I've found my home

for my mum

Because it was Mother's Day, yesterday, here in Mexico, I phoned my mum. It appears that my brother had inflated Speedy Gonzales - a 12 foot inflatable with a bloody huge outboard motor (don't think of this a dingy, think of it as something the SBS [or marines] might use to invade a foreign country) - and taken her out for the day, on the Norfolk Broads. It appears that they ended up on Ranworth Broad, and my mum asked me if I remembered an incident that had occurred there. I did. And I mentally promised myself that I would write the incident up and send it to her. This is the story:

During the Easter holidays of 1972, my father hired a 38 foot cruiser that slept six people and a sailing dingy to tie to the back of the boat As usual, with family trips, we were all awoken at 5am to pack the car. Why we were woken, to stand around in the freezing cold to watch my father swear at suitcases, as he forced them into the boot, and struggle to put Bolshy (our sailing dingy) on the roof, I never knew but those were the rules. By 7am my father was happy and we were ready to go. My mother lined my brother and I up outside the toilet, used the facilities herself and then made sure that we did. We were then bundled into the car, handed reading material, a tin of sucky sweets each and then my parents went back inside the house for a cup of coffee. Half an hour later we set off, stopping to pick up my grandpa on the way.

There must have been a time when my grandpa was dynamic and all there, he had set up many successful businesses in Sheffield and had retired. My grandpa did very little now, he would sit, eat, occasionally mumble, smoke, drink a huge amount of whisky every day and hand out money from a seemingly bottomless pit of change he kept in his pockets - normally with the preceding comment: I feel like a lavatory attendant. Here take some of this change. My grandpa came from an era when there were lavatory attendants, and he was used to tipping them. In his world, if anyone had a pocket full of change it must be because he was a lavatory attendant, weighed down by his tips.

Arriving at Wroxham the car was unpacked, everything being moved from the car to the boat. Bolshy was lowered from the roof and placed in the water, next to the fat slug of a dingy my father had hired. Grandpa was placed in the rear well of the boat and a glass of whisky placed in his hand. We were lined up on shore and reminded once again (as we were reminded annually) that my father could be referred to as dad, daddy, skip or skipper but never captain (captains are in charge of ships not boats, donchu'no). We were sent to our mooring posts, as the eldest I was at the front (for'ard), my brother at the back (stern) and my mother stood on the front (prow) of the boat. My father started the engine:

cast off for'ard, cast off aft

I threw the rope (line) towards my mother who missed it, pulled it back on board and dumped it in a pile. I walked back to the middle of the boat (midships), stepped on board.My brother threw his line to grandpa, who ignored it as it bounced off his head, stepped aboard and crossed to the other side. The boat moved away from the side (dock):

fenders up, everything tidy, break out the rations

My brother and I pulled aboard the fenders that hung down the side of the boat and then returned to the fore and aft of the boat to make sure that the mooring lines were coiled properly. My mother ran down into the galley (kitchen) and poured drinks for her and my father, rushed a glass into my father's hand and then ran back to the stern to fill grandpa's glass. My father opened the throttles and set sail for the high seas - actually, the Norfolk Broads is nothing like the high seas. It is more like a huge boating lake. These days it is probably an aquatic version of a motorway, with boats pootling along at 5 m.p.h., looking for a parking space, near to a pub, so that the drinking could start. As a child, I was of the opinion that a holiday on the Norfolk Broads was nothing more than a pub crawl on water. At some point in the holiday we arrived at Ranworth Broad. This is a huge expanse of water, the ideal place to put Bolshy through her paces. There, in the middle of the Broad, we dropped anchor, except he boat didn't actually have an anchor. The Norfolk Broads are cut into the earth and the bottom of each broad is thick black mud. The best way to make sure a boat doesn't drift in the night is to drop a huge weight which sinks deep into the mud, the mud closes round the weight, sucking it in tightly, the line is tied off tightly, the boat is moored, it will not drift.

My father had been in the navy, the merchant navy. It is always a source of wonderment to me that, during war time, when Britain was surviving on the arrival of convoys, which meant that these were targets for the Nazi submarines, thus leading to many sunk ships, many dead seaman, that my father would volunteer for such a position. Actually, beside the wonder, there is also a sense of pride. During a war situation, my father volunteered for a non-combative role, a non-violent role. The good news (for me and probably him) was that he never got to sail in wartime. He ran away to sea, rather than becoming an accountant (straight away) in his father's firm. Of course, there was fall back from this decision. At some point (approximately 50 times a year), my father would push back his chair from the dinner table and regale us with his first/second/every trip to sea. In later years, he was joined in his reminiscing by my older brother, who also joined the Merchant Navy. Oh, and if you think that I can tell a story, you really should spend time (have spent time) with my father and brother. Both of them are far, far better raconteurs than I could ever dream of being. However, the long and the short of this is, we were brought up with boats, with the sea, with sailing. [sidenote: My mother was an ARP. For those of you who have watched Dad's Army, it was her job to ride around on her bike, telling people to: Put those lights out! Again, I am in awe that a 14 year old girl (as she was then) would volunteer to cycle round a (blatantly obvious - Sheffield, they make steel! Think about it) target for the Luftwaffe.]

