Mrs Teacup and Memories of Granny

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust and a cuppa tea. As we think about that it doesn't always go together, can be uncomfortable but you know a good cuppa can sometimes helps. It's a bit of juxtaposition isn't it? But for me and my dear old Granny tea was always a priority and there always had to be cake, preferably her all-time favourite, M&S Apricot Swiss Roll. Afternoon tea was not the same without cake. sadly, just this week I lost my dear and very old Granny after many weeks of watching her in discomfort and with progressively advanced dementia; the last eight weeks turned into a very difficult and sad waiting game. It's been a very painful time for all, but for me especially. I have been required to be strong and brave, to support the family, but haven't always wanted to be nor have I always been able to be. But for dear old Granny I think I have managed it quite well and done her proud and now sadly, she is gone. Gone to the beautiful house in the sky and God has finally welcomed her and found her a bed with the Angels.

Weekends would be our time together to chat and laugh over a good strong cuppa tea and Swiss roll in her old people’s bungalow. I would shop for her and arrive with the tea time goodies; make a brew in her loyal and traditional stainless teapot and help serve tea to us both in her rosebud bone china teacup and saucers with matching tea plates. Afternoon tea always had to be in cups and saucers.

The war and her childhood were her “fave” topics; we would talk about the past in great detail and I learnt so much. As a genealogy girl, I endeavoured to obtain as many juicy facts about the family from her as possible to add to the family tree, but the old girl was too clever for me and only told what she wanted, much to my disappointment. I did learn a lot though about a life and world past; fascinating facts about the workhouse and mills; the soldiers, families and the war and life as an evacuee. She told me about her life as a wartime bride and her courtship and the hard lifestyle of the 1930's and 40’s. she reminisced of her life as a children's governess for very “well to do” families; spoke of brass bed warmers and feather mattresses; goosanders, parlors, outside privies and fine tea trolleys. A life very far removed from what children recognise today. A life without television and telephone. My dear old Granny still lived in those dark days, washing by hand and scrubbing the floor on her hands a knees and .

At 92 years of age, wiry, frail, bent over and unsteady on her feet pushing her walking frame in her old floral piney, every Saturday tea and cake was proudly wheeled into the best living room on her gilt two tier tea trolley clad with faded but embroidered tray cloths edged in Buckinghamshire lace and tea plates with doilies and respectfully served to the family. It was a traditional and special occasion with warm fuzzy memories for me.

Those wonderful memories and stories live on in my memory and family tree even though she has now left us. Life comes so slow and yet so fast; death can be slow and yet so fast. Once here now gone. The last few weeks have been slow and painful but in the end fast and now laid to rest, God bless her soul, she is finally resting in God's house, at peace and I hope in a better place. At 92 she deserves to be able to rest. Worn out and tired she had done her time on earth; she told me she wanted to sleep for one hundred years and I hope she is now able to rest. Life is filled with interesting and poignant moments and memories to be treasured in order to remember our loved ones.  Tea and cake on Saturday afternoon’s will now be in memory of my dear old Granny. Bye bye Granny, RIP, untill we meet again.

An Arabian Royal Wedding

Tea has always been a common denominator in my travels. I outlined that in my very first blog. And as explained previously, being English, very English, tea has always hung prevalently in my existence. This cute little pet name I inherited during afternoon tea with a good group of girlfriends after many years of tea and travels around the globe. The pet name came about in Arabia, but I had been brewing tea in a variety of receptacles, in a variety of countries and continents for several decades prior to my experiences in the Arabian Desert.

And so to continue with my Arabian Prince……

Blessed with a real life four year old Arabian Prince in my class, I was to experience some events that I could only have dreamed of prior to arriving in the Arabian Desert and these would also include afternoon tea. Having become a trusted confidante of my Princes governess, I was given an invitation to one of the Princesses exchanging of wedding vows. I didn't even have to worry about a new evening dress for this very special occasion; I was given the gift of some beautiful fabric and the address of a tailor who, to my design, run up the most gorgeous dress in two days.

