I've found my home

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.

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.

lazy sunday afternoon

NASCAR has finished and I'm waiting for the Chargers game to come on television. At some point earlier, maria and I both fell asleep in front of the television, it's great being old. Worse there's a funny smell in the room that maria can't find. Except, I have this bad feeling it might be us. I think we should shower.

Sundays are brilliant. Days of doing nothing. Laying around, watching television, falling asleep on the sofa. Later, I'm eating Chinese, reheated Chinese, which will be nice.

This morning I cooked pancakes and made a video of the event - I'm that exciting. I'm also a bit worried. I've noticed I grimace quite a lot in these videos. I pull a face where I stick my teeth out and squint. It is very similar to a look my father used to pull. I suppose I should be happy that I look like my dad, however I don't think it is a good look. Also, watching this video, I noticed I have the sniffles. I'm hoping that it isn't the beginnings of a full blown cold, just early morning sniffles. And, oddly, I seem a bit camp. Or maybe I am always a bit camp and I've only just noticed it. Hey, ho.

like a sailor sent to sea without his biscuit

We went to the London Bar on Friday night. I thought I'd mention it because it was really weird being English in a bar where everything "English" is perceived to be cool. That said, it's a really nice bar. The music was good (the non-live music), the beer was cheap ($1 for beer before 9pm), the staff were friendly and helpful. We keep looking for a pub that could become our local. It isn't local but it is next to one of our favourite restaurants. I think we'll go again. See if weird becomes comfortable or stays at weird.

We went across the border on Saturday. Danny had a quinceanera (sweet fifteen party?) in the evening and had to get a dress. maria, who is always very supportive of her daughter, actually imploded with pride in the changing rooms. Let me explain. Danny's dad isn't the most supportive of dads, he can make flippant comments about eating/size/skin condition. You know, the sort of comments that can cause major-girly-meltdown. This means that maria has to work twice as hard to keep Danny's head above water. And before you ask what my role is in all this...pause and think. I (obviously) support maria but I take a slightly subdued role, thus avoiding the whole weirdstepfathercommentingonstepdaughterslife situation. So, Danny was trying on dresses in the changing room, with maria, while Nikos and I were messing around outside in the store. Out of nowhere (well, the changing room area), maria appeared and dragged me into the back of the store, demanding that I see her daughter. She was very proud. And yes, Danny is beautiful - without really trying.

However, that wasn't what I was going to mention. We crossed the border on Saturday. It's been a bad week for the border. Couple of border guards shot at (one killed), a shoot-out at the border, the border being shut (the first time since the Kennedy assassination. Normally, on a Saturday morning, it takes me a good 45-60 mins to get across the border. So, we normally cross early, when the queue is smaller. We hadn't planned to go, but Danny's quinceanera turned up, and we had to cross at 10:30am. Oddly enough, I walked straight across, no queue. maria and the kids went straight through the Sentri. Whole thing done in under three minutes. Normally, crossing the border from the USofA into Mexico is just a case of slowing down for the speed bumps. This Saturday we queued, to get into Mexico. It appears they have changed ALL the border guards on the Mexican side. They all look a lot younger (but I'm of an age when everyone looks younger) and a lot more up-for-it. They've also filtered the ten lanes into three, slowing everything up, giving them a chance to pull anyone and everyone over, for a car check. Hopefully this will slow down the input of guns into Mexico. One can but hope.

Which reminds me. We were woken up Thursday night/Friday morning at 2:30am when a car alarm went off. We lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the (eternal) two minutes it took before it stopped. We drifted back to sleep. Three gunshots woke me up. A (different) car alarm. Shouting. maria got out of bed and I tried to hold her back, gunshots! She said they weren't. At 3:15am the whole of the apartment block opposite had emptied of its inhabitants as they had chased a car thief down the street. Yay them! Especially as, last week, the mosthandsomemanintheworldandheknowsit (I might be a bit bitter and jealous in that statement but he really should stop running out the house to say hello to maria) who lives directly opposite, came home at 3am and was car-jacked at gunpoint.

Anyhoo, after we got home from the shopping trip, we cooked tacos. Or that should read, maria cooked all the ingredients for tacos, the kids got to order tacos, and I got to make them.

I ordered two chicken tacos and two meat tacos,

both con todo.

After eating we attempted to watch all three Lord of the Rings films. In one of those no!really? conversations, it appears that Danny hadn't seen them. However, more importantly, we hadn't seen them together. This is very important in our lives, the seeing-together moment. So, we had six DVDs to watch - we'd gone for the full on, extended versions. We made it through three and a bit. Somewhere, during the siege of Helm's Deep we both gave up and demanded sleep. And not sleep in front of the tele, sleep in a bed!

Sunday follows a certain rhythm. I cook pancakes, we listen to the comedy podcast from BBC Radio 4 (or from NPR), we watch NFL, we watch NASCAR (at the moment), we hop over to the Santos game during adverts, we watch crap. The day is spent in jim-jams. We eat crap, we drink...well, today we drank Clamatos!

