.

There was some confusion over whose birthday it was. More experienced in such matters, BB thought it was his and opened all the presents. (“I was just showing him how to open them, Mumm-eee”) – and so not surprisingly LB thought the pass-the-parcel I’d spent ages wrapping up was rightfully his.

Once wrestled off him, I tried to find a suitable children’s song on the iPod to accompany our game, but the kids (3,4 and 5 year olds) had a special request: Lady Gaga!!!

The balloons were a hit, though popped like a car backfiring one by one, then the older kids started chasing each other round the house and there was a scary moment when I thought I might have to take one girl home and tell her mother she’d knocked her front teeth out (thankfully, she was fine!).

The kids seemed to have a blast, though, and the adults in attendance were chatting happily, so perhaps it was just me who was stressed to high heaven and wishing I could lie down in a locked, darkened room.

But now that it’s wine o’clock and the house is quiet again, it all seems like good fun – see, that special form of child-induced amnesia is already setting in!

PICTURE CREDIT: www.school-clip-art.com; GraphicsHunt

Twit virgin no more!

Posted on by

This week a lull in my freelance work has meant I’ve been paying extra special attention to my household duties.

Have I heck? That’s what I should have been doing – the reality was I succumbed to something I’ve been resisting for a long time: joining the Twitterati.

The lovely @Bubblesdxb, movie reviewer extraordinaire for Virgin Radio Dubai

It was so easy – so seductive. Names such as @Bubblesdxb, @the_hedonista, @HeelsAndDeals. How can you resist sneaking a peek at what they’re up to. It was bound to be more interesting than chasing freelance payments (yet again!)

I promised myself I’d be quick and joining took no time at all. But as I scrolled down the list of suggested people to follow – from Ruler of Dubai Sheikh Mohammed’s “official tweets” to Queen Rania of Jordan (“a mum and a wife with a really cool day job”), it dawned on me I could be there a while.

By midday, I felt positively giddy. I’d found nearly all my favourite bloggers, my fave DJs Catboy and Geordiebird from Dubai 92, and several relatives and best friends from real life. How could I have not known about this whole new world of micro-blogging Tweeters?

And as I realised that friends who I thought didn’t even know each other had become pals, I was encouraged to go all out with my first ever tweet.

“Just be yourself,” advised my friend @Linda_FB. “There will always be smarter, wittier and prettier people out there.

“If people follow you, just follow them back, unless they’re naked!” she signed off with.

So after a couple of attempts at getting my post under 140 characters (Twitter tells you to “be more clever” if you ramble), I tweeted and can’t even remember what I said now, it was that interesting.

While fun, the twitiquette worries me though. What if you don’t check it for a few hours and come back to a zillion tweets? And if you don’t reply, is that dreadfully rude? These kind of social media pressures could easily turn me into a twittering wreck.

According to my guru Linda (who founded @glutenfreeuae), the mentions button will be my best friend – and she says it can take days to see the point of Twitter. But one thing I have found out is there’s some unique stuff on there.

Like FoodPorn, in which someone from Chicago posts enormous, gorgeous photos of food that make your lunch look utterly disappointing (“because we all have a little fat guy living inside us”) – and shhdonttellsteve, in which someone who lives with a guy named Steve posts what he (Steve) is doing at all times.

I also know that Twitter could be my downfall in terms of never getting anything done, ever again. Now what’s this about Google +?

PHOTO CREDIT: Techie Buzz

I don’t know how she does it!

Posted on by

“I know I’ll get lost,” I told DH this morning, somewhat nervously. The truth was I was feeling reluctant about attending my first activity of the day – partly because it involved walking into a roomful of strangers, but I also wasn’t feeling particularly sociable at 8.45 in the morning.

I mean, who meets before 9am, other than high-powered working people? And Mums. Of course.

You know it’s coming at the start of every school year – and you know you should go to the meet-the-mums coffee morning. And it’s never as easy as just nattering with all the Mum friends you made last year, because the classes are mixed up each year – plus there are always several new arrivals to Dubai.

“You’ll find it,” responded DH, sleepily from bed. “Just use the compass on the car.” (like I even know where that is)

The movie of the book: I’m imagining Sex and the City’s Carrie with kids and letting herself go a bit. Hope I won’t be disappointed!

Needless to say, I had to be guided in by Host Mum, whose beautiful, enormous zillion-dirham villa was the venue for our first get-together of the term. Once inside, she led me to a table laden with baked treats and pastries – prepared, I suspect, at the same time as jigging her toddler, child #3, on her hip and flawlessly applying mascara.

I made a bee-line for Swiss Mum, who I knew from last year and always looks effortlessly chic in designer clothes. “I got here at 8am,” she confided, her bobbed hair framing her sun-kissed face perfectly. “Thought it was straight after school drop off.”

“Really?” I replied, thinking how come she didn’t get hopelessly lost in the rabbit warren like me?

Having missed the initial chit-chat, we were invited to sit in a circle by Class Mum, who last year voluntarily held drama classes for the kids and this year is the co-ordinator mum for, not just one, but three different classes.