All dressed up and collected by chauffeur driven Mercedes limousine, I was driven to the Palace. On entering the Palace gates, we passed armed guard security and continued along the flashing white twinkle lit tree lined driveway until we reached the large bridal marquees. To my utter surprise my limousine drove right inside the first pink plush carpeted marquee where we stopped (on the thick pile carpet) and the chauffeur helped me and my guest out of the car right into the wedding reception marquee.

The decoration was exquisite...pale pink ribbons, roses and baby lights twinkled everywhere. Pale pink thick pile carpets coveted the ground, cream silk drapes, solid silver cutlery and goblets housing champagne flowed throughout the tent. Cut glass shone and sparkled on two hundred or more circular tables around a two hundred yard long cat walk covered in cerise pink rose petals and the edges decorated with thousands of cream and pink flowers of every species one could think of.

The whole setting was overwhelmingly beautiful, it was awe inspiring. I couldn't take it all in. The setting and atmosphere caught my breath; I couldn't help staring for a long while as I digested this amazing vision and soaked up the beauty of the entire space. Nothing had been overlooked; every minute detail had been thoughtfully executed with tender loving care. Not a single item was missed; from the chandeliers to the place settings, from the carpets to the floristry…and all in a very grand tent.

The tent, of course, was full of women and girls. The men were in another very plush tent next door. The women wore amazing finery but most were ensconced in a black opaque overcoat called an abaya. Nevertheless, their finery often came with a long train which followed the women outside of the overcoat. For us two English teachers the three yards of visible finery flowing behind them, was fascinating and we wished with all our hearts the women would cast-off the overcoat and show all. These three yards were encrusted with any amount of crystals, beading, lace, ruffles and truly exquisite fine fabrics; it felt like they were teasing us and of course they were all teasing each other. The competition in the tent between the women was overpoweringly recognizable and at a “do” such as this, one wanted to “out do” anyone and everyone if one could.

Chatter, gossip, laughter and music filled the air as we glided in-between these ornate female creatures discretely espying and memorizing as much of the finery and atmosphere as possible. All of a sudden, over a loud speaker, an anonymous and clandestine male voice, announced that dinner was ready to be served. The tent became a scurry of hushed voices blended with the rustle of fine linen, as the women frantically found their tables and began to discard their abayas. We watched in wonder and awe as the tent took on a different life and colour; crystals, gold and beads dazzled from every corner of the room as the women finally paraded their attire like peacocks. The scene was amazing and spellbinding and we two English teachers loved every single minute. We turned to each other and smiled and completely mesmerized, the two of us were the last to take our seats, as we watched this spectacle unfold. We were now being watched by thousands of Arabian female eyes, of all generations, as in slow motion and with smiles on our faces we graciously found our seats for dinner. The whole room rose, smiled and clapped at us.

And still no bride and groom had been seen.

To be continued……

The Feral Child in my Classroom

During my teaching life I have worked with, and helped, some very sad cases in many wild and remote parts of the world. It's always challenging and heart wrenching to be a prominent integral piece of the jigsaw of a very young child's sad story; but when you work hard and with passion, as part of a team, and actually make a difference and change something so very negative into a positive it makes the difficult periods in life worth the fight. I have often quietly told myself “I have seen most things” but then some other horrendous situation pops out the woodwork and I am faced with a new and daunting challenge that takes me on another difficult journey with a small innocent child.

This little boy, who I will refer to as Jon, arrived in my nursery school aged two years, still in nappies. Jon spoke well for his age and appeared a clever capable little boy. At nursery he seemed happy enough although I noticed he was a slight loner. He still parallel played alongside his friends and he liked spending time with his adult carers engaging in pleasing conversation and chit chat. He attempted to participate in all activities with great enthusiasm and often struggled to end an activity and move onto the next task. He often became so fully engrossed in an activity he was “lost” in his own little world. I remember thinking on many occasions that it was obvious he had never experienced most of the play and craft activities offered to him.

I noticed that Jon came to nursery, each day, in grubby clothes and often wore the same clothes all week. Sadly, it was reported to me that he was rather smelly and unclean and consequently I asked the staff to change him into clean clothes as often as necessary and give him a wipe down to freshen him up. Sensitively and tactfully (and on many occasions) I mentioned this to his mummy, but nothing really changed. Still he came to play in a rather unkempt, grubby and smelly condition.