The Chargers won, Santos won, I planned lessons, maria ironed, we're ready for Monday, physically. Mentally I'd be quite happy with another day off work, but it isn't going to happen.

unprotected typing

We've had the kids all day, and we have them all weekend. There are moments we are good parents, there are moments we are bad parents. These weekend we have decided to go for the bad parenting moments. We are going to spend every single second with them (quantity time) but we are going to spend it laying on the couch watching television or, to be more specific, watching DVDs (not really quality time).

We picked them up, went to Blockbusters, rented five films, went to the supermarket, bought popcorn/crisps/drinks, back home, plonked a DVD in the player, plonked our bodies on the sofa.

The first film we worked our way through was X-Men Origins:Wolverine. Don't panic, this isn't going to turn into a review of the films we watched, and if I remember rightly I've already reviewed Wolverine here. Anyhoo, it is [oddly] better the second time.) Watching films with the kids is an experience. Dani never seems to understand what is going on. She will repeatedly ask the most obvious questions. On the other hand, Nikos has absolutely no idea what is happening either, but he never asks questions. If the film is sparkly enough with minimum plot and conversation, then he is sorted. Wolverine was perfect for Nikos. Loud explosions, lots of shouting, some fighting, two turn away from the screen moments. It was far too confusing for Dani. Too many explosions, too much shouting, not enough explosions. However, all that led to some mother/daughter bonding, and bonding that made maria really, really proud. And what was she really, really proud about? That she could explain the plot to a Wolverine film, she knew what adamantium is, she managed to crowbar in several geek facts. Yep, four years of living with me and maria can now (casually) drop in geek facts about comic book characters. It then turned out that the kids haven't seen any of the X-Men films! How did that happen? How could they have possibly got away without seeing any of the X-Men films? I know what you are thinking, probably time to call child-support services but don't. All of this will be rectified before the weekend is out - I promise. By the time we return them to their father they will have seen X-Men and X2. Not sure about X3:The Last Stand, we'll see how the day goes.

Anyhoo, after Space Chimps, La isla de los dinosaurios, La mala educación, and half way through Coraline, maria threw half a bottle of coke over the sofa and my laptop.That's my laptop computer. My sexy Apple MacBook Pro. Half a bottle of coke. Over. My. Laptop.

You cannot believe how dusty Tijuana is. It isn't just dust, it is sand, it is grit, it is dirt. There is a permanent film of dust on every surface. You clean a surface, you turn round, it is dusty. It is hot in Tijuana, very hot. We tend to keep the windows open all day, every day. The windows have bars on them, so we don't have to worry about people breaking into the house, and the windows have screens on them so we don't have to worry about insects. But the dust still gets in, through the tiny, minute holes in the screens. Because it is hot, and there is no rain, there is nothing to keep the dust down. The slightest breeze picks the dust up, moves it from place to place. We know this for a fact, we know this to be true. When we bought my sexy new Apple MacBook Pro we worried about the dust. Worried enough that the second purchase was a keyboard cover. This cover is a plastic mat that lies over the keyboard, fitting over each individual key. It seals in the keyboard, nothing can get through. The dust cannot get through to my keyboard - it's genius. Oh, and if you were really going to test the cover you might want to try tipping half a bottle of coke on top of the keyboard - but that would be plain stupid. Unless it was an accident. And then you'd find out if it really does protect your keyboard, because tipping half a bottle of coke over the keyboard would be madness, and an instant disaster.

You might have noticed that I am writing a post. What you don't know is that I am writing this post on my laptop, my sexy laptop. Yep, the keyboard cover really does work. No coke on my laptop, disaster averted. I am typing, at the moment, for the first time without the keyboard cover - it has been washed and is drying. Can I just say, this unprotected typing is so sexy. The keys are so much more responsive, I can really feel the keys. My enjoyment is so much more improved, and my typing - oh, my typing is so quick, so smooth. If it wasn't for the dust and the chance of coke-showers, this unprotected typing would be the way to go. However, give it another two hours, to make sure that it really does dry, and I'll be slipping my protective sheath back on.

I think that's enough double entendres for one post don't you?

if god plays sport, he plays cricket

I am following the cricket (what do you mean: What cricket? It's the Ashes, England Vs Australia) via text updates on the BBC webpage, and this line appears:

Swanny giving it a real rip now, and the ball is starting to go through the top a touch too.

There is so much in that one line that is wonderful. But it means nothing to you, right?