Bolshy was a polystyrene dingy. Now, I know what you are thinking - polystyrene dingy? Why? Well, think a bit further. She was light, very light. Think of a piece of polystyrene on water, think how the wind would move it. She wasn't just light, she was fast - in theory. The reason she was called Bolshy was because she was bolshy! On her maiden voyage she refused to move, no matter that the catalogue had stated that even in a light wind she would zip across the water, she didn't move. However, Ranworth Broad wasn't the same as the river she was placed in for her maiden voyage. It is a huge expanse of water that the wind whips across. Ranworth Broad was the ideal place for my father to show off his sailing heritage. He would sail Bolshy, my brother and I would sail the hired dingy. The hired dingy was a slug. Not even a slug compared to Bolshy, she was a slug. This was a dingy that my brother and me would be safe in. My father sailed Bolshy, we sailed the hired dingy, my mother and grandpa stayed on board.

For fifteen minutes my brother and I tried to coax our dingy into moving. Although the wind was strong, although we kept the sheets (ropes to you) tight, although we kept the sail trimmed, we had managed to get the dingy a whole 100 yards away from the boat. In this time, my father, had managed to zip up and down the whole broad. He'd undone the rust in his sailing abilities. He'd beaten to windward, he'd close-hauled, he'd run, he'd starboard tacked, he'd port tacked, he'd gone about (lee-ho). Basically there were only two things left to do: jibe and capsize. In the next manoeuvre he covered both of them.

A jibe is when you turn the boat around with the wind behind you, instead of a normal manoeuvre (tacking) when you turn with the nose of the boat into the wind. If you turn with the nose into the wind, the boat comes around, the sail switches sides, you move from one side of the boat to another, you continue to sail. However, this manoeuvre slows the boat down, it takes valuable seconds, and several knots off the speed of your boat. If you jibe, the speed of your boat doesn't change. The sail whips round (very quickly) and you are facing the other way. It is, essentially, a dangerous move. As the boom (the bit of wood holding the sail at the bottom), whips across the boat, it moves at a frightening speed. If your head is up then your head is in the water, or at least you have a major concussion. It also throws the whole weight of the boat in an alternate direction. A good, controlled jibe, is a thing of beauty. You know that moment when you see someone swimming the butterfly stroke, and if they do it badly it just looks like they are drowning? But, if you see someone swimming it well, you suddenly realise that the only stroke you ever want to swim is butterfly. It is the same with jibing. When it is done well, it looks perfect, sailor and boat together in harmony. If you have seen it, it is all you want to do. However, when it goes wrong, it goes wrong big stylee!

My father managed to complete the missing two manoeuvres in his sailing repertoire in one move. He jibed, he capsized.

The next scene was one that was (probably) only funny if you were there. Unfortunately, it was 1972 and neither my brother nor I had a video camera/mobile phone on which to record the drama as it unfolded. My mother went into panic mode. Turning the boat's engine on, running to the for'ard, struggling to pull up the anchor, running back to mid-ships, turning the engine off, running to the stern, dealing with my grandpa (who was totally oblivious to the whole thing), running back to the for'ard to struggle with the anchor. For ten minutes my mother was in perpetual motion, desperate to save her (in her mind) drowning husband. What she couldn't see, because she was too busy, was my father righting Bolshy, looking around guiltily, sailing off into the distance to hide his shame. By the time my mother arrived at the spot of the capsize, he was gone. There was nothing there. No sight nor sound of him. Just empty water.

My mother killed the engine, dropped anchor, went astern, and started to explain to my grandpa how his eldest son had drowned/disappeared under the dark waters of the Broad.

Through all of this my brother and I just giggled.

I guess you had to be there.

However, my mum was there. And this is for her. Happy Mother's Day.

yo mamma!

It's Mother's Day, here in Mexico.

Forget Independence Day. Forget America v Chivas. Forget Birthdays (and if you know anything at all about Mexicans the whole comment "forget birthdays" sounds totally surreal). Everything, everything, pales into insignificance when placed next to Mother's Day.