It was also very quickly noticed that Jon was always hungry and very thirsty. He would “woof” down his snacks, lunch and tea and was always the first to ask for seconds and he never seemed to be full; he wanted to eat and eat, as if he just couldn't get enough. The same was noticed with drinks; he was thirsty all day, every day, and would gulp down his drink and immediately ask for more. I began to realise that maybe he was scared that if he didn’t fill up at nursery he would go hungry at home until he returned the next time to nursery. Again, very sensitively and tactfully, I had a difficult conversation with his mummy and I decided to begin to keep a confidential diary of events.

Jon's mummy showed no concerns, she said he was same at home and was "just a greedy child". His mummy commented that “she tried to restrict his food and drink intake at home” and that we should do the same at nursery. She said he was always hungry and had an antisocial relationship with food. I very quickly advised her that I could not withhold food and drink; it was against the law and if Jon was hungry and thirsty we would be sating him adequately while in our care. Disturbingly, we had even seen him scrabbling to eat food off the floor. When we asked him not to do this, he would take the food and run off and hide. I learnt from other professionals that once a teacher got close to mum she did not stay in the setting for long. As soon as you got close (or wise) she made her excuses and moved Jon to a new nursery setting, hoping to blend into the background and remain off the radar. I knew I needed to move quickly and wisely. I knew I had a difficult task ahead of me. I also knew I had a duty of care.

Within twenty four hours, Jon made my next move easier; he made the decision for me. Unbelievably I found him lapping water from the children’s miniature stalls. Down on his knees, bending over the “little” toilets in the miniature stalls, Jon was lapping like a dog. Distressed and shocked, I gathered him in my arms, took him to one side and asked him to try to tell me what he was doing and why. He told me, in his own words, clearly and succinctly, that "this is what I do at home". I asked him to try to explain why, he replied "mummy doesn't allow me to eat or drink". I was horrified and I immediately referred.

Jon was taken into foster care and later adopted, joined a Preschool and, I am pleased to tell you, thrived.

Sadly, Jon's birth mother showed no remorse or conscience and went on to have another child with another partner. There was much more depth to this story but I am sure you get the picture. My duty of care was to Jon. For him to be deprived of food and water, strapped in a high chair all day in order for a mother to continue her substance abuse and not have to bother to take care of her precious baby was completely unacceptable and abusive. To see him acting like a feral child was heartbreaking and I had to act and act quickly before she moved her family on again, got lost in the system and Jon possibly became a statistic.

As you can imagine, sweet tea served in my Royal Doulton rose encrusted fine bone china mug was a welcome interlude while dealing with this distressing scenario.

Thank God this child was saved.

The characters in this story have been anonymised and names changed to protect identification and respect confidentiality.

At Mrs Teacup's Arabian Classroom Door

We filed into the large tired drab auditorium in relative silence. Having only arrived twenty four hours before, no significant relationships had yet been formed. As good English citizens do, we formed an orderly line along the edge of the stage at the front of the auditorium to claim our refreshments, other's didn't queue. Brews of Arabic and English tea was boiling away.....sadly, to be served in white plastic cups. “Take two cups, one inside the other”, we were advised, “and be careful it could be very hot”. Most of us plumped for the English brew, although weak and very milky, at this early stage we were not brave enough to try the Arabic. To my surprise, and sadness, no fine English “rose patterned” bone china teacups (or PG Tips) were anywhere insight; weak, milky and white plastics cups it was then.

Having identified parents and carers at my classroom room door in England by their faces, style and personalities, it was astounding at induction to be informed in Arabia, and more importantly in this fee paying British Curriculum school, this was not so. Forty three teachers sat, aghast, when advised of the recommended tactics we were expected to use.

With thirty children in my class who were delivered and collected by different carers each day this ranked highly as the most stressful part of my day. It was not necessarily the children’s parents that collected; it could be a driver, nanny, maid, governess, grandparent or parent. And if these were female, it was a pretty much given that they would be encapsulated in black from head to toe with only their eyes showing.