Last night, actually early this morning, maria asked me to tell her a story. At sometime in the afternoon (Saturday) the desktop computer had bitten the dust, imploded. One of those moments when you realise that you know absolutely nothing about computers. No matter what we tried to do, it wouldn't cooperate. So, we had to go to the restore point...except (of course) there wasn't one, cos we're crap that way. That meant, once the computer had been restored (to somewhere in the 1980s because it was j-j-j-jive talkin') nothing was working again. maria spent 12 straight hours re-installing stuff, disc scanning, finding installation drivers, crying, swearing, restarting, reloading, and swearing a bit more, before I could get her to come to bed at about 2am. Obviously,neither of us felt like sleeping - or at least maria didn't - so as we lay there, in the dark, her head on my chest, the tears pooling in my tummy button, she asked me to tell her a story, something to take her away from the mental turmoil she was stuck in.

I used to live in Sheffield: 50, Silverdale Road, Sheffield, UK. You can find it on Google Earth. In fact there is a picture on there:

View Larger Map

Our drive was very steep, very, very steep. The cul-de-sac that we lived at the top of was also steep.In the picture it is the driveway between the one with a car and a van, and the one with gates - it has a tree in the middle of the drive, rotate the picture to the left (to the left). Anyhoo, it was so steep that on cold winter nights, my brother and I would put the hose on, in the garage, and let water trickle down the driveway, down the cul-de-sac. Our (genius) plane was to make a sheer ice-slide all the way down the drive/road. I don't think we achieved our dream that often. I have a feeling that we used to get so excited, there was so much peering out of windows, multiple visits to the garage, that my mum/dad put it all together. Now, as an adult I can recognise how we probably gave the game away, then I thought that my parents were dective geniuses. However, I know that it was achieved at least once (although I expect my mum to tell me that it never was and it was just a normal winter's day in Sheffield) because I got my first blackeye thanks to the ice - I also got in a lot of trouble.

When it was snowy/icey we had to wear our wellies (rubber boots). This was (obviously) to keep our feet dry, and the bottom of our trousers (because we were supposed to tuck our trousers into our boots but somehow, once we were round the corner and out of vision, trousers miraculously became untucked). But the main problem with wellies (apart from their uncoolness) is that you can't slide in them. No matter how many times you stood at the top of our drive, took a couple of paces (quickly) in a downwards direction, and then slid...you ended up standing, not sliding. The only way to slide perfectly down the drive was in your school shoes or, better yet, your Sunday shoes, Your school shoes had less tread on them (because you wore them a lot) but they did have all the drawing pins (or segs/blakeys) in the heels, so that you clicked as you walked down the corridors. Your Sunday shoes didn't have drawing pins in them - could you imagine how Fr. Keegan would react if you came down the aisle in church. clicking away? (For those of you not too sure how scary Fr. Keegan is/was, I once fled from a confessional box, in tears, because I had eaten one (ONE) Pez brick during Lent - I was convinced that I was going to hell, there and then [or at least had a couple more million years added to my time in Purgatory].)

One cold, icey morning I left the house, waving to my mum, with my wellies on my feet, trousers tucked in. Once round the corner from the kitchen, I didn't just untuck my trousers, I put on my Sunday shoes, which I had cleverly hid outside the front door (you didn't think I went out through the front door? you always left the house though the back door). And with my Sunday shoes on, I took two quick paces, and slid. Boy did I slide! The drive was a piece of smoothly polished glass. It was totally friction free. There was no way I was going to stop, down Silverdale Road, down Dobcroft Road, across Abbeydale Road and over the boating pond in Milhouse park.

If I got off the driveway. I didn't get off the drive way. Well, I did, but not on my feet.

The driveway was far steeper than the road, and there was a big enough difference in the gradient that when I hit the beginning of the road, I bounced. In my mind, now, I can see me going thirty/forty feet up in the air - in reality, it was enough to spin me round and bring me crashing down...on my face. More specifically, on my eyebrow. I slid the rest of the way down the cul-de-sac on my face/my left eyebrow. My clothes were slightly more friction generating than my shoes, and I slowly came to a stop. By the time I stood up I had grown a second head, or at least a lump on my eyebrow the size of a small child's noggin. I had a blackeye, my first blackeye.

My mum actually put butter on it. And a steak (from the freezer).It was brilliant! Until she spotted that I was wearing my Sunday shoes...but that is another story and not what I wanted to write about today. Because, after I told maria this story we ended up (somehow) talking about other things in my childhood, and eventually ended up at cricket. And she said: Sometimes I actually get close to thinking I understand what you are talking about, and then you go and ruin it by saying one more word. I will never get cricket. And then there was that single line in the text commentary this morning:

Swanny giving it a real rip now, and the ball is starting to go through the top a touch too.

Let me explain:

Swanny - Is the nickname of Graeme Swann, an England bowler. All England cricketers have the same nickname, well not exactly the same, you just add -ey to their surname. 

giving it a real rip - Graeme Swann is a spin bowler. This means that when the ball leaves his hand, he rotates it, instead of leaving the seam upwards (there is a seam on the seam). The more he turns the ball (rips it), the further it will turn when it bounces, hopefully confusing the batsman. In reality, if he really rips it, you can hear the seam fizz as it goes through the air.

the ball is starting to go through the top a touch too - cricket is played on a 22yd strip of grass, except there isn't much grass on it, it is almost dirt. Over the five days the game is played, this surface starts to crack and crumble (around the edges of the cracks. If you can get the ball to bounce on one of those cracks, the ball will move slightly. Hopefully, slightly enough to produce a poor stroke (shot/hit) from the batsman, and thus end in him being out. It is day four of the match and it appears, according to the text-writer, that the ball is starting to go through the top surface of the ground. This is good news.

