I've found my home

flicking a V

So, I'm out with my homies on Friday night, and it comes time to take the usual group photo. We all gather around, check that we can see the camera, maria pulls out her "psycho" face, and everyone flashes their gang sign.

We settle back down into our seats, sup on our ale, and maria points out that the 'V' sign that most of my homeboys/homegirls have just flashed is actually a rather rude sign in England.

NOOOOOOOOOOOO! They say is shock.

YEEEEEEEEEES! We reply.

WHAAAAAAAATTT? They demand.

'Tis giving the finger, except in this case it is giving it twice. We inform.

NOOOOOOOOOOOO! They say is shock.

YEEEEEEEEEES! We reply.

But, but, but...we thought it meant "Peace" or "Victory" or, or, or something. They say in bemusement.

It does, but that is with the palm facing outwards. When the palm is facing inwards it means something totally different. We explain.

Way back in the 1300s, England and France went to war. This was a war that would last (on and off) for one hundred and seven years. Thus it was called: The Hundred Years War. Under the leadership of Henry V, the English had their most successful period of the war. Some of this was due to his leadership (but please don't confuse the play with reality), but a lot was to do with a WMD (Weapon of Mass Destruction). The English introduced a weapon that was to annihilate French armies and bring a country to its knees. This weapon was the longbow. A single piece of yew, aged and shaped for four years into a bow, was capable of launching a 75cm (30in) arrow over 400m. It was either a long range weapon or a highly accurate weapon, not both. At the beginning of a battle volleys of arrows could be aimed into troops, on mass. During battle, single arrows could hit their mark, accurately, at up to 200m away. However, the key to this weapon's domination of battles rested in the hands of the archer or, to be more specific, the two fingers of the archer. To launch an arrow a great distance or to fire it with enough energy to pierce armour, the string had to be pulled back by the forefinger and middle finger, the arrow resting between them, notched onto the string. This was a tiring operation and, even though they would train, most archers couldn't fire more than six arrows a minute, for the first minute. However, this number would drop of dramatically as the fingers tired. Without those two fingers, a longbow was just a piece of wood.

Rumour had it that whenever the French took Englishmen prisoner, they would cut off their fingers. This would mean that they could no longer use a longbow. Knowing this, the English archers they would taunt the French by showing their fingers. They would wave them in the air, flicking Vs at the French army. Yes, all the way back in the 1400s the Gallagher brothers were already hard at work spreading peace and harmony amongst our European neighbours.

And so, flicking a V became the way that English people would say "I've got mine, now you're fucked". 

Over time it simply just became a way of saying "fuck off". 

So now you know.

Peace Out.

remember, remember

Stop me if you've heard this before, but I am going to talk about Bonfire Night. Now, I'm fairly sure that I've written about this before, but after searching through my blog, I can't find anything.I've checked with maria, and she was convinced there should have been something, but there's nada. In the deep, dark recesses of my memory, just over there, behind the hidden memory of being molested as an altar boy, I faintly remember telling Efrain about Bonfire Night. So that might be it. However, as I said, if you've heard this before, stop me.

My parents lived through a war. My mum, at the age of fourteen, volunteered to be an Air Raid Warden. This meant it was her job to ride through Sheffield, at night, checking that no lights could be seen from outside a house. This is so that bombers couldn't get a pinpoint on where Sheffield was, and thus bomb the place. This job my mum did for four years, every night, even the nights the bombs fell. My dad ran away to sea. As a pacifist he didn't join the Royal Navy because that would have involved shooting at people. Nope, my dad signed up for the Merchant Navy. Mainly because there was a shortage of Merchant sailors, what with all the convoy ships (bringing food from the USofA) being sunk. Yep, my dad signed up for the branch of the services that had the highest death percentage. Anyhoo, the point of this paragraph is to point out the fact that my parents lived through a war. Bombs didn't scare them. Death didn't scare them. Maiming didn't scare them.