And, as we took turns telling everyone a little bit about ourselves including what we ‘used to be’, I learnt that among our group – most of whom had moved here fairly recently from places such as Germany, Australia, Jordan and South Africa – there was a lawyer, a banker, a child-protection officer and a social worker.

But none of them working, because everyone had given up their careers to become a “trailing spouse” (ie, husband gets well-paid job in Dubai, wife and family pack their bags to follow).

Instead, they were setting up home in Dubai, caring for children full-time and protecting their kids like tigresses.

With the expat schools in the UAE all fee-paying, expectations are high so the conversation soon turned to the finer details of our children’s lives at the international school BB attends.

All very interesting, especially as when BB gets home he always tells me he did ‘nothing’ – and rather humbling, because, having got him on the school bus this year and gone straight back to work, I haven’t actually been into school yet this term. Never mind where the kids get changed for swimming, I’m not exactly sure where the new classroom is – and the teacher is still emailing my husband rather than me.

I nodded in agreement when the mums all promised to not try to outdo each other when it comes to our children’s birthday parties (while thanking my lucky stars that BB’s birthday is first so the stakes won’t be too high!) and tried to enter a debate about what kind of cupcakes it was OK to send in for the bake sales (note to self: will open my cupcakes-that-have-never-been-made folder this year).

And, as we discussed having a BBQ to get the Dads together, the Christmas party, fundraisers and playdates for younger siblings, I found myself thinking, “I really don’t know how these women do it!” Life is so much easier in the office, I swear.

PHOTO CREDITS: socialitelife.com; www.squidoo.com

Thank God it’s NOT Friday!

Posted on by

Do you ever wake up on the first day of the weekend (Friday here in the UAE) and think, “How on earth am I going to keep the kids entertained for the next 14 hours?”

Pre-child pastimes such as lie-ins, long lunches and lazy afternoons a thing of the past, of course.

It’s honestly not that I’m a disinterested Mum – it’s because, when DH is gone at the weekend, the prospect of such a long stretch of unstructured time without breaks feels a little daunting – especially as our options are still limited due to the climate.

As my Scottish neighbour (who bravely stayed here all summer) put it the other day, “You can’t even go into the garden and dig a hole to pass the time.”

So when my human alarm clocks come bounding in on Friday mornings at 6.30am and prize my eyes open, I ask myself a few questions: Do I have a plan? Can I avoid taking the kids to the supermarket? And, if I lie really still and don’t talk, will they let me sleep some more?

The answer to all three this morning was no.

I’m happy to be a homebody (being cancerian, I guess) but this clearly isn’t compatible with two active boys who start climbing the walls by midday.

Long before that, I’m treated to a chorus that to mums everywhere is worse than the most irritating mobile ringtone.

“Mum-eeeee, MUM-EEEE, I’m bored,” whined BB shortly after I’d poured breakfast cereal into their bowls and all over the floor while still half asleep at 7.30am. “I said, I’m BORED.”

“Where are we going today?” (he knows full well I’ll have to think of something)

Mini Monsters on Sheik Zayed Road: And, yep, that is my oldest son about to point the shooter straight at me.

We could have gone swimming, of course, but today the energy needed for that on my part (BB swims like a fish, but LB can’t yet) was lacking due to a cold (yes, even in 40-degrees heat!). I’ve also been promising myself for ages that we’ll go to church – there’s a good expat church in a hotel near work apparently.

And the mall is always an option, though I go through phases of never wanting to see the inside of a mall again – not the shops, but the plastic playareas that are mainly populated by Filipino nannies rather than mums.

When the boys started moving furniture around and fighting over the of-no-interest-to-them-normally decorative cushions, it was time to evacuate the house and we ended up at Mini Monsters, which is actually rather growing on me as the kids love it and there’s wi-fi for mummy.

So it all worked out in the end. But if, on a Friday in future, you see a blonde with two boys in tow looking at you thinking, “She would be a nice Friday friend,” don’t assume I’m odd, because one of these weekends it could be you who’s in charge of the kids with no man and no plan.

Would you like to be 20-something again?

Posted on by

“He said he could give me a J.Lo – for £5,000 extra,” my best friend told me excitedly over curry one night while I was in England this summer.

“A J.Lo, really?” I gasped, in amazement.

“Yes, but it’s too expensive. I’m just going to stick with the body lift!” said BF, explaining the procedure her cosmetic surgeon had in mind – her not-so-hushed tones causing the people on the table next to us to nearly choke on their tikka masala.

There was a very good reason why BF and I were so excited about her upcoming transformation, with or without a J.Lo butt. It would mark the end of a life-long journey for my friend, who, two years ago, underwent radical weight-loss surgery after battling obesity for as long as she could remember.

In the 48 months following her gastric bypass operation, BF more than halved in size. We called her the Incredible Shrinking Woman. She ate like a sparrow, and even came to Dubai to do all sorts of water activities that she would never have done before due to not wanting to be seen in a swimsuit.

While her weight loss has been nothing short of miraculous, the thing that’s been most wondrous to see is the way it’s ignited an interest in dating, something she didn’t have the confidence for when she was a larger lady. So, all of a sudden, in her 39th year, BF started seeing various men – it was like she was living her entire 20s, in the 12 months before turning 40.