On my second day at boarding school, at the ripe-old age of 13, I made a boy cry. I called him a son-of-a-bitch. Now, it is true that I am a fairly foul-mouthed person. It is also true that I can be a bit flippant when it comes to swearing. It is definitely true that I can call people things that, in the cold light of day, are just not nice. However, I tend to be rather blasé when it comes to calling people names. I don't particularly mean it*. So, when this boy burst into tears I was slightly gob-smacked. My jaw dropped even further when, under questioning from other students, he revealed that I had insulted his mother. I was adamant that I hadn't! I had only called him a son-of-a-bitch...ahhhh, I got it! I had called his mother a female dog! His problem was not with me calling him a name, it was the insult to his mother. Fair enough.

As my life has progressed, I have discovered that talking about people's families is not a good idea. Even the most verbose detractor of their own family will take umbrage if you agree with them. It appears that it is alright for someone to slag off their family, but the minute an outsider picks on their family, the wagons circle and heaven help the casual bystander. This becomes double dangerous if you ever get involved with a comment about someone's mum. This I understand. My mum is my mum. I can complain about my childhood, her cooking, her (totally insane) rules but, if anyone ever says anything about my mum then they are in for a shoeing!

In Mexico you don't even want to think about commenting on someone else's mum. If you do the best that could happen is you would die quickly. The fact is, you will probably die - it is just the speed and the added extra pain that you would have to live through before your demise, that is open to debate. This is a country of men devoted to their mothers. A devotion that borders on the weird but, hopefully, never quite crosses the line.

A man's mother is a Madonna. Hell, she might even be the Madonna. It is a conversation that I ain't going to get into.

So, it is Mother's Day. If it was a working day, it would be half day, people need to go see their mothers!! If it wasn't a half day, people just wouldn't turn up for work. It is Mother's Day. Already we have received several random phone calls from (virtual) strangers, congratulating Maria on being a mother. Hell, I even have been commanded by my employer and my father-in-law to phone my mum and congratulate her.

Happy Mother's Day to anyone who is a mother.

Oh, and my mum is better than yours! Don't agree? I'll see you behind the bike-shed later and come prepared. Because, in the words of Carlin (the Daddy of them all) I'll be asking you: Where's ya tool?

 

*It should be noted that friends of ours, Mexicans, have taken to casually telling me to "fuck off". However, the casualness of the moment is normally ruined when their Mexican-ness kicks in and they follow the comment up with "no offence".

breaking down the stereotypical walls

What's the difference between a Yorkshireman and a coconut?
You can always get a drink out of a coconut! Boom-boom!!
Thank you. I'll be here all week. Try the chicken.

The thing about a Yorkshireman is that he will always call a spade a spade.

And then, of course, there is always this:

Now, I'm allowed to type this/post videos about Yorkshiremen because I am from Yorkshire. Whether I agree with these statements/video is, actually, irrelevant. I know that I am always the one to buy the first round of drinks, but I also know that I can wax lyrically on about "t'good old days of yore". I suppose that it isn't my place to discuss a stereotype from Yorkshire. Of course, I could go on about people from Liverpool/Manchester, Lanchastrians, soft-Southern Jessies, Cockneys, Midlanders, Cornwallians (don't think that is a word), and that is if I just stick to picking on the inhabitants of England. Don't get me started on the Welsh, Scots, Northern Irish. Or even Europeans. Heck, I could probably rant (quite happily and I would think amusingly) for hours about most groups of people. But a blog is not the place to do that. Also I might find that I have offended all of my readers (both of them) and I would be a lonely blogger, rolling around in my own bile.

And, of course, internal stereotyping isn't just an English trait. No matter what country you are from/in  there is always a certain section of the populace that is portrayed one way by the rest of the inhabitants. Mexico has been a learning curve for me. The first hurdle I had to get over was where the fuck Mexico was! I had an idea about Mexicans (sombreros, mariachis, tequila, moustaches) but (honestly) thought it was a South American country. It's not! It is North American (and pity the poor fool who makes that mistake!). Plus, it is also a country the size of Europe+. This means that there isn't really a typical Mexican. What you (as a non-Mexican) may think of as a stereotypical Mexican is not what a Mexican thinks of as a stereotype.

Within the country there are many different types of people. I am going to talk about one stereotype - the people of Sinaloa. I know about people from Sinaloa because I have sat in conversations with Mexicans who are not from Sinaloa. Fact: All Sinaloans are drug dealers! That's all you need to know!! And if you sit and listen to the chattering classes, here in Tijuana, you will quickly become informed that most of the drugs/kidnappings/shoot-outs in this fair city can be traced back to one group of people - Sinaloans!