When Henry VIII decided to leave the Catholic Church and take his country with him, he really pissed off some people. When his daughter, (Bloody) Mary, tried to drag England back into the Catholic Church she really pissed off some people. No one messed with Elizabeth. And then there was James I. So, a bunch of Catholics decided that this was their opportunity to kill a monarch. They hired a ninja assassin (or in this case a Spaniard), and paid him to kill the king and all of the elected representatives. Sr. Guido Fawkes (or Mr. Guy Fawkes) filled the basement of the Houses of Parliament with gunpowder, and waited until the king came to visit. Fortunately/Unfortunately (depending on your religious persuasion) one of the hirers decided to tip off a Catholic member of Parliament. This led to the basement being searched and Guy Fawkes with his gunpowder being discovered. Mr. Fawkes was hung, drawn, and quartered (that is: hung by the neck for a bit, taken down whilst still alive, then having your innards drawn out of you, before cutting your arms and legs off - the best [hahahaha] executioners would keep you alive through at least a limb loss.) and James I was saved, along with all the members of Parliament.

The Gunpowder Plot (it was 1605, they were hardly going to call it FawkesGate) is remembered fondly by people in England. Every November 5th (the anniversary of Guy Fawkes arrest) bonfires are lit. On the top of these bonfires are placed effigies of Guy Fawkes, these are burnt. And to celebrate his massive failure, in a sort of fuck-you-sunshine moment, the citizens of England launch fireworks into the night. Basically it shows that although Guy Fawkes might not have been able to light his gunpowder, the citizens of England can - yah-boo-sucks.

We celebrated Bonfire Night. When I say we I mean my family, and when I say celebrated I mean back in the 60s, early 70s. My brother and I would start collecting wood in September, bringing back logs from the woods. Through October we would pester our father to take us to buy fireworks. And then, when he did, we would buy our fireworks from an iron mongers round the corner. He would open his back room, and loose, on the table, he would have over a thousand fireworks, all mixed up. My brother and I would root through the pile. We had a large paper bag, and we'd pick fireworks from the pile, read the description, and either reject or select them. My father would take care of rockets and catherine wheels, the rest would be left to us. We knew we had to pick a certain amount of oooo-ahhhh fireworks, but we liked the thump-bang fireworks. Any firework that had a plastic spike on the bottom was a cool firework. The ones that had no added bottom, and would have to be put in a bucket of sand were the ones that mum would like. We'd fill our bags and then Mr. Ryan (wow, 38 years later and i still remember his name) would take each firework out of the bag, write the price down, charge my dad, and we'd go home.

Every night we'd play with our fireworks in the living room. We'd get out our bags, choose a firework, read the description, and then charge round the room pretending to be that firework. In retrospect, what makes the whole thing even weirder, we had a fire in the living room. Yes, an open fire with one hundred+ fireworks laid out in front of it. At some point, the weekend before Bonfire Night, we would make our Guy. An old set of jim-jams or trousers and a jumper, these we would stuff with newspaper and attach with safety pins. The head would be a paper bag with a face drawn on it, and also stuffed with newspaper. We never went door-to-door asking for "a penny for the Guy" because my mother felt it was begging, and we already had our fireworks. She would, though, always give sixpence to any children who came to our door. My brother and I always felt this was unfair!

We'd build the bonfire and place the Guy on top. Often we'd do this days before Bonfire night. My dad would tear it down and rebuild it. We'd find more bits of wood and thrown them on. He'd rebuild it.

And then it was the night. 

Sometime after seven, my father would douse the bonfire with petrol (after we'd checked it for hedgehogs - we were Blue Peter viewers) and then set fire to it. We'd stand and watch the fire burn, the Guy burn. My father wouldn't let us light any fireworks until he felt that the whole fire thing was done with. My mother would bring out minestrone soup in mugs, and we would sip while watching the fire. At this point, tin-foil wrapped potatoes were introduced to the embers. When my dad was ready, he would set of a barrage of rockets, to announce to the skies that the Kay family firework display was about to take place. Then a coin was tossed. The winner got to choose the first firework from his bag. Alternately, we would choose a firework, to be handed to my father, who would ceremoniously take it to the launch area and light it. At odd moments he would also light the fireworks he had bought. An odd rocket or catherine wheel. When it was felt that the third-of-the-way point had been reached my mum would produce hot dogs.

