airline family life Archives - Circles in the SandCircles in the Sand

I can’t let our homecoming pass without saying a few words about our flight back: DH was ‘driving’, and while I’ve been his passenger a few times now, it was the first time he’s flown our fledglings in a commercial airliner.

And, yes, it was a great flight, not least because the bribe potential in telling the children that if they didn’t behave, Daddy would ‘land this plane right now’ or put them ‘outside on the wing’ was HUGE. (Sipping celebratory Champagne and nibbling on Godiva chocolates helped too, of course.)

But, if the truth be told, the boys were as good as gold. At the gate, they squished their noses against the terminal window, trying to see through the darkened glass of the cockpit. They (and about 10 other little boys also lined up) were rewarded when DH stuck a sun-tanned arm out his window to wave.

You could tell each awe-struck boy thought the wave was directed at him and when I got talking to an Australia-bound Dad on the full flight later on, we agreed not to burst his son’s bubble. Pilots should wave more, they really should. It makes people so happy.

Airbus A380: DH in his office

On board, we waited patiently for DH to make an announcement (it sounded nothing like him!), and, while I’d instructed Son1 not to go telling everyone, his excitement bubbled over every now and then. “My Daddy’s flying this plane,” he told a flight attendant, *beaming with pride*.

We arrived in Dubai (nice landing, DH!) and were invited to come forward to see what to me looks like the Starship Enterprise. “Just don’t touch anything,” I urged them, as we climbed the stairs to the flight deck. “If you feel like you want to press something, JUST DON’T,” I pleaded, paranoid that they’d set off the emergency slides or a million-dollar fire-hydrant system.

I needn’t have worried; they were awed into silence by the countless screens and switches, and could barely breathe they were so impressed. (Too bad my work doesn’t have the same effect; I swear they think my sole purpose in life is to fetch them things from the supermarket.)

All too soon, it was time to deplane and make our way into Dubai’s cavernous, gleaming airport, where taking the new train triggered fresh excitement. It was well past midnight when the children and I joined the taxi queue. “We don’t want a pink taxi. We want a red one,” they chanted, in unison, demonstrating to me once again that, while my boys will never be interested in any of the girlie things that make me tick, I adore their transport-mad ways.

It’s a bit of a running joke among pilot’s wives that our husbands are never around when you need them to be – like on Christmas Day, New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day (you could add birthdays to this list too, if you like).

But this isn’t a grumble. It honestly isn’t. It’s the lifestyle I signed up for and I don’t know any other way [slips crew scheduling our last mince pie in the hope DH will be home for Easter].

The upside of being a waif and stray (and unable to get home to family) on such occasions is the lovely friends – two of whom are dear blogging friends (SandboxMoxie and ExPIAtriatewife) – who take you in, offering not only great company but also wonderful food and even childcare.

Stop going away on special occasions DH! Look what happens (last festive pic, I promise!)

Stop going away on special occasions DH! Look what happens (last festive photo, I promise!)

Last night, DH was in London, and the children and I were in Dubai. We celebrated at ExPIAtriatewife’s villa with a fabulous BBQ and, just before midnight, took our traditional walk to the desert right outside our security gate.

Standing in the sand, with a glass of bubbly, we could see in the distance the spectacular fireworks cascading up and down the Burj Khalifa, as well as the bursts of colour exploding into the starry, night sky over the Burj Al Arab and Global Village (AND we were home by 12.30am!).

My husband, 5,000km away, was in a hotel, surrounded by cabin crew. And I really mean surrounded. Five A380 crews stay at this hotel every night. I’ve mentioned before that each crew is made up of some 27 flight attendants, mostly females in their 20s, with bright-red lipstick, fashionable boots and slender silhouettes unblemished by childbirth.

I don’t even want to do the maths to figure out how many there were.

A single friend was coming to meet him – who must surely have thought he’d died and gone to heaven.

Shortly after midnight, DH and I were texting. “Just back from the fireworks,” I wrote, picturing him in his hotel at Heathrow, practically tripping over giggly air hostesses.

“You’ll never guess who’s here,” he texted back.

“LB’s teacher.”

Strict, fair, no-nonsense and by far the best teacher I’ve ever met in Dubai (of whom DH is a little nervous), what are the chances of that?

It’s such a small world, it really is. I trust DH implicitly, but let’s just say, I went to sleep chortling my ears off.