How to prune a palm tree

I came home the other day to be confronted by a strange rustling sound in the garden. Looking up, I saw the gardener up one of my palm trees with a machete and no form of safety equipment. And it's a long way up (or down, depending on how you look at it).

It turns out that date palms need pruning at this time of year, so the gardener shins his way up the trunk using only a small band of cloth attached to a circular chain for support. Once he reaches the top of the trunk, he slithers out of the cloth and climbs, totally unsupported onto the palm leaves, draws the machete out of his belt and begins hacking away.

Pruning over, he hurls the machete down to the ground (luckily I'd ushered the kids into the house), wriggles back into his "harness", poses for a quick photo and them shimmies back down the tree. Time taken: 10 minutes.

Now imagine the same scenario back in Europe: the health and safety issues; hydraulic platforms to transport the gardener; the required permits; not to mention the cost.

Some aspects of life in Bahrain are definitely simpler.

Photo meme

I have been tagged by both Julie at The Sardine Tin and Natural Mummy in a photo meme. My first, so I hope I get it right.

The instructions are:

1. Open the first (oldest) photo folder in your computer library

2. Scroll to the 10th photo

3. Post the photo and the story behind it

4. Tag 5 or more people to continue the thread.

So here's the photo. The quality isn't great as it was a photo taken with a video camera.

The date is 5 November 1999. The place, St Luc Hospital in Brussels. And after about 16 hours of labour, Isabelle was born. I'd forgotten to pack a hat for her (they insisted on newborns wearing them in Brussels) so she wore a sock on her head for the first couple of hours.

The day after she was born was the final of the Rugby World Cup and Ian came into the hospital to watch it with some friends and some champagne. Just what a breast-feeding new mother needs - alcohol she can't drink and friends she's too exhausted to converse with.

The Wallabies won. Ian was ecstatic. "Aussies rule the world again" ran the sporting headlines.

But my little Aussie and I slept through it all.

So now let me tag the following bloggers with this one:

London City Mum

Selma at Selma in the City

Fraught Mummy at Brits in Bosnia

Anne at The Pineapple Tart

Celeste at Coconut Radio

Vroom vroom

Kangaroos were spotted in the Bahrain desert last weekend and the locals loved them. The giant roos were fully kitted out with springs in their feet and Biggles helmets and goggles and were part of the entertainment at the Gulf Air Desert 400 V8 Supercars series.

This bloke was hanging round with his bird.

And these fellows were playing their latest tunes.

The girls each had henna tattoos on their arms. It's amazing to watch how quickly and skillfully the local ladies draw such incredibly intricate patterns.

Oh, and there were a few car races, of course. Petrol-head Aussie hubbie was in his element, but wishing, I think, for a son to enjoy it with rather than these two glum faces.

Some bloke called Jamie won every race. I was backing the car with the best name: Fair Dinkum. It came nearly last in each race before catching alight in the final laps of the last race and retiring. The car was a pretty colour though (before the fire, obviously).

And as if we haven't had enough motorsport this month, it's the Grand Prix on Sunday. Can life get any more exciting?

Urban oasis post script

For my new follower, Hibiscus Bloem, thanks for joining and here is my very own hibiscus bloom. Photo taken this morning in my new front garden!

Urban Oasis

Most houses in Bahrain are surrounded by high concrete walls; not for security (there are few break-ins) but for privacy. After all, if you're not supposed to wander the streets uncovered, the last thing the locals want is for everyone in the neighbourhood to be able to peer at the women in their family over the garden gate.

And while it is useful at times to be totally secluded, after two years of living behind these walls, I began to feel a little, well, hemmed-in.

So last week we moved to a compound just round the corner. Normally I wouldn't be one for compound living, but this place is different. It's still in the centre of town, the houses are older and, in estate agent-speak, ooze colonial charm and best of all, they have large, mature gardens. I've had my name down for months and someone finally left.

Yes, I know. A voluntary house move - madness. And this week I've been knee, no, waist-deep in boxes, dealing with unreliable phone/internet/gas and electricity companies and wondering why I have put myself through moving hell yet again. Nine times in fifteen years, no less.

But then I walk outside and see this, which I think you will agree is infinitely better than my old view of sand-coloured concrete.