As we sat and ate, small fireworks would be set off. Jumping-jacks, bangers would be thrown at each other (ah, good times) and sparklers would be waved around. After the hot dogs (and mayhem) back to the fireworks. Another third done and we'd eat the baked potatoes, pulled from the fire. My mum would pas amongst us, spooning huge dollops of butter onto the potatoes. We'd fork out the potato and then get another dollop of butter to help eat the skin. Through all this we'd drink mulled wine. My brother's and my cup diluted with hot water. And then it was the finale. We'd know to keep the best fireworks until the end. The last twenty minutes were full of colour, full of raw violence, full of fun. At the end, my dad would let off the last volley of rockets, and we were done.

The dead fireworks were collected and thrown on the fire. A spade was loaded up with chestnuts, and placed in the embers. My brother and I were sent running round the house with sparklers in our hands. The chestnuts would pop. We'd sit around peeling them, talking about our favourite fireworks. We'd go to bed, smelling of smoke, laughing about the near misses.

Yes, we celebrated Bonfire Night. We'd build our bonfire, we'd burn our Guy, we'd launch our fireworks. We would celebrate the fact that the evil Catholic assassin Guy Fawkes had been captured and killed. We would celebrate the fact that the Protestant king and his Protestant Parliament had been saved. We would celebrate the fact that those evil Catholics had been beaten down and England was saved. Would this be the time to mention that the very first Church of England Bishop is on my family tree? Except, he's on the Catholic side of my family. Oh, I forgot to mention? My mum is a Catholic. We were bought up as Catholics.

The roof the roof the roof is on fire
The roof the roof the roof is on fire
The roof the roof the roof is on fire
We don't need no water let the motherfucker burn
Burn motherfucker burn.

dodged that bullet

Monday 2nd November, Day of The Dead. No work. Sheffield United are playing football, in England, at 7:45pm their time, 11:45am my time. According to the t'internet, which has never been known to lie, the match is being transmitted live by Setanta. The match would be shown (live) in The Shakespeare Pub and Grille. Your mission, if you are willing to accept it, is to get across the border, on a Monday morning, with no visa, and watch the match. This tape will self-destruct in five seconds.

Game On!

Woke at 7:30am. Got up thirty minutes later. Got dressed. Hung around flat for twenty minutes more while maria finished getting ready. Exchanged money. Drove towards San Ysidro Sentri Border crossing. Realised that I was in the car, headed towards Otay Sentri Border crossing. Traffic up to Otay was abysmal. Finally got to Otay. maria joined the Sentri line, I joined the walk-over line. You remember this video? Forget it. Monday morning is busy, very busy. A Monday morning when half of Mexico has got the day off is double-very busy. It was busy.

An hour and a half later I was finally stood in front of a Border guard. I pointed out that my visa had expired and I would need to renew it. (For those of you who are non-Mexican and have travelled to the USofA, you probably remember having to fill out a green form, full of interesting questions: Have you ever overthrown a government? Were you a member of the N@zi party from 1939-1945? This is a visa waiver because you are from a friendly country. It expires after three months. For those of you who are Mexican, you never see this form. Not because you might be ex-N@zis, you have to go through 14 hours of queueing, a full background check, several hundreds of dollars cost, just because gardening is in your DNA.) I was sent to join the queue at the visa application window.

There was no one giving out visas. We stood for twenty minutes, waiting. Eventually, once the queue had grown big enough to start causing consternation amongst the other Border guards, two people turned up to give out visas. Fifteen minutes later, after denying association with H!tler's N@zi Party, being fingerprinted, having my photo taken, I was issued with a brand new visa. Valid until February 1st 2009. Wait. What? 2009? I pointed this out to the border guard. She tutted, took out a pen, scribbled the 9 out, squeezed a 1 in between the zeroes. You know, that's not going to cause any problems every single fucking time I try to cross. From there I was sent to join the queue at the payment window.

There was no one at the payment window. We stood waiting for twenty minutes, waiting. Eventually, when the queue for people waiting to pay for visas was longer than the queue for people waiting for visas, someone turned up. Paid for the visa, ran out the building, jumped into the car, set off to see the match.

We stopped off at the post office to check our mail. We'd got the book for the book club we are in. Whoot! Back in the car, North up the freeway, into the pub carpark. Sorted.