So, now you know.

falling apart

I spent Thursday night in hospital, last Thursday, the 16th. I say "spent the night" because (as eny fule nose) a visit to hospital takes all night, except this is Mexico. No matter how you view Mexico, you cannot fault their medical system. They have dealt with H1N1 in a way that would make other countries (other first world countries - and I am looking at you, England) embarrassed. And they dealt with my problems at a speed that would make a tele programme about ERs a twenty minute special - and House would be finished by the first commercial break.

I was in-and-out in under an hour.

I got out of the car to enter the emergency entrance. The hospital porter noticed this and rushed out to move all the cones to one side and let maria park. He then rushed after me, asking if I needed a wheelchair. The receptionist was on the phone, a phone call she cut short and then apologised for delaying me registration. As I was handed the form, maria arrived and took over, and as she was completing the form, a nurse arrived and waited patiently to take me to see a doctor - I reckon it took six minutes from entrance to sitting in an emergency room, talking to a doctor. Fifteen minutes for a thorough examination and a diagnosis, and I was done. True, it took another twenty minutes for the doctor to fill out all the necessary paperwork, but it might have been because we were chatting away so much. We were back in the car, heading to the pharmacy, in under 50 minutes.

I am falling apart.

It was my teeth or, at least, problems exacerbated by my teeth. After the removal of my back molar (Monday) and the two hour work on a quarter of my mouth (Wednesday), I was feeling fairly exhausted. I spent a lot of Thursday feeling really tired and (TMI coming up) running to the toilet. By Thursday afternoon I was (also) running a temperature. At first it was nothing to worry about, a slight temperature a bout of diorahear dyrraherea the ability to shit through the eye of a needle. However, as the afternoon progressed, my temperature kept climbing. When it hit 38.7°C (that's about 102 in old money) maria got a bit worried (by bit I actually mean a whole-fucking-lot). I wasn't worried - there again, I had a temperature of 38.7°C, why should I be worried, my brain was on a warm simmer. Anyhoo, it turned out to be nothing more than a huge amount of bacteria had been ingested and the antibiotics I was taking were actually working against me, rather than the bacteria.

I'd like to say that I've spent the last week in bed, reading, recovering - I haven't.

On Friday I lay around the flat complaining (as is my want), while maria made a huge batch of chicken soup, full of vegetables and goodness.

On Saturday we went to "Opera en la Calle", The Opera in the Street. This is where they cut of a whole street in Tijuana and there are performances from 12-12. It is a brilliant idea, and is a wonderful event, and it was as hot as hell (38°C), and I was feeling a bit woozy. 

On Sunday I lay around the flat complaining (as is my want), while maria peeled grapes and filtered my bottle water for me.

On Monday we went across the border to buy lights for her dad (they are specialist lights, for photographers, a kit, that travels, and you get the idea). Due to someone's inability to get out of bed fast enough, we weren't across the border until after noon (in the afternoon!). It was hot, we had a long drive, maria has a tanned left arm. We got the lights and went to the cinema, to see Harry Potter 6. [Quick review: see it on DVD - there's nothing that warrants seeing it at the cinema.] We then tried to cross back into Mexico with the lights, and failed.

Where we live, near the border with the USofA, is a tax exemption zone. We can buy stuff in the USofA and use it in Mexico, without paying tax. Oh, some stuff you can't get across the border, and some stuff you wouldn't want to risk smuggling across the border ('cos they confiscate it). However, we could have unwrapped the lights, used them, and then taken them across the border, thus showing that they were our own personal lights - and really, how much would a set of lights cost, not enough that we would have to pay tax? But, the problem was that we wanted to DHL the lights further into Mexico. DHL would want proof that we had paid the tax, oh and these lights were expensive - more expensive than the work on my teeth! And so we went down the anything-to-declare channel. That was our big mistake. As far as I could make out - maria wasn't in the most talkative of moods and I had the feeling that she wanted to rip out someone's eyeballs so I kept my questioning to a minimum and my agreeing to a maximum - they really aren't set up for people actually asking to pay tax at the busiest border crossing in the world.

We were refused access into Mexico and had to return to the USofA with our evil, country-destroying lights. Once back in the USofA we headed for another border crossing. This time we decided to take a different approach. We still crossed in the anything-to-declare lane but this time maria got out of the car and approached the (male) officer looking all helpless-and-big-eyed-with-lots-of-hair-tossing-in-her-short-strapless-dress. I obviously can't say much about what happened next but without an import licence, nor having to leave the lights over night, nor paying the huge amount of tax we should have; thirty minutes later we got a set of lights into Mexico, we possessed a certificate to prove we had paid the tax on the lights, and some custom officer's family got to eat well that night. Gotta lurve Mexico.