Except - there is a guy who works at the school. He is the nicest, kindest man I have ever met. He as a great sense of humour, he is fun to talk to, he is fun to hang out with. He speaks no English at all and yet I count him as a good friend. The other day he spent some quantity (and quality) time with Maria. They talked for hours. It was wonderful. She got to tell him all about me, he got to tell her all about him. By the end of the conversation they were best friends. However, by the end of the conversation he was still using the Usted form when he talked to Maria. Although she told him, several times, that he needn't be so formal, he couldn't stop himself. He is an exceptionally polite, kind man. He is from Sinaloa.

Except - there is this parent who found my blog. He commented on a post, a post in which I mentioned his daughter. This freaked me out. However, the next day, his daughter talked to me, passing on a message from him. That day we had an email conversation. Friday, his wife talked to me and I got to meet him face-to-face. He's a nice man. A very nice man. He has also become a blogger - he'd been thinking about it for a couple of months and discovering my blog, pushed him over the edge! So, in the links, at the side, you will see two new links, because the man hasn't just opened one blog, he's opened two! One in English, one in Spanish. Please visit them, read them, feel free to comment in them.

Oh, and I might have forgotten to mention - he's from Sinaloa. Me thinks that, as he continues to write, and I continue to read, my opinion of Sinaloans is about to go through a major-overhaul.

not all tequila and mariachis

It has been officially decided that I am back in a good mood. This is important, here in Casa de WillandMaria. There are moments I dread, moments when I am perceived to be in a bad mood (ie. a mood that means I am not happy) because Maria takes it personally. This means that she, unilaterally, decides that it is her fault and the solution is: I leave. Now, I understand her logic: (1) Will is in a bad mood (b) I am Will's everything (III) I am therefore the cause of Will's bad mood (delta) If Will is not with me he will be in a good mood (ergo) Will leaves and everything will be happy in his world. Of course, understanding her logic and her logic being logical is a totally different thing. When she mutters the word leave, I go into total freak mode. I know that it isn't what I want, but she just said it, so it might be what she wants, she wants me to leave? If I wasn't upset before, I am totally mortified now.

The punchline is: if I'm in a not-good mood then I really have to tread lightly. However, it is official (I've just shouted over and checked) I am in a good mood. So, in that case, I can say a couple of things that I hate about Mexico, without it meaning that I want to leave. Yes, there are actually a couple of things I dislike about Mexico - I know, I have always painted it as sweetness and light but - I need to rant about two things (I say two things now, because there are two things that really piss me off, of course, once I get into the flow, who knows how much bile will come out? However, if you are reading this Maria [as if you don't] remember (1) I love Mexico (b) I love you (III) I am in a good mood (delta) I am not leaving!).

Bins by the Toilet

Beside most toilets in Mexico there is a bin (not in our flat). This is for used toilet paper. And when I say used toilet paper I don't mean for that moment when you blow your nose or rearrange your mascara - I mean when you have used toilet paper for what toilet paper was meant to be used for. Why? Because for years there was a plumbing problem in Mexico. Toilets couldn't flush away toilet paper. It appears that there might still be a plumbing problem, toilets still can't flush away toilet paper. But - and I suppose this is just me - I really can't deal with bins beside the toilet. I suppose it is me, or maybe it is my upbringing, or maybe it is my Englishness, but I really don't need to know that someone has used a toilet before me. Oh, I know that someone has used the toilet before me but, in my rose-tinted world, I can pretend, can't I? The last thing I need to know (to see) is that someone has been there before.