In the pub there is a man, wearing a Newcastle United shirt, sat in front of the television. The match hasn't started yet. We'd made it. On time. How awesome is maria? Drinks ordered and served, I start to lubricate my vocal chords. Soon the mighty Blades would be taking to the field, to the theme tune of Star Wars, and then it would be time to sing The Greasy Chip Butty Song - a song described by maria as the gayest football song ever (roll over link for the lyrics). The television came on, the teams ran out. West Bromwich Albion and Watford stood side by s...Hang on. WTF? The Newcastle fan looked at me, I looked at him. We both looked at the chalkboard on the wall where it announced Sheffield United v Newcastle. Everyone looked at the television again. Setanta had decided to switch matches. They would be showing the Blades v Magpies game at 5:30pm. At exactly the same time that the NFL game was going to be shown in the pub. We both knew what that meant, no footy match for us. Three hours. Three hours to get there, on time, to watch a footy match. What could be worse? Well, being the bloke in the Newcastle shirt. He'd taken the day off work to watch the game. It was even his birthday. Yep, he thought the gods had smiled on him, putting a live Newcastle match on his birthday, so he'd taken the day off work.

He left the pub. They promised to record the match and he could come back any time to watch it. We ate (I had fish, chips, and mushy peas. maria had chicken pot pie, chips, and mushy peas.) and left. Went to IKEA and bought some picture frames. Got home. Checked the final score on the internet.

Sheffield United lost, 1-0. And the goal? It was an own goal, scored off the foot of team's captain.

Dodged a bullet there.

all souls day

As any good Catholic boy knows, November 1st is All Saints Day. It is the day that the Catholic church has assigned for all those saints who don't have their own (actual) day. Which means that if you have a Christian name then today is the day you celebrate your saint. Me, I'm named after Saint William (I was baptised in a church called St. William), which means I get to celebrate my saint's day on June 8th.The day after All Saints Day is All Souls Day. A day that is devoted to all the dead people. It was the day my mother would take us to church to light a candle for her parents, who were dead.

When my mother discovered that I had run away to Mexico, the first words out of her mouth were: "Oh, good. A Catholic country." Mexico, like the majority of Latin America, is a Catholic country. Basically that means that 85%+ of the country sees themselves as Catholic. There are slight differences in the national psyche when compared to England, and not all of those differences are based around trans-substantiation, or the viginosity of the baby jaysus's mum. Although the baby jaysus's mum does mean that the country is much more a Matriarchal than England (which I feel is more Patriarchal). The obvious difference is Christmas. Although Mexico is moving towards celebrating the fat man (Father Christmas to you), there is still a mentality that celebrates Christmas Eve and Twelfth Night with a lot more enthusiasm. In fact Twelfth Night, and the arrival of the three kings, is very much Mexico's Christmas, the day they give presents. Mother's Day is a huge day is Mexico. And then there is All Souls Day. The Day of The Dead.

Two days ago I was given a sugar skull, that's a skull that is made out of sugar. As part of the celebration of the Day of the Dead people get skulls with their names on them,  because it is a way that to face your own mortality. A way that shows your acceptance that, one day, you are going to die. I'm not totally sure how I am supposed to go about feeling, when an eleven year old girl gives me a sugar skull with my name on it, but hey ho.

There is no school tomorrow, because it is The Day of The Dead. It is a day when people visit the graves of relatives, and so there is no school. Often people will a make altars to the dead. These altars will include sugar skulls, marigolds, bread (it's a very sweet bread, on the outside, and plain inside), and the favourite foods of the dead person.

Anyhoo, I've got tomorrow off work. I won't be visiting any graves. Nor will I spend hours looking at my sugar skull, reviewing my own mortality. Nope, tomorrow I intend to cross the border to go to The Shakespeare Pub and Grille. The mighty Sheffield United are playing a football match which will be on television, live, in the pub. Mind you, considering the way that the Blades have been playing the last couple of games, mayhap I will be reviewing my mortality, or at least the futility of my life.

whatever

I'm sorry, I just don't get it. I really, really don't get Halloween. When I was a kid there was no Halloween. Well, of course there was Halloween, it was the night before All Saints Day, it was All Souls Day. But for me there was Mischief Night.

Mischief Night was all trick and no treat night. This was the night when tricks were played. From an early age we'd ring doorbells and run away. We would hear about people who would do the lit-bag-of-dog-shit but I never did that. I did once put a lit banger (fire-cracker) through a letter box. Oh, and before you think that I was picking on someone, I'd like to point out that I posted it into a Police Station letter box. Power to the People! 