I can't tell you how uplifting it is to look out onto trees and flowers every day. The grass seed is being delivered tomorrow and with the help of my new gardener, Joy from Kerala, I am well on the way to creating my very own urban oasis in the heart of Manama.

Beware what lies behind the veil

I settled down last night to enjoy the last episode of Series III of the Tudors, Hollywood's take on the life and times of King Henry VIII of England. And if you can put aside the historical inaccuracies and the fact that the extremely handsome actor who plays Henry never seems to age a day nor add any weight his washboard stomach, it makes for good viewing.

Series III culminates in the annulment of Henry's marriage to his fourth wife, Anne of Cleves. Henry had never seen Anne before she arrived in England for the wedding, relying only on an overly flattering portrait by Holbein and the untrue reports of his ambassadors that she was a beauty. They had, in fact, been prevented from seeing her face properly as she was always veiled in their presence.

Upon setting eyes on her, Henry famously likens her to a Flanders Mare. "I like her not!" he declares in the manner of a petulant child. He refuses to consummate the marriage and demands an annulment. Anne is played by Josh Stone, who isn't at all plain, but there you go - that's Hollywood for you.

Anyway, this morning I was skimming through the local paper - the Gulf Daily News - and the following headline caught my eye: "Surprise stubble ruins wedding."

It seems that an Arab ambassador in Dubai called off his wedding after discovering that his bride-to-be, who had worn a niqab (face covering veil) whenever they met, was in fact bearded and cross-eyed. After the marriage contract had been signed, the ambassador attempted to kiss his bride-to-be and discovered she had facial hair and a pronounced squint. He was understandably disappointed. I'm sure Henry would have sympathised.

Like Henry before him, the ambassador claimed he was tricked into marrying the woman after her mother had shown his mother photos of the bride's sister instead of the bride. And the sister presumably didn't have stubble and could see straight.

He went to court and had the marriage annulled. But the court did allow the woman to keep the $136,000 worth of presents he had already showered upon her, so she didn't go away empty-handed.

Belly dancing

I love Pilates. I love that it's a workout for body and mind, I love that it keeps me both strong and supple and, most of all, I love that it's kept my muffin-top at bay. So I was disappointed to learn last week that my twice weekly classes had been cancelled for a fortnight as the instructor was jetting off to New York to do her Masters under the tutelage of one of the world's Pilates gurus. Still, at least I'll know that the torture she'll put me through on her return will be cutting-edge.

Her classes have been replaced by belly dancing. And in a bid not to slide into too much of a morning-coffee-and-six-chocolate-biscuits habit in the interim, my friend Sarah and I decided to give it a go.

"You'll be rubbish at that!" snorted Ian when I told him of my new fitness plan. "Don't you need a belly and a bum? Anyway, you're English and English girls have no rhythm."

With this fabulous spousal endorsement still ringing in my ears, I entered the studio on the appointed day with some trepidation. Sarah was already there, sheepishly tying a colourful scarf adorned with bells and beads round her non-existent hips. She is also a belly-less and bum-less Brit, so at least there'd be two of us making fools of ourselves. Maybe if the humiliation became too great, we could just revert to British girl type and simply put down our handbags and self-consciously shuffle round those instead of partaking in all this uninhibited foreign hip-wiggling nonsense.

Apart from the lovely Iman, our Egyptian instructor, the class consisted of three other ladies of infinitely more suitable physique than ours and who also spoke Arabic and could therefore sing along to all the songs. Such an advantage; I always find it easier to dance to a song if I know the words. Oh, and a few large glasses of Sauvignon Blanc help too.

Sadly both lip-syncing and alcohol were out, so I'd just have to relax my inhibitions along with my hips if I was to have a hope of not embarrassing myself. Sarah smiled nervously at me and we took up our positions at the back of the class.

And do you know, we weren't half bad. After mastering the walk - toes should be turned in and you put one foot in front of the other while dramatically swinging your hips from side to side - we moved on to the basic arm movements and side steps. We even managed to follow Iman as she put some moves together in a short dance. OK, we looked more wooden puppet than snake-hipped Arabian princess, but it was fun. And isn't that what exercise is supposed to be?