As you all know Arabian men do not cover their faces, so for me it was gratifying when a male turned up to do the after school pick up. Unfortunately the fathers did not pick up regularly; generally a female member of the family appeared outside my door. Pick up was easier if not Muslim by faith or the lady came from a bordering country, as generally one saw the face and the female was only ensconced in the scarf. Any female Muslim was, more often than not, covered from head to toe in the abaya, scarf and veil and the more fundamental the more layers of black voile covered their faces. The most fundamental ladies even wore thick black gloves, tights and socks and some of the older generations wore a metal plate across the centre of their face. No flesh to be visible to the world at all, especially to men other than their immediate male family members.

Traditionally, the Burqa, was worn by the Bedouin women to protect them from the sun, sand and extreme elements on their nomadic travels through the desert. Wearing the Burqa is not an Islamic requirement and is traditionally steeped in local customs, culture and traditions. What is mandatory in Islam is to wear cloth or clothing that cover the whole body, including the hair, except the face and hands. The cloth or clothing (abaya) must not be tight so as to show off or enhance the female form and should not be transparent to make the under garments visible. It is stated that women "cover up" to preserve their modesty and out of respect for their husbands. Arabic women explained to me that the hair, lips and body are all classed as sexual symbols and these must not be on view to any man other than immediate male members of the family and behind the families front door.

So, in the humid dank auditorium, and in the management’s wisdom, we were tutored to ensure we learnt, and had the ability to, recognise each mother or female by, what was classed as normal practices, in this rural small Arabian town. Given a list to digest, a gasp and sharp intake of breath moved through the auditorium like a Mexican wave. Frowns, raised eyebrows and rolling of eyes were visible all around me but to my amazement management just glossed over our astonishment. Queries and comments were ignored and basically we were told to “get in with it”.
Dismissively, we were given our comprehensive list of recommended ways of recognising the covered women at our classroom doors. It was seriously recommended that we learn the sound of each mothers voice and then we were given a list of other helpful additions to observe, take note of and recognise.....rings, brooches, jewellery, shoes, handbags and even the decoration on their veils or abaya. It was even suggested that we recognise the way they walk. Scared, flabbergasted and in a state of shock, I really didn't digest much more of that induction, as, I am sure did no one else. These practices were to haunt me every day of my teaching life in Arabia. I never did feel comfortable and was always terrified I would let a child go home with the wrong person.

The end of the school day was a very stressful time. I would shake and my heart would race and I could hear it beating in my chest. I was unable to bring myself to leave my classroom door or trust anyone else to see my class home safely. I saw my children home safely myself every single day. The only person I felt I could trust (if I was otherwise engaged in other teaching responsibilities) was my Lebanese teaching assistant, although I was constantly worried about the repercussions of child being lost or taken.

On several occasions, we heard of men disguising themselves in the Burqa and Hijab (veil), clad in black from head to toe and wearing ladies shoes, attempting to kidnap young children from schools for organ donation which would be sold to friends, acquaintances and family in other parts of the world. This was shocking and outrageous and caused much condemnation among me and my colleagues. The criminals carrying out these disgusting deeds were part of a sophisticated underworld that somehow secured much personal information about a particular child in a particular school and often managed to get by school security and arrive at the classroom door. As teachers and carers, no matter how worried and stressed we were, we could be nothing but vigilant, responsible and wise. This was normal practice in this part of the world and this was the way it was. Terrifying and completely beyond my understanding, I found myself ever over cautious at my classroom door. I am pleased to tell you my children went home safely with the right adult at all times.

At the end of each day, as you can well imagine, a strong brew (with a mars bar) was always a welcome and relaxing interlude in the staffroom after all the children were safely reunited with their families.

Bedouin Tents & Camp Fires

Come, settle down with a good brew, curl up somewhere comfy, grab a blanket and enjoy my next adventure…

Sitting out under Arabian clear skies, twinkling stars, a bright moon and some unusual critters in evening temperatures of 32 degrees (and above) around the most beautiful camp fire I had ever seen with special friends, was truly a delight. I had never camped before in my life, so to camp in the middle of nowhere with complete strangers – human, reptile and animal (insects abound) – was a bit scary. This was another one of those amazing experiences and learning curves for me, Mrs T.