Mischief Night was the night before Halloween. On Halloween we'd move our activities into the graveyard. From what I can remember of these times, most of the stuff I did revolved around fireworks. It was five/six days before bonfire night, fireworks were readily available, and these were our main weapons or destruction. Bangers, mini-rockets, jumping-jacks, these were the weapons that we used to fight our battles amongst the grave stones. Treats? Twice we had parties for Halloween. I remember apple-dunking, eating food of a piece of string, telling scary stories, but I don't remember costumes. At no point do I remember treats. I (as a child) never associated Halloween with costumes and chocolate.

And then I saw ET. No, I didn't actually see an ET, I saw the philum ET, and there was this whole wandering around in costume thing. Then came the episodes of Roseanne, the Halloween episodes where they turned the house into...whatever they turned the house into. What the hell was this all about? Well, like proms, MacDonalds, and thru I was about to discover. Halloween was all about wearing costumes and going to people's houses to get free chocolate.

By the turn of the century I already knew that if I wanted to protect my house then I had to buy a packet of fun-sized-snickers (even though I still called them Marathons). English trick-or-treaters are serious about their job. No fun-sized? Coat the car with flour and eggs, light-the-bag-of-dog-shit, piss through the letter box. Maybe I lived in the wrong area?

Anyhoo, I had an idea what Halloween was all about - and then I moved across the Atlantic Ocean and ended up here, in Mexico, right next door to the USofA. I don't get Halloween. I really don't get Halloween at all. I have just spent a whole day at school, working, but haven't taught a single thing. In the morning I was expected to turn up in costume. The theme was, It's A Small World, and I was expected to turn up as an Australian. The wonderful maria had attached corks to a hat (which as eny fule nose is the attire of every Australian) and found me an inflatable crocodile. All of that, combined with a lot of brown and a koala, meant I had fulfilled my part of the requirements. The pupils were in school an hour late - which gave us, as a staff, time to watch videos on youtube. No, seriously, we had to watch uplifting videos on youtube that showed how animals that shouldn't get on with each other (a hippo and a tortoise) did. Thus, we should all get on with each other. The students arrived in costume.

We had a costume parade. We had pizza delivered. We drank fizzy pop (soda to you). We went on a treat walk (there was no trick). We...well, we danced the macarena. We did some line dancing. We sat around, in the classroom, doing very little. And the kids loved it. The parents loved it. It was fantastic! The costumes, the parade, the cheap awful sweets (candies). Absolutely brilliant! And I just don't get it.

It isn't part of my background. So, I don't get your love of zombies. I don't understand your desire to be a vampire. I really don't know why you want to dress up in some costume.

I think that this is it, this is the culture clash. Halloween is a night of mischief to me, it's a night of wearing a Star Wars costume to you. At least the one thing we can agree on: why do they call them fun-size when really they are less fun than normal size?

I'm not disconnected

The clocks went back on Sunday. We didn't find out until 2:30pm, Sunday afternoon. We'd spent the day in our jim-jams, watching NFL and NASCAR, and it wasn't until I tried to check up on El Clasico (América v Chivas) that we realised something was going on. The main problem in our awareness was that the clocks hadn't gone back in the USofA.

Of course, just because the clocks have gone back an hour, doesn't mean that my body clock has gone back an hour. I've managed to wake up an hour before the alarm clock the last two days - which should be brilliant. It should be brilliant because I get to roll over and have another hour's sleep. Unfortunately, Monday morning's extra hour was spent arguing with David Bowie. He'd agreed to do a radio interview and answer any question I asked him before 6am. He, however was in the USofA and therefore was refusing to answer any questions...bastard! This morning I spent an hour, desperately trying to teach Nikos how to steer a dirigible. [Although it should be pointed out that I was (at exactly the same time) appearing nekkid in maria's dream.On the plus side, Neil Gaiman and Amanda Palmer, who were also in her dream, were dressed.] Do you know how difficult it is to steer a dirigible? Do you know how difficult it is to teach an eight year old how to steer one? Especially when he doesn't know what a dirigible is and you can't describe one, all you can do is repeat the word dirigible. Mayhap the extra hour in bed isn't the most restful.