On Tuesday I was back at the dentist. Here's something I didn't/don't understand - on my previous visits I have had two (TWO) injections to numb the pain, this time I just had one. This meant that I just-on-the-edge of pain. I could feel the work, I could feel the heat, I could feel. This is not really what I wanted to start experiencing. Anyhoo, a couple of hours later another quarter of my mouth was done...except for one tooth which just has a temporary filling at the moment. This is because it crumbled under the work and needs a crown. However, before the crown is fitted (look away now) the dentist needs to discover if I have any pain in the tooth - in which case the nerves need to be killed before they crown it.

It is now W*dnesd*y. I phoned my mum this morning, signed all the forms to make me legal for another year, and am now cooking a huge pot of chili. Yes, I know it is hot but at the moment we are eating food that doesn't need a lot of chewing and is cheap 'n' cheerful.

in passing

I probably should have mentioned it before but, with one thing and another, somehow it got away from me, I'm on holiday. Not holiday holiday. Not somewhere exotic holiday (although in retrospect mayhap Mexico is fairly exotic). Just not going to work holiday.

The students finished coming way back on the 26th of June. The teachers (me included) slogged through until the 3rd. I took a different approach to the end of the year (for once). Long time readers will know that I normally implode at the end of the year, coming down with different diseases and maladies. Also, my stress levels tend to shoot through the roof as I become more tired and irritable. This year I chose to finish the year chil-laxed. I decided to let everything just wash over me. (Note: I only went for this option as I had already approached/arrived/passed emotional-meltdown three weeks before term ended - so the choice was chil-lax or stroke.)

So, I'm on holiday. Whoot!

Saturday was spent at a carne asada (that's BBQ to you and you - however (s)wine has stated that anyone who says they were at a BBQ on July 4th is just stating the bleedin' obvious). 'Twas a (more than) pleasant affair. Spent some quality/quantity time with friends and new friends. The new friend is an American who, at one point whilst discussing same-sex marriage, actually came out with the first really sensible argument against - although he did manage to conclude with "but I still voted for because it isn't my place to say no." Which I thought was brilliant.

Sunday was spent in the flat, a normal Sunday. Pancakes and crap tele. (At this point I should mention that my concentration is not fully focused on this blog post. It is 10pm in Tijuana but it is 6am in London. As it is on the hour it means that there is a change on the fourth plinth and I've been watching this woman build a boat and pretend to row. You mean you aren't watching The One & Other Project? Live streaming from Trafalgar Square? It is brilliant.)

Monday I needed to renew my visa. Ironically the last one had expired on the 4th (I know, an Englishman being kicked out of the States on the 4th July isn't particularly ironic, just more ironic than rain on your wedding day). [It's started raining again in London, the woman is on the phone to her friends.] After getting my new visa, quite easily once we'd established I was English and not Canadian, we drove north to the camera shop. From there to IKEA to buy photo frames. Then to the cinema to sit through Public Enemies.

Tuesday we had the kids. They are going on holiday holiday - leaving the city for 16 days - so we've got them for a couple of days. We crossed the border and went to the zoo. It was hot, sunny, and tiring. However, it was a successful visit. Many photographs were taken, much fun was had. We then went to the cinema to see Ice Age 3: Dawn of the Dinosaurs. This was much loved by Nikos, enjoyed by Danny, sat through by us. All I can say is, thank goodness for Simon Pegg. We went for tacos on the way home. The kids are shattered (actually, so are the grown ups), so I'm sat in the bedroom typing this up as all the other rooms in the house are filled with sleeping children. Which, I suppose, should be my signal to go to sleep too. G'night.

let's see if I can remember how this goes

Yeah, I know, but, like, stuff has kept occurring. There are three half written posts in the drafts file which I've just read and have no idea how to finish them - so they've been deleted. I should write about the films I've seen, the books I've read, the father's day present and what it meant. I could write about the job, about graduation, about the week ahead with no students. However, this is blogging and what better way to get back into the trend of writing than doing a meme? So, stolen from Helly:

65 Questions You’ve Probably Never Been Asked…

1. First thing you wash in the shower?
Hair. I normally stand in the shower for three minutes, letting the water run over me as I slowly increase the hot water, decrease the cold, find that temperature that boils lobsters, then wash my hair. I tend to wash downwards, finishing with my feet.Working on the idea that the dirt gets washed down. Does anyone start at the bottom and work up?

2. What colo(u)r is your favourite hoodie?
Green(ish). It's new, so it's my favourite at the moment. Of course, when it gets colder (or I'm in a need-for-security moment) I might change my mind and reach for my black Spider-Man hoody.