Circumstances had brought us together, all teachers in a foreign land, and now, as a close group of friends, we set off in a convoy of four wheel drives, in high spirits, across barren arid terrain that quickly became barer and more desolate as we left the city behind us and ventured deeper and deeper into the golden desert. Camels, sand dunes and dusty roads were all we could see for miles, both left and right, for the entirety of our road trip. It was long, but not winding, a straight and dusty highway that stretched ahead forever and disappeared over the horizon and way beyond leading us into an adventure like we had never experienced before. Fifty or so miles into the heart of the desert and weaving through vivid tangerine wind sculptured, massive dunes, the size of mountains, we finally arrived at the stately and prestigious Arabian stud ranch which was to be our home and camp for the next few days and where we were to participate in a traditional Bedouin camp under the clear starry starry desert night skies.

Our kindly and generous hosts had already set up the extremely striking Arabian camp; three large cream hexagonal tents strategically and perfectly placed in an arc around a black ash pit where we would eventually build our own camp fire. The smell was potent; a distinctive blend of dust, sand, soot and Arabian horse manure filled the air. Wood had to be gathered in the desert dusk for the fire so several of the group volunteered to head off in search of as much parched branches and scrub as they could muster. Much was found and proudly dragged back to camp and a huge fire was started which we all instantly moved close to and sat around to warm ourselves. The desert gets cold in the evenings. The fire was comforting, warm and atmospheric and lively chatter, laughter and sipping filled the air. Rapidly, ornate and beautifully woven blankets, robes and pashmina's were rummaged and shared out to each and every one of us. It felt luxurious and rich to be ensconced in such fabrics and traditions. Our hosts supplied a large ornate filigree engraved silver teapot full of water, which was hung on a stake over the vast fire to boil. While waiting for it to boil, we all busied ourselves with unpacking and settling into camp by filling our tents with our belongings and supplies. There was one hexagonal tent per family group and I had one all to myself.

We all settled back around the fire and sated ourselves with delicious food and drink. The atmosphere, like nothing I had experienced before, was oozing from under regal blankets and pashminas as we relished each other’s conversation and company. Under the clear Arabian starry skies laughter echoed, chatter could be heard; Arabian music trickled softly in the background while the cicadas clicked their night music and the stallions whinnied from sandy paddocks nearby. Spiders and critters scurried beneath our feet, the odd desert wren tweeted its song and an Arabian owl twit ta wooed as the night moved in. The whole atmosphere and scene was amazing and had the essence of a storybook. Life long friendships were being forged and memories made during this trip.

The exquisite filigree teapot whistled its readiness and the hot sweet weak Arabian night cap was offered to all in petite clear delicately engraved glass mugs which was a welcome finale after our dinner of meats, Halloumi, salads, breads and humus. Content, happy and relaxed, seated around the fire we all settled down to share our life experiences; what a way to experience camping for the first time. As the sun disappeared behind the mountainous dunes, changing the colours of landscape as it retired, each one of us, as if taking turns, began to respectfully retreat to our most elaborate tents for some well-earned rest.

My Bedouin tent was beautiful and glamorous; extravagantly furnished with exotic Persian cushions along each wall of my hexagonal Arabian bedroom. The fabric were elaborate and complex; the colours rich and the fabrics expensive. Persian carpets covered the sandy floor and burgundy silks draped the inner walls tied back perfectly with gold tasseled rope. Seductive reds, purples and gold formed heady hallucinations and thoughts of the harems, belly dancers and camel trains in times gone by. When I closed your eyes I could imagine the traditional Bedouin men and women’s past lifestyles. The desert smells and sounds added to the atmosphere. When ready to retire I was shown how, traditionally, to push several of the exquisite heavy cushions together along one wall to make my bed. At the rear of the tent was a cream voile fabric screen for me to use as a changing space giving added privacy and creating a dressing room.

I had been very apprehensive about this trip but there was no need; it was amazing. I experienced, as authentically as possible the Bedouin way of life over that weekend. It was so enjoyable we repeated it many times during my time in Arabia. I slept well and rose at dawn to see the sun come up over the dunes and to the smell of bacon and eggs cooking on the grand fire. The days were relaxing, playing traditional games, watching Arabian Stallions manoeuvre through the dunes and sharing our lives around the fire pit in between cooking and preparing hot tea.