Banks

I just don't understand how banks work in Mexico. From the age of 16 (and that is thirty years ago) I have been courted by banks for my patronage. I moved banks three times as an adult. Each time was a massive upheaval - changing standing orders, getting new cheque books, just that whole moving-from-a-comfort-zone into the unknown. But it wasn't a total unknown. Each bank made me feel welcome, offered me a sexy new deal. Each time was a step-up. I knew that the bank wanted my custom and they were willing to bend over (in what they thought) was backwards to get me to sign on the dotted line. True, they didn't offer me the world on a stick because they were going to make a profit out of my money. So they offered me free chequebooks, free statements, a cash point card (ATM), free overdrafts, and interest. And all of these things totalled a lot less than the interest they were charging for loans - and that was what they were doing with my money, loaning it out at exorbitant prices. But I knew that, they knew that I knew that, and we were both happy with the arrangement. Here, in Mexico, it as though the bank is doing me a favour. My wages are paid into an account, an account that is only accessible via a cash point card. Each time I use the card I am charged 7 pesos. In other words, it costs me to get my money back. I am not allowed a chequebook. If I want a chequebook I have to open another account (for which I need the names of three referees). For this account I will be charged 200 pesos a month. Each cheque I use I will also be charged for. None of this makes sense to me. How much profit does the bank make with my money? And then they charge me every month for the privilege of being used like this. Partially, I feel as if my place of employment charged me for working there, rather than paying me. However, this is not what annoys me the most about banks in Mexico. And (and this will come as a surprise to any Mexican reading this) it isn't the queues in the bank either. Seriously, if you actually try to visit a bank you have to factor in a wait of at least an hour. And then, more often than not, when you get to the window, you discover that the cashier can't deal with your problem (you know, something complicated, like putting money in your account) and you have to go see someone else (another hour). No, it isn't the queues that annoy me the most. It is the fact that I have yet to find a bank in Mexico that is connected to the internet, that can actually cope with international banking. Fact: I have an account with HSBC - the world's bank. Unfortunately HSBC Mexico doesn't seem to acknowledge the rest of the world. This might not be as surprising as you thought. A bank in Mexico can't recognise the bank next door. Our landlady is registered with Banorte. We have to take our money out of an HSBC, cross the road, pay it into a Banorte. It takes two hours to pay the rent. At least that is possible. It is impossible to pay anything into a bank in England from Mexico. Actually, to be fair, it is impossible to pay anything into a bank in England from the USA. It is like the internet doesn't exist. There is no connection between banks. They just don't talk. And (to make matters worse) the world's bank doesn't talk to any other branches outside Mexico. It appears the world isn't as big as I thought it was - or maybe it is a fuck of a lot bigger.

And I can feel myself dropping into rant mode. So I'll stop now.

I am still happy, though. I'm not leaving!

I have always relied on the kindness of strangers

I hate car mechanics. I hate that male-bonding crap that goes on with engines. I hate whole conversations about brake-horse-power. I just don't get it. I understand how the internal combustion engine works, I know what the pieces of a car do, but I really have no desire to look under a bonnet (hood). Cars are a way of getting from A to B a bit faster than using my feet and in more comfort than on a bicycle. I am a sad enough geek to know how most things work, but when the microwave doesn't work, when my mobile phone doesn't work, when the digital tuner in my tele fails, I am not expected to stand around, beer in hand, grunting. It is common knowledge that if you want to make friends (male friends) in a new neighbourhood, grab a six-pack, step outside, open the bonnet, stare at the engine. Within seconds you will be surrounded by men who are willing to dispense their knowledge and wisdom:

Yeah, I thought I heard something funny when you arrived the other day. I'm pretty sure that it is your lunge-spracktel-over-binder. You're going to need a three-quarter spiflicator and a six-point harblesquiller to fix that mother. I remember when my DuPont '42 had the same problem. We had that baby up on the blocks longer than my wife gestated with the triplets. In the end we had to rip the whole thing out and replace it with the inter-flange-tribulator from a '29 Pushahbee.

You might gather that I have never stood around a car with the bonnet open. It just ain't my thing. Unfortunately it is Maria's thing. She loves the whole messin'-about-in-cars thing. I suppose (duh!) that it is her engineering background - I hope so, rather than it being the hanging around with blokes who tend to have more bum-cleavage than a plumber's convention.

So, the new truck (gotta lurve the new truck) has been having its problems. This is not unexpected, we knew this would happen. The reason we bought the truck was that the Jetta kept having its problems and it would cost us an arm and one of the kid's kidneys to repair it. As we are fairly fond of the kids, we decided to get something that we could happily drive around with the check engine light on, knowing that the car wouldn't throw a primadonna hissy fit (and smell of wee because the children had failing kidneys). And that is what we have been doing - driving the car around with the check engine light on, not selling our loved one's body parts.

Except it has been making one bastard of a noise. At first it was easy to ignore - this was the reason that in car stereos were invented. However, with the volume cranked to 20 (conversation impossible), the noise was drowning out Linkin Park at their most shouty. It was time to do something about it.

And so I had to face the fact that I would have to have that moment when I would be face-to-face with a mechanic. He'd look under the bonnet, wipe his hands on an oily rag, shake his head slowly from side-to-side and tut. I think they can sense my failure to be interested. When I go to see a doctor, I just want to be cured. I don't need a long story about how (if I hadn't gone to see the doctor) I would have ended up dead - I know that! That's why I went to see the doctor! Why do mechanics spend hours (and hours) telling me that if I hadn't gone to see them then (eventually) the outside of the car would explode whilst the inside would implode, killing several passer-bys and atomising the occupants. Just accept the fact that I know the car is buggered, give me a price, fix it, charge me the price you quoted, and let me go before you tell me an "interesting" story [in this case interesting means that if you listen, smile, nod enthusiastically, the price of fixing the car will be less interesting].