3. Would you kiss the last person you kissed again?
Eh? Well yes. Slightly confused with question - do people go round randomly kissing people? Oh, yes they do, I suppose. Or, they might be the head of a mafia family who is lulling a soon-to-be-swimming-with-the-fish person. Or they could be setting up the messiah (he's not the messiah, he's a very naughty boy) for a fist full of dollars (or a few dollars more).

4. Do you plan outfits?
Do you mean plan as in what I am wearing tomorrow? No. Do you mean plan as in now I've grabbed this t-shirt I might wear it with this shirt? Yes. Although I know what I am wearing tomorrow, and for the rest of the week - I wear a uniform to work.

5. How are you feeling RIGHT now?
Hot. Tired. Happy. Satisfied. Happy. We spent the morning with friends. maria wanted to take pictures of them (and their children), so we crossed the border and went to Balboa Park. Crossing the border at the weekend is always traumatic before you get there - will there be long queues, will you get across easily, will I get the humourless border guard (as if there is one with a sense of humour...except there is one. My visa expires on July 4th and he always finds this the funniest thing, the fact I will be kicked out of the States on July 4th). The crossing went well, the picture taking was great. Afterwards we went for breakfast together. I ate. This is something I don't normally do in company but I did. And, whoot, everything went well. We then went to Seaport Village, where we walked, talked, bought books. Now I'm back home. The kids are zoned out in front of the tele, maria is sat beside me reading, I am posting. I am happy.

6. What's the closest thing to you that’s red?
My t-shirt.

7. Tell me about the last dream you remember having?
My dad turned up at the flat, came in, sat down. I asked him if he wanted a drink. He said no. maria got out of bed (not in the dream, in reality) and I woke up and told her that she didn't need to get my dad a drink. I miss my dad.

8. Did you meet anybody new today?
The waiter where we had breakfast had nice eyes according to Brenda and maria. I spoke to him, he replied, but I can't see this being a long term relationship.

9. What are you craving right now?
Nothing. Which is odd for me, as I normally have a desire for something. At the back of my mind I'd quite like a beer, but I don't crave one, and I won't have one.

10. Do you floss?
Nope. Got me a sonic toothbrush and I'm hoping that that takes care of business.

11. What comes to mind when I say cabbage?

I've just deleted Helly's answer which mentioned Cabbage Patch Dolls. So that is what first came to mind. However, so you don't think I'm cheating...The Cabbage Patch is the nickname for Twickenham Rugby ground, which is the home ground for the England Rugby Club (it used to be a cabbage patch before it became a ground). There is a pub nearby called (drumroll for suspense) The Cabbage Patch and I have been barred from this pub. Oddly enough, although I have been thrown out of many pubs, I have only been barred from one - The Cabbage Patch. And the crime I committed to incur the wrath of the owners? I don't know. I was on a pub crawl around Twickenham. The Cabbage Patch was the ninth/tenth pub? I had stuck to halves all night (I knew it was going to be a long night and we weren't half way through the pubs we were visiting). My (future) best man was drinking three dart throws in every pub - he'd walk in, throw three darts at the board, count along the shelf to the number he got on the board and have one of those (unless he hit a double or a treble). Others were doing their own thing. I got in the pub, ordered my half and went to the pinball machine (it was an Alien Invaders machine). Fifteen minutes later I was barred from the pub and spent the rest of the night with a totally inconsolable (future) best man. I never did get the full story (or any story) out of him, just it was his fault that I could never drink there again.

12. Are you emotional?
Yes. Very. Some would say "too". But I am emotional.

13. Have you ever counted to 1,000?
Nope.

14. Do you bite into your ice cream or just lick it?
Ice cream in a cone? Lick. Also try to push the ice cream all the way down the cone too, so I have ice cream to the bottom. Cornettos took all the fun out of that game.

15. Do you like your hair?
No. And I realise that there are people who are aghast at that statement (yes, I'm looking at you) but I don't like my hair.

16. Do you like yourself?
Ha! You mean physically or mentally? Mind you, it is probably the same answer: yes, no, maybe, sometimes, often, whatever.

17. Would you go out to eat with George W. Bush?
No. Michael Jackson died the other day and for a couple of seconds I felt sad and then...then I remembered the children who "slept in his bed". What has that got to do with eating with George W. Bush? Well, no matter how many people try to convince me that he's a wonderful raconteur, a great person to meet, a fantastic bloke, so that, just for a couple of seconds I think "I'd like to go out and eat with him". That's when I remember all the children's futures he's fucked. So, that's a no then.

18. What are you listening to right now?
The fan in our bedroom. In the background I can hear the kids are watching something that sounds cartooney. And the drier is going on the balcony.

19. Are your parents strict?
My mum is strict. My dad wasn't. Actually, my dad was strict. My mum would beat me, my father would talk to me. I suppose, looking back at it, my father's lectures were more frightening than my mum's violence. Also they were more effective. I am my father's son because of the things he said and the way he acted. I've also realised that I have portrayed my mum in a bad light here. Please don't think badly of her. I was (am) a frustrating type of person. Many people have wanted to (and actually have) hit me. I bring out the worst in people sometimes.