On this occasion no PG Tips were required or appropriate, weak sweet Arabian tea in beautifully engraved glass mugs was the order of the weekend and Mrs Teacup was quite content, happy and satisfied. Nothing could have been better in our Bedouin camp or added to the atmosphere. Sometimes tea needs to be different for different occasions in different parts of the world for different reasons. This was definitely one of those occasions and reasons.

Sophia

Well as I said previously, my Prince was a special little boy. He was a delight to teach and have the pleasure of in my classroom. Getting to know him and his family was extraordinary and a blessing and I entered a world I could only dream of being part of prior to our meeting. But I have to tell you I have worked with many very special children who have made a difference in my life and career and changed my view of the landscape. I have been in education over 30 years in one way or another. I have experienced many situations and challenges in four continents of the world. Making a difference has always been important and I have not always been popular in the adult and professional worlds because of this but have always had the child’s interests and well-being foremost in my mind’s eye. Being unpopular has never really bothered me so long as I have always carried out my work for the benefit of each child and their particular learning and individual needs. When caring for children you cannot always be popular!

Let me share a story of another special child I was lucky enough to get to know…

Whilst working in the US of A I had the pleasure of working with Sophia within a children’s day nursery setting. She came into my life as an 18 month old and it was obvious from very early on in our “getting to know each other” that she was a very bright little bundle of joy.

Sophia walked at 10 months and talked at 14 months; no baby speech, just full adult sentences in perfect Queen’s English. Her parents were astonished. She constantly talked and asked questions most of which were extremely difficult to answer.  She would ask “where God came from” and “where did the first chicken’s egg came from” as well as wanting to know how everything worked and explanations for many big long adult words.

Sophia spent the majority of her time with her nose in a book. Before she could actually read she had memorised many stories and could recite them to you and correct you if you got the story wrong or cheekily missed a page! As she grew she became obsessed with the encyclopaedia, dictionary and atlas and would spend many hours of the day sitting in the bottom of the wardrobe soaking up information from such books and reciting her findings to her poor exhausted mother. These books, she would later tell me, answered her questions at a time when other didn’t seem able to!

Sophia needed to be stimulated twenty four hours a day and when bored she would secretly find her own entertainment and this would generally mean she was up to no good. She was so inquisitive that she tried to shave her face to “see what it felt like”, put tissue paper up her nose and had to have her sinuses flushed, cleaned her ear with a cotton bud and perforated her ear drum and at 6 years old ran away from school. It was a blessing when she was finally old enough to answer her own questions by researching on the internet and using Wikipedia. Sophia had, what we call in the trade, hypersensitivities and loved textures and sounds. She was also sensitive to world issues and could become very distressed with world issues like war and poverty and watching the television news was often extremely distressing for her.

Now before you judge her mother, parents and family, can I just stress that they were ordinary; middle class very normal and a respectable family who oozed common sense (just like you and I). They were kind and caring, loved this little girl implicitly and always tried to do their best. Nevertheless, they found their parenting job exhausting and challenging? In fact at times they thought they were bad parents when they found attempting to constantly meet Sophia's needs difficult. Yes, her mum and dad appeared both bright but, they shared with me one day, they had never shown traits and characteristics shown in this little person. Keeping up with this child was very challenging. Constantly stretching and enriching her insatiable appetite for knowledge was a really tricky balancing act.

At two years Sophia was registered at the day nursery I was teaching in 3 days a week and this went someway in helping to stimulate her (and exhaust her) but more importantly gave her mother time to recharge her batteries and also get some of the very important family household jobs completed. A summer baby she was always the youngest in her year but this never made a scrap of difference or held her back. She was always way ahead of her peers and years. At six years old after battling, not only with the child but the establishment too, she was diagnosed by an educational psychologist as gifted and on the 99^th percentile and working as a twelve year old for communication and language, reading, writing and spelling. The world was such an interesting place to Sophia.

Sophia found it hard to make friends and always gravitated towards adult company where she could hold an in depth conversation about the world around her and they could generally make an attempt to answer her difficult questions. Sophia was very pedantic and a perfectionist, a hard worker and needed to always achieve highly. She was extrovert and full of life and a pleasure to be around. She was interesting and I found her to be a delight to have in my class. I thrived on teaching and working with her and watching her develop into a very competent and bright young girl.