One of the advantages of the USofA not having put their clocks back an hour is that television prime time runs an hour earlier, it is like living in "Central". Let me explain to those readers not knowledgeable about American television. The USofA is spread over four different time zones. This means that any tele program that is being shown at 8pm on the Eastern coast, gets seen at 8pm on the Pacific coast, which is 11pm Eastern time. The television stations advertise programs as being on at "Eight. Seven Central." In other words, the Eastern coast and the pacific coast get their prime time television between 8pm and 11pm, whilst the Central region gets its prime time between 7pm and 10pm. With me so far? Normally, this means that we don't watch the programme that is on between 10 and 11. This is because I am old and need my sleep. But, with the clocks not going back in the USofA this week, it is as though we are living in Central USofA. We can actually stay up late and watch the 10-11 programme, and I can still get my recommended amount of sleep. It is a fantastic feeling, sitting up late. There is a sense that you've been allowed to stay uplate on a school night, when the whole of the USofA has been sent to bed an hour earlier. It's like having a younger brother all over again. Except in this case, the younger brother is the most powerful country in the world. Take that, with your Nobel Peace Prize winning President! 

Weird day. I have a lot of non-contact time on Tuesdays, so I spend a lot of time on my own. It's cool, I got all my marking done, all my planning for November, but I didn't do a lot of teaching - 45 minutes of one lesson was spent invigilating a Spanish/Civics exam. All of this means that by the time I get home I feel like I've not done much at all. The advantage is that I don't have any work to do at home, which is nice. On the way home we stopped off at the supermarket, picked up a bottle of wine, a couple of French loaves, and four different cheeses (Danish blue, Edam, Camembert, Gouda). Home, we crawled under a quilt and watched Days of Thunder. It's not as good as you might remember it to be - the 8os were not kind (hair styles and music).

Anyhoo. Onward and upward. Looking forward to sleeping through until the alarm clock. Could do without the stress of an extra hour's lie-in.

not available

maria crossed the border today looking for an inflatable crocodile. She spent three hours driving from one place to the next, being turned down each time. As she left each store she would text me at work. On my whiteboard I was keeping track of her failures. Each time I got a text I would put a cross next to the store she had been to, and then write up her next target. The children were hooked.

maria picked up the mail while she was across the border. In our mail box was a forwarded letter from a court in England. My divorce has come through. I am now no longer married. In legal terms I am "single".

There's a party at school on Friday. It is the day before Halloween and the children are allowed to come into school in costume. The morning will be spent playing games in the classroom. There will then be a party in the classroom, followed by a "Trick or Treat Walk". The day will culminate with a costume parade for the parents, then the kids will all go home. The teachers (which is where I come in) have to come into school in costume as well. This year we have been (as part of a "It's a Small World" theme) asked to come as citizens of another country. I've been asked to represent Australia.

In my mind I know exactly how to be "Australian". I need to be called Bruce, drink Castlemaine XXXX, say "G'day" and "Bonza" quite often, have a koala in my pocket, wear a hat with corks, and be carrying an inflatable crocodile under my arm. Nothing says Australian like a hat with corks an inflatable crocodile. maria spent three hours driving round and round, going from one store to the next, until she found an inflatable crocodile. A 168cm (65 inch) inflatable crocodile. When I finally got to put a tick (next to Pool Supplies Store) there was a spontaneous round of applause in the classroom.

I'm not single. Oh, I'm not married, but I'm not "single". I'm attached. 

maria spent three hours today looking for an inflatable crocodile for me. An inflatable crocodile so that I can pretend to be an Australian in a school costume parade. She loves me.

I love her. I'm hers. So owns me. I'm not single.

who's on first

10:15am. I enter the school office:

me: Morning. Just checking the timings for the academic meetings today. Fifth grade meeting still at 12?

her: Yes.

me: And the fourth grade meeting is at 2?

her: No.

me: No?

her: No. The teachers have not rearranged a meeting for today.

me: Rearranged? I thought that when it was cancelled last week, you said that it would be happening this week. In fact that is why the fifth grade meeting is at 12.

her: Yes. But the teachers didn't rearrange a meeting.

me: I'm sorry, I don't understand what you're saying.

her: When the meeting was cancelled last week, it was up to the teachers to rearrange a meeting for this week. But they haven't. So it'll be next week.