20. Would you go sky diving?
No. One of my "special abilities" is to see multiple endings to any scenario. I am the ultimate risk assessor. Of the many varied endings to a sky diving event, there is only one that is good. The rest end in death or worse (and yes, believe me when I say that are a lot of things worse than death). 

21. Do you like cottage cheese?
I don't know. I suppose so. It looks like sick, right? I must have eaten it at some point in my life. Just didn't remember to remember. Haven't bought any, ever.

22. Have you ever met a celebrity?
Yep. Mainly through teaching their kids.

23. Do you rent movies often?
Nope.

24. Is there anything sparkly in the room you’re in?
maria's wit. maria's personality. maria's earrings. The handcuffs attached to the bed. The look in my eye when I thought about handcuffs????

25. How many countries have you visited?
A lot. There was the two week trip through Europe, when my dad drove the six of us to Austria in order to remake "The Sound of Music" (don't ask). At one point, I remember him pulling into a lay-by and making us all get out the car so that we could all say we had stood in Luxembourg (it wasn't on his itinerary to actually stop for any length of time in Luxembourg). So, I have been to all of the Western European countries (except Portugal); the Czech Republic; Tunisia; the USofA; Mexico.

26. Have you made a prank phone call?
Yes. Unfortunately, most of them to the emergency services. Now, that I'm old, wise, and mature (I had that derisive snort at the back) I am very embarrassed about this. But, at the time, I was dead cool in front of my peers. 

27. Ever been on a train?
Errrr, yes. Lots.

28. Brown or white eggs?
In my mind, white eggs taste nicer. I always think, when I have a nice egg (and I haven't seen the shell), I bet that was a white egg. I tend to buy brown eggs though. I don't know why...are they cheaper? Are free range brown? And now I've just realised that the eggs in the fridge are white. So. I don't know the answer to this question any more. I am confused.

29. Do you have a cell-phone?
Yes. This is a meme, on the internet, and the question asks if you have a mobile? Would someone, connected to the internet, answer no? Who is this person? Why? I could understand you asking "do you use your mobile for anything else than phoning?" But, let's assume that most people who are doing a meme have a mobile, shall we?

30. Do you use chapstick?
No. Do I have a chapstick used on me? Yes. Every now and then maria complains that I have dry lips (or something) and then coats me in this gunk. I worry that people will think that I am a transvestite. Yep, I am this shallow and pathetic.

31. Do you own a gun?
Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha. No.

32. Can you use chopsticks?
Yes. Can I use them well? No.

33. Who are you going to be with tonight?
maria. At seven-thirty we will take the kids back to their dad's house. We shall come home, alone.

34. Are you too forgiving?
Yes I am - according to maria. I didn't know the answer to this question so I asked her. She replied: "you tell me things and my eyelids twitch, in anger. You should be out there, killing people - or at least maiming them. But you forgive and forget." So that's me then, too forgiving.

35. Ever been in love?
Yes.

36. What is your best friend(s) doing tomorrow?
She'll be processing all the pictures she took today. She'll be missing me. She'll pick me up from work. She might go across the border to watch "The Hangover" again with her boyfriend. Or, she might drag said boyfriend to IKEA again....I hope it's the former :^)

37. Ever have cream puffs?
Oops. I suppose you mean those creme puffs that they sell at the mall? You see, I love profiteroles.  Adore profiteroles. Quite like chou(x) pastry just filled with cream. Those you could call creme puffs. So, when I saw that there was a store selling creme puffs at the mall, I became very excited. When I saw the size of the things, I became very, very excited. When I saw that they filled them with custard my erection failed. What? Custard filled chou(x) pastry - no way, joseph! The store closed a week later. A week after I refused to purchase a 12 pack of creme puffs the store closed. I feel slightly guilty every time we walk past the place.

38. Last time you cried?
Held back the tears on Friday at Graduation. I suppose "UP" was the last time.

39. What was the last question you asked?
Question 34: Am I too forgiving?

40. Favo(u)rite time of the year?
Vacations. Second week of vacations.

41. Who did you last call?
J.A.

42. Are you sarcastic?
Actually I'm not. I am constantly accused of being sarcastic but this is from people who don't know what sarcasm is, and assume that what I am saying is sarcastic. It rarely is. The last time I was accused of being sarcastic I was actually been down right rude and insulting. However, I accepted the accusation, as I felt that pointing out that their failure to recognise my rudeness just proved their moron credentials would have led to further complications.

43. Have you ever seen The Butterfly Effect?
Yes. And if I remember it rightly, it wasn't bad. I say this because that is exactly what I said 48 hours ago, whilst watching "3:10 to Yuma" (which is excellent). It appeared, after an IMDB search, that one of the actors in 3:10 had been in TBE, which maria professed to not having seen. I came back with a quick review: I have seen it and it's not as bad as you might imagine it to be.

