If you're reading this column there's a good chance you know that I write quite a bit for this magazine, but more than once, I've also served as a photographer.

Unlike making lists and stacking things neatly – both of which I do pretty well – photography is not my strong suit. Part of the reason, though, is my peers in the industry. Unlike the very patient and talented Rouland Medina who takes pictures for Abu Dhabi Week, the vast majority of the professional photographers in this town are a cut throat, remorseless bunch ready to shove, elbow and gouge to get the prime spot at a press conference.

The sittings photographers are even worse. These tyrannical pirates will hold hostage fantastic photos of your child then demand a payment the equivalent of a black market kidney for a panoramic class picture you'll only have to cut into pieces to preserve in a photo album.

However ruthless Abu Dhabi's professional photographers may be, they're singing angels compared to the group I saw last week – there's no photographer more lethal than a parent trying to capture their four year old graduating from nursery school.

As the first class of the wee graduates filed in wearing mortarboard caps made from construction paper, my son’s nursery turned into a scene right out of the WWE as mums in Capri pants kicked the pumps right out from under the mothers of their kids classmates, scrambling to preserve the moment.

Ok, I’m kidding – I was probably the worst of the lot.

I can't say with certainty that I actually body checked anyone, but I do know that after pushing past all the other misty eyed parents, in every single shot I took, my son is staring vacant eyed and slack jawed, sticking his tongue out.

I know I will treasure that day.

Laura Fulton