The good news is that Maria got to deal with the mechanic. The better news is that a price was agreed on at the beginning and (after it transpired that the replacement part actually cost the garage more than they had quoted us for the whole bill [including a couple of other things plus labour]) that was the price we paid at the end. The best news was the mechanic was wearing a t-shirt bearing the legend: No hablo Ingles.

The car was fixed, the bill was paid, and I got away without having to feign interest. All in all a good day for me. However, there is the one remaining fact that the bill came in at less than $50 dollars for the replacement part. This means that I do sort of feel obligated to mention that if you are ever in Tijuana, and your car breaks down, could you please use Tovar Auto Services on Ermita. They are very nice people, they do the job they promise to do, and they don't speak English. Thank you.

iron man revisited

Say it loud, say it proud: I'm a geek!

According to the baby-jee: The geeks will inherit the earth (and I'm fairly sure that he said that, just as I am sure that he said: blessed are the big noses [over to you Helly to spot the quote]).

This is how we roll. Maria and I go to see a film. We watch it, we might talk to each other during the film, but on the whole we watch and come to an opinion. We discuss the film in the car park, in the car, in the restaurant (we tend to go for a meal afterwards). We love each other, we love the other person's opinions. We can tear a film apart, we can ignore plot holes, we can come to a decision. And we came to a decision about Iron Man. It was "meh".

And then we spent the weekend surfing the t'internet. Everyone (that's EVERYONE) thought that Iron Man was the business. Go, now, google reviews of the film and EVERYONE will tell you how wonderful the film was. Where did we go wrong?

I'm a geek. I know (far too much) about Iron Man. I can fill you in on back story, forward story, plot lines. And, although I've been told that geeks will love this film, I still found it "meh". Maria loves Robert Downey (with a passion that I am not going to mention because I might get angry "and you won't like me when I'm angry") and so loved the film...except she didn't. I love comicbooks (with a passion that I am not going to mention because I am desperate for "street-cred") and should love comicbooks on the big screen...but I didn't.

And then we heard that there was another scene after the credits.

So, we went to see Iron Man again. To see the final scene, to see what we had missed. It couldn't be as bad as we thought? It must be a good film. EVERYONE says so.

It's crap.

It is a lot worse than I thought. It is seriously crap!

Dunno about Indiana Jones, dunno about Hellboy, dunno about Hulk, dunno about Batman...but, if you are hanging out for one super-hero film this year, don't waste your time on Iron Man.

The "I've found my home" review can be summed up in two words: It's Crap!

my rock

I've not been the best boyfriend the last week or so. You might have noticed, if you are one of those who read Maria's blog (and, if you don't, you should).

I've been a bit down and that isn't my job. Oh, I know, that sounds a bit weird but we're adults (well, at least Maria is - me, I'm just giving it a try). One of the wonderful things about our relationship is that we both came into this with our eyes-wide-open. There was going to be no learning-curve, there was going to be no adaptation-to-the-others-needs. We both sacrificed our former lives for this, there was no need to compromise. We had both had enough of compromise, we'd both had enough of bending-over-backwards to appease. This was the real deal. This was what we wanted. We knew who we were, what we wanted. We knew our roles in this relationship. Really, I don't care what you think, you aren't in this relationship! It doesn't matter to me (or her - yes, I am speaking for her) whether you agree or disagree with how we do things - this is how we roll.

And I've been a bit down and that isn't my job.

I'm supposed to be the up person. I'm the child in this relationship - the one who sees the joy/the fun in everything. I'm the one who laughs (stupidly), I'm the one who walks around on a permanent high. It is my role to see the good in everyone, the humour in every situation, the childish glee in everything. Don't get me wrong - it is not Maria's job to find the opposite! It is her job to let me be, let me be me. I love her, she is so supportive, so with-me, it gives me the freedom to be who I want to be. That's the agreement. I don't get depressed, I keep everything light. When something occurs that might drag us down, I go for the funny and she centres us.

Danny was wrong - I find Maria incredibly funny. In many ways she is English, she understands irony, she gets sarcasm (as a form of wit), and she recognises understatement. She worries that she isn't as funny as I am but, as I have proved on many occasions, sometimes going for the funny is not a great idea. She is so fucking intelligent that she forces me to be cleverer (is that a word?). A fart joke (as if I would ever) is never going to be funny. She forces me to be a better person, a funnier person - and this is one (of the many reasons) I love her. She makes me a better person.

Except, I've been a bit down and this is not my role.