This has all been quite illuminating, because when I had kids – and especially after moving into a compound in Dubai made up entirely of families – I became a fully paid-up member of the mummy mafia.

The advantages of membership include lovely DH, BB and LB, of course, a never-ending supply of neighbourhood playmates to distract the kids with and some great mummy friends to talk to while watching our off-spring play. I wouldn’t change a thing, but imagine my delight when I discovered I could re-live the thrill of dating via BF without actually being on the roller coaster myself.

Bloke1 came round to fix her computer a while ago and is still asking her out. Bloke 2 was in America so too far away. But it was Bloke 3 who stole her heart as they bonded over online Scrabble games. Until the despondent text message popped up on my phone.

“He’s dumped me,” it read, the let-down almost palpable.

It turned out he’d been to the dentist and the dental nurse had flirted with him, looked up his details on the computer and called him to ask him out (isn’t that unethical, not to mention rather forward, or am I really out of touch with this dating malarkey?)

We talked about kissing lots of frogs and BF drowned her sorrows – then made the most magnificent comeback.

“They say to get straight back on your horse,” she told me two days later. “I’ve got a date with a fireman on Friday.”

And now he’s Bloke number 4 and her new rough diamond (while Bloke 3, whose dental nurse proved to be no more than a fill-in, is back in touch wanting a rematch).

I’m so happy for her, I really am. She so deserves this. And I’ve also been reminded that, while things may feel a bit Desperate Housewives at times, I find the mummy mafia to be a far less bumpy ride.

Up the Burj Khalifa: A tall story

Posted on by

When we lived in the States and used to do road trips along the east coast, from Florida to Virginia, I was always really intrigued by the detours you could take to see things like the world’s second largest ball of yarn and the biggest frying pan.

So, when the tallest building in the world was opened here in Dubai last year, I was keen to add another “tallest” to my list (being careful to let enough people go up before us to test the elevators, of course – especially after a group of terrified tourists got trapped 124 floors above the ground for almost an hour).

The first time we went up the Burj Khalifa was in the daylight; this week we took our first guest of the season to the top in the dark to see the sparkling lights of the city – in the hope that the ‘wow’ factor would make up for the fact that sightseeing right now is like wading around in a giant bowl of steaming hot soup.

I figured it had to be cooler up there – the tapering, silvery tower is almost one kilometre (0.6miles) high, after all. So high that during Ramadan, a cleric said Muslims living above the 80th floor should fast for longer because they could still see the sun after it had set on the ground.

Superlatives aside – highest occupied floor in the world, elevator with the longest travel distance, etc – it’s well worth visiting the outdoor observation deck. Called ‘At The Top’ (I’m not sure why, it’s actually about two-thirds of the way up), you’re high enough to look down on Dubai’s other ‘tall’ buildings and appreciate that everything else is dwarfed by the soaring skyscraper.

The boys loved it because the tiny cars on the ground look like toys and in the dark with their headlights on you get a great view of all the traffic, snaking its way along Dubai’s sprawling roads.

The elevator ride itself is quite an experience, bordering on sci-fi. You stand in a futuristic, darkened space and at first don’t even realise you’re moving. Then you spot the floor numbers rapidly rising and realise you’re climbing at speed – at 10 metres a second, in fact, which means the vertical ascent through 124 floors takes less than a minute – and, yes, your ears do pop!

STATS & FACTS

WINDOW CLEANING: Washing the tower’s 24, 348 windows takes 36 workers three to four months.

ON THE INSIDE: The building houses corporate suites, residential space, the Armani Hotel, 57 elevators, 8 escalators and nearly 3,000 stairs (it’s no wonder some of the people stranded up there last year, when a loud boom was heard and the lift broke, started to panic)

RECORDS SET: World’s highest mosque (158th floor); highest nightclub (144th floor); highest restaurant (At.mosphere on the 122nd floor); and second highest swimming pool (76th floor).

It's a loooong way down


SHOP AT THE TOP: Yes, you can spend money up there on mementos including a Lego Burj kit (pleeeeez Mummy, pleaded BB) and gold bars emblazoned with the Burj’s logo from ‘Gold to Go’ vending machines.

PRICE TAG: Tallest towers don’t come cheap: the total cost for the project was about $1.5 billion. The tower’s completion coincided with Dubai’s financial troubles, which led the emirate to seek multi-billion dollar bailouts from its oil-rich neighbour Abu Dhabi. Subsequently, in a surprise move at the opening ceremony, the tower, originally called Burj Dubai, was renamed Burj Khalifa to honour the UAE president.

CONTROVERSY: Sadly, though, its construction is marred with controversy over the working conditions of the army of labourers from South Asia who spent 22 million man-hours building the tower and somehow managed to pump concrete so high into the sky.

Inauguration on 4th Jan 2010

SHOWPIECE: On December 31st, spectacular fireworks, accompanied by lasers and lights, were set off from the Burj Khalifa, setting yet another world record – the highest New Year fireworks display in the world.

More information at: www.burjkhalifa.ae