After a day with Sophia and retiring to the staff room, for my well-earned break, a strong, often sweet cuppa PG Tips was a necessary, and much welcomed, refreshment and “pick me up”!

Tea for Mrs Teacup was never very far away!

My Arabian Prince

And so I continue...

Yes, that's right, I was blessed to have a Prince in my class. Four years old, small, petite, shy and unassuming. A delightful little boy. Dressed in his miniature khandoura or dishdash (slang for khandoura) he unassumingly appeared at my classroom door each morning along with his nanny or governess. At first I had no idea; he was just a welcome member of my class like all the other little people I looked after. It went round as gossip at first, colleagues highlighting the fact that in my class was a Prince. My teaching colleagues were a little envious, as those who had worked in the UAE a long time suggested I would be lucky enough to be spoilt by extravagant expensive gifts. Being new I was not so sure about this and also for me it was not important anyway; I was here to do a job, and a big job at that. I had come to the UAE to try to make a difference and leave a little something behind if I could.

My Prince was a bright boy, a very kind and a humble little boy but sadly quite a loner. He played and learned well but generally alone, but he was a very happy little boy. I never once met his mother or father. He was delivered and collected from my classroom door each day by his nanny, an Ethiopian. Over time we became great friends and she told me my Prince generally lived with her in private women's quarters at the Palace. He only spent time with his parents at their request but life was happy in the women's quarters in the Palace. All the women supported each other and got along. He was besotted with this wonderful caring woman who had worked for the Sheikh for eight years and she was wonderful with him. They obviously had a very close and deep relationship and she was like a second mother to him.

My Ethiopian nanny and good friend confidentially told me a great deal about Palace life. She explained that all the nannys lived in one area of the Palace and that my Prince spent time with his siblings and cousins; it was difficult to mix outside the Royal family. On the odd occasion when a "commoner" friend was made and trusted, they would be invited to the Palace and collected by chauffeur driven limousine. I had this luxury several times; I became a trusted confidante and it was an honour.

My nanny was a beautiful person, inside and out, dressed in her abaya and scarf, she would appear at my classroom door twice a day with gifts of homemade local food, homemade Arabic cakes, even a packed lunch for me or beautiful material for me to have clothing made, jewellery or perfume. Funnily enough, one of my daily gifts was pale weak very sweet Arabic tea (no PG Tips in sight) but I became quite accustomed to this delicacy and even sweet weak tea brings back fond memories linked to my dear friend and my time in UAE. What she did for me physically and emotionally during my time in Arabia was overwhelming and extremely generous. I was very homesick but my dear friend made my time more bearable.

I was the envy of a few of my team and it was amusing. The trust between us was very evident and I respected the need to remain confidential. Nanny and I became very close and I know she was very fond of me, as I was of her. My Britishness appealed to her and my confidentiality training sat well with her role as nanny and part of the Palace and Royal protocol. Her trust in me was deep and I was not about to break it. We became great friends and because of this I was welcomed into Palace life in a teeny weeny way. We were both saddened when my contract came to an end and I was leaving to return to the UK but there was such a deep emotional bond that we knew we would never forget each other and I never have.

Becoming good friends with any Arabic woman was difficult and in fact rarely happened. It was obviously much harder to break into the enclaves of the Royal family and Palace. Colleagues tried to get close to me to enable themselves to be part of what I was experiencing, I had to be careful. On occasions I went to the Palace in secret. Arabic women and mothers attending the school were not encouraged to become close to Western women. When, and if, we started to become close, often this would stop once a male in the family became aware.

The small rural town or village I was living in was extremely old fashioned old school Arabia and not remotely close to the life seen by Westerners in Dubai. Rules applied and it was best you abided. Challenging but fascinating and I will enlighten you with more on the village and life in another chapter at a later date.

Over time I had invites to many functions at the Palace, afternoon tea, a play date and then a guest at a Royal Wedding. A Princess was to be married and I was invited and could bring a female friend. I was to be welcomed into a world only one could ever dream of being party to. A very private world. A women only world. It was the most fascinating experience and I was very privileged.

More to follow...