Maria, my angel, has been searching for why I've been down. She is my everything, my all - if I'm down, it must be her fault (she thinks). But it isn't her. I can't tell you this (and you'd believe me), I need to grab you by the lapels, pull your face close to mine, look you in the eyes, and tell you: "She's perfect!" No, in this case it was me, not her (to paraphrase a Seinfeld episode). Are you ready for this? What was wrong? I'd failed. I'd failed the students I taught. I was supposed to go to Disney with them on Friday and (due to circumstances beyond my control) I didn't go. Don't ask me why, but for some reason, this weighed heavy on me - hell, I even had chest pains! But I didn't realise. I carried on (as if everything was normal) through the weekend, and I was down.

Tuesday night Maria asked me to leave, to go back to England. She knew something was wrong, and if she was my world, then I had to leave because (in her mind) it was her. I'm English, I don't do therapy, I don't talk things through, I avoid the point. However, the fear that she wanted (felt she had to) send me away was enough to force me to sit down and think - what was bringing me down?

I thought I'd failed my students.

This, of course, is totally crap. Why would I fuck over the best thing in my life over something as crap as failing to go to Disney with a bunch of kids? What I needed was a reality check. Something that would bring me up short, make me re-evaluate my life, order my priorities. And then, the great god karma stepped in. I got dooced!

Breathe.

I didn't. But in, one of those beautiful moments that you can't explain, the whole of my life got prioritised. Why am I in Mexico? Because of Maria. It isn't my job, it isn't tacos, it isn't to (not) learn Spanish - it is Maria. Maria is everything. MARIA IS EVERYTHING. It isn't a day not spent at Disney, it is a day spent with Maria. I am here to be with her.

W*dnesd*y night, Maria went for a shower, I checked the computer and there was an email, a comment on my blog. I'd been found by a parent. A quick check of the stats and suddenly I discovered that I had been visited by 79 different people in the last four hours. Suddenly, in a split second, the priorities changed. Tomorrow I might not have a job, tomorrow I might just be in Mexico unemployed, tomorrow...tomorrow I would be free from work, tomorrow I would be with Maria. Hell, we'd have no money, no income, but this was what we wanted (not no income), to be together. Suddenly, not going to Disney wasn't important. The fact of the matter was, we were together.

And she is my rock. We spend three hours going through the blog. I laugh at things I have written, she cringes, but the fact is, I feel relieved. I love her. I adore her. When did my job become more important than our relationship? She is everything.

I go into school - we are still not totally sure that the comment is from an actual parent. I switch on my laptop, check the comment again - it is from a parent! I email him. After that I step out into the playground, see the commenter's daughter. Say hello, ask how she is, and she tells me that her dad says that I'd be freaking!

So, this is how it is. Some posts have been removed. Some posts have been changed. And what happens next, happens next. But, I'm here to stay. I am in Mexico because I love Maria. I came here without a job. I'll survive if I lose this job. I've found my home!

I love her. She is my world, my everything. I'm here to stay.

Siempre y por siempre.

toys for the boys

Gotta new phone! Gotta new phone! Gotta new phone!

Yes, I know that I'm not really a phone-guy. This has been made patently obvious to me as I have transferred all my contacts from my old phone to my new phone - yes, I had to transfer them because I hadn't worked out how to put the numbers on my SIM card, so when that got moved, my numbers didn't. However, I am a music-guy. I was assured that this was the top-of-the-range-music phone. It even came with little speakers!! Two days later I have loaded up 376 songs and I am ready!

That is not all though. I have also discovered the delights and joys of adding special stuff to my contacts. I realise that this isn't new to you (and you) but it is to me. I have been allotting different ringtones to different people. Worse, I have been changing the ringtones every hour (or so). This is daft! I have had the phone now for two+ days and the only person who has phoned me (so far) is Maria. Not that I've answered the phone when she has rung. I've just been listening to the ringtone! I am this sad.

Sad - yes. But I have a sexy phone! And it plays music!! And I can change tracks just by shaking it!!!

[Oh, it also has a pedometer. I now know that on Friday I walked 4.4km, Saturday 1.3km, Sunday 3km, and today I have managed a whole 0.4km. OK, that just probably proves how sad I am.]

iron man

Iron Man

You are either going to see this or you aren't. It doesn't matter what I say about it - well, I know that no matter what I heard, reviews I read, I would go see it! So, take this review with a pinch of salt. It won't change your mind, one way or another (mainly because my reviews are fairly poor!).

I liked it. Didn't love it, liked it.

Robert Downey is wonderful. He carries the whole film, acts everyone else of the screen. And therein lies the main problem.