me: Just so that I'm clear on this: the meeting was cancelled last week, I assumed that it would be this week, but the fourth grade teachers haven't officially asked for a meeting, so the meeting is now next week.

her: Yes. We've told them. There has to be a meeting and just because they didn't arrange it, we will enforce it. There will be a meeting next week, at 2pm, for the fourth grade.

me: Errrm. Isn't that when the sixth grade meeting is?

her: What sixth grade meeting?

me: The sixth grade academic meeting. Fourth grade last week, fifth grade this week, sixth grade next week.

her: No.

me: No what?

her: There is no sixth grade meeting next week, it has been cancelled because of the Halloween party.

me: So there's no sixth grade meeting next week because of the Halloween party.

her: Yes. So no sixth grade meeting means we can have the fourth grade meeting instead.

me: But won't the Halloween party interfere with that?

her: Hmmm, it might you know. Let me look into it.

me: Wouldn't it be a good idea to have the fourth grade meeting today? You know, as everyone is here and there's no party?

her: No. The teachers have to learn that they have to rearrange these things. There is just the fifth grade meeting at 12.

12pm I enter the school office:

her: Ah, the fifth grade meeting has been cancelled.

me: But, but, the fifth grade teacher is here, I'm here, why has it been cancelled?

her: No one else is here.

me: Because.

her: Because the fourth grade meeting was cancelled so they decided to go out and shop for candy, for the Halloween Party.

me: Which is next week, next Friday.

her: yes. That's when the fifth grade meeting will be.

me: No, I meant the party. But now you are telling me that the fifth grade meeting will be next week? But the Party is next week. You've already cancelled the sixth grade meeting. You've arranged a fourth grade meeting that is going to end up being cancelled. And now there is a fifth grade meeting on that day as well?

her: It'll be cancelled. They will all be cancelled. They will probably be the next week after.

me: Unless the teachers don't rearrange them?

her: Yes. Unless the teachers forget to rearrange them.

me: I'll go now.

this is where I work

The hillside behind the school has (like most of the hillsides in Tijuana that are covered in growth) a watering system. The heat in Tijuana is very dry, the humidity is very low. The fire risk is very high.
Every now and then the hillside is watered. When it happens the noise is...surreal. It sounds like aliens landing, it sounds like 5726 snakes going apeshit, it sounds like...I can't describe it. And unfortunately, I can't share the moment with you because I didn't grab the camera fast enough. Sorry.

the consistency and depth of a shallow puddle

Monday morning I will be at work.

Let me rephrase that, Monday morning I will be in my place of work. At 8:33pm, Sunday evening, I received a phone call informing me that school would be open on Monday morning.

When they shut the school, because one child had been confirmed as having H1N1, I thought it was a bad idea. However, it wasn't my place to say anything. Plus, it was three (paid) days off work. Now, I do know that some parents thought it was a good idea, as they'd already been pulling their children out of school. I also know that there were two other forms of lurgy going round the school - the 24 hour flu bug (that I had) and a dioharrea diarrhoea case of the shits (which I haven't had). The school needed to hit a re-set point. There is a reason that schools in England have half term breaks. There is a whole mental change over from the end of summer/beginning of winter. A change that can effect children. They need a break, a re-set. So, I thought that shutting the school because of one case of H1N1 was a bad idea. But, I did think that hitting a re-set button was a good idea (plus it was three days off work).

But some parents thought it was a bad idea.

The Powers That Be have changed their minds. Instead of closing the school for five days (because five to seven days is the quarantine period for this thing and so they chose the bottom end of the period), they are opening it tomorrow, four days after closing it. TPTB came to this decision late on Sunday afternoon. I got to hear about it at 8:33pm. Goodness knows how many pupils have heard.

When I was told that school was open tomorrow, I was also told that they are not expecting many children in. So, I have to ask, why bother opening the school? If you've made a decision stick to it.

I'm grumpy. Seriously grumpy. Mentally I was prepared for a day off work tomorrow. I was thinking of going to the zoo, maybe taking advantage of Chili's 2for$20 deal, not getting up at 6:20. But, here I am, wandering around the flat, turning on alarms, checking I've got clothes to wear. I'm grumpy. I've got to go to work tomorrow and I thought I had the day off. Bum!