The plot isn't as good as Robert Downey. I'm a comic geek and, it appears a bigger geek than I thought. There were plot holes, characterisations, that were missing from the film. This was annoying to Maria. In discussion with her, after, she didn't really feel the motivation behind the character. Oh, thanks to Downey's acting (and a love of Mr. Downey), she felt she understood what the character was going through but...but the whole playboy sub-plot didn't work for her. Nor did the time spent in captivity. Nor did the villain. Nor did Tony Stark's brilliance. In fact, although she insists she enjoyed the film, take out Robert Downey and Maria would have hated the whole thing.

The other actors aren't as good as Robert Downey. I have no idea what Gwyneth Paltrow was doing in this film, acting-wise. She is far, far better than this. It was like she had turned up to do the voice-over for the cartoon and had no idea what to do with her body. There was no sexual-tension between her character and Tony Stark - and that is what they were going for! Hell, Gwyneth Paltrow is beautiful, Robert Downey is beautiful. two beautiful people who have "unspoken desires" for each other. Both of them should have found some spark, somewhere but Ms. Paltrow was in a cartoon. Jeff Bridges has the ability to be a bastard. He is weird enough, he is removed enough, he is capable of being a great villain. But the script was all over the place and there was not enough script for him. And please don't get me started with Terence Howard. This man had second billing, above Bridges and Paltrow, and should have had billing under third-robot-with-fire-extinguisher, who acted him off the screen.

The audience was brilliant. Thank god I didn't see this film at home, on my own. I think this was probably the best film-going audience I have ever shared a film with. In fact, go read one of their reviews - they loved the film. They laughed at the right places (and, more importantly, at the right time). They ahh-ed at the right moments. They loved the film and didn't spoil anyone's enjoyment, they became a really active part, making it a better film. Yeah to the audience.

The effects were...well, go see Transformers if you want robot action.

I'm glad I saw the film, I'm really glad I saw the film with that audience, I loved Robert Downey, I hated the script, I hated every other actor. On average - I liked the film but I won't be watching it again. The good news - Robert Downey is back! This should get him bigger films. The bad news - there is going to be a sequel.

the first time timmy saw yellow

Timmy left the house clutching the penny in his hand. He loved the size of the coin, it was so much bigger than a farthing or a ha'penny. It was much bigger than a thrupence or a sixpence. It felt solid, felt good, in his hand and he was allowed to spend it all. He knew that this was because he had managed not to stare at his uncle's face or, at least, not stare at the place where half of his uncle's face should have been. He hated the Saturdays when his mum's brother came to visit. Saturdays should be spent playing in the bomb sites, playing cricket or football, getting into mischief - as his grandpa would accuse him of doing every Saturday night. But when his uncle came round he would have to sit in the front parlour, making sure that he was seen but not heard. This was almost impossible. The hessian material of the chair seat made his legs itch, he had to wear his formal Sunday shorts. The neck of his shirt tried to strangle him, he had to wear his Sunday shirt. The conversation would mumble into his ears, all he could hear was a soporific murmur. The only way he could stay awake and stop fidgeting was to stare at his uncle's face, imagining what it must be like to kill Germans.

His mum always made a fuss over her brother, he'd been away to fight in the war and come back a hero. Not like his dad who had spent the war down the pit, digging for victory. His parents would argue, his grandpa would make snide comments. His dad was proud of what he'd done, his effort in the war, but it wasn't enough for mum and grandpa. All dad had to show for his sacrifice were a few cuts and grazes, he hadn't lost half his face. When mum's brother came round, dad would head out - to the allotment and then on to the pub. Timmy would go to the pub, after his uncle had left, and shout in through the door that dad could come home. Dad wouldn't come home for another couple of hours after the all-clear had sounded. And when he did, it would mean that the arguments would start all over again. He hated the Saturdays when his mum's brother came to visit.

After tea and sandwiches and hours and hours of boring conversation, his uncle would always call Timmy over. Tell him that he had seen something behind Timmy's ear - Timmy could see everything behind his uncle's ear because there was no ear to block the view. Then the uncle would pull a shiny penny out from behind Timmy's ear and give it to him. This was the moment he was dismissed. He would look at his mum, begging her to let him go to the shops. She would review his behaviour throughout the afternoon and then decide what could be done with the coin. If Timmy had been particularly restless, or staring, then the whole coin had to go in his piggy bank. Or, through degrees that Timmy didn't understand, his mum would allow the spending of a farthing or a ha'penny or three farthings. Today he'd been especially good. Today he could spend the whole penny. Now, now he just had to find someone so that he could gloat. He hoped that the rest of the kids on the street would be around as he headed over to the corner shop. A whole penny to spend. He might even share some of the booty he was about to purchase.

[to be continued...maybe]