44. Ever walked into a wall?
Yes. That is one of the main reasons I studied Passe-Fu. Which, as eny fule noes, is the art of self defense against inanimate objects.

45. Favo(u)rite colo(u)r?
I thought this was "65 questions you've probably never been asked"? I have been asked this question before and I tend to answer it with...really? a favourite colour? you want me to pick a favourite colour? fish.

46. Have you ever slapped someone?
I should have. I should have slapped so many, many people. But I am just too forgiving...probably. I don't remember "slapping" anyone.

47. Is your hair curly?
When it is long.

48. What was the last CD you bought?
Can't remember. I haven't bought a CD in 2009, and I'm not sure I bought any in 2008. For my birthday I received the new Snow Patrol CD. So that was bought.

49. Do looks matter?
In what way? Of course looks don't matter if we are talking about a friend, or an acquaintance. If we are asking about a long term relationship, yes.

50. Could you ever forgive a cheater?
No, even though I'm too forgiving. And I wouldn't be expected to be forgiven.

51. Is your phone bill sky high?
MY phone bill? No. OUR phone bill? Sometimes. It was last month, and I expected to take the blame because I knew I had phoned my mum a couple of times (her computer has died a death and she has no way of getting on the internet). So when I saw the bill, I stayed quiet. Then maria apologised for the phone call to France and I was off the hook.

52. Do you like your life right now?
Yes. No matter how bad these bits are or get, there was a time when I saw where my life could have gone. The place I'm in, the situation I am in, right now, is far better to the place I could have been in right now.

53. Do you sleep with the TV on?
I have fallen asleep in front of the tele but that is in the tele room. We don't have a tele in the bedroom. The bedroom is for other activities.

54. Can you handle the truth?
Yes. Sometimes I don't handle it very well at the get go, but I prefer the truth.

55. Do you have good vision?
I had wonderful vision. Perfect vision. And then my arms got shorter. I struggle to read without glasses now. This is not something that makes me happy.

56. Do you hate or dislike more than 3 people?
Long term - no. I am too forgiving (I'm also irritating in the way I bang on and on about the same thing). In the short term though, I can hate with a heat that burns white. And I have done that for more than three people.

57. How often do you talk on the phone?
Rarely. Three/four times a week? Mainly to maria.

58. The last person you held hands with?
maria.

59. What are you wearing?
Red t-shirt, dark blue jeans, dark blue pants (that's underwear to you), brown and blue striped socks, SPF 50 sunblock, Armani Code.

60.What is your favo(u)rite animal?
Again with the favourite. It used to be a penguin but "Happy Feet" destroyed that dream.

61. Where was your default picture taken?
A Japanese Fusion Restaurant. Unless you are looking at the one of me in a tie. That was taken at work.

62. Can you hula hoop?
No.

63. Do you have a job?
Yes. I also have a life.

64. What was the most recent thing you bought?
A book. Two books. I was supposed to be buying a book but on the way to the checkout I picked up another. Except, I didn't have enough money to pay for the two books, so maria paid for them. So, that means...popcorn and drinks, at the cinema, yesterday. We all went to see Transformers. Quick review: don't go see Transformers.

65. Have you ever crawled through a window?

Yes. Many, many times. Out of my window, onto the garage roof, onto the top of the gate, onto the fence, onto the path, off down the road. Four hours later, back up the road, onto the path, onto the fence, onto the gate, onto the garage roof, in through the window, back into my bedroom. Three nights a week for two and a bit years.

that bloke in the vertex?

It is I, trying to rid myself in a belief of deities.

Do you feel sexy? No, seriously, as you read this do you feel a little bit sexier? A little bit cooler? A little bit je ne sais cois? 'Cos I do. Calm down, calm down, I'm not being sexy as I type this. You don't have to worry about me being doused in cologne, wearing something special (or nothing at all), nor licking my eyebrows whilst breathing through my ears - nope, it isn't me that is sexy. It is my laptop. You know all those times I've complained about my laptop? All those times I've slagged off Vista? Well, my luvverly girlfriend offered me a Wii for my birthday.

[pause]

No, I'm not typing this on my Wii, keep up. I turned down a Wii. Oh, there are many reasons to covet the Wii but...I am old. As much as I want to be Wii-Fit, as much as I want to play Animal Crossing, as much as I want to pl...oh, sod it, I want to watch Friday Night Lights! I need to watch So You Think You Can Dance. I have to watch Gordon Ramsey. I can't take up my valuable tele time with Wii stuff.

So I said so.

So maria got me something that I would use a lot. Every day. Most of the day. Not totally 24/7 more like 10/7 - which, to be honest, is actually fantastic. So, she got me a new laptop.

Not just any old laptop.

I've got a MacBook Pro. A solid block of aluminium with a glass screen. It looks good, it feels good, and by golly - it is sex on a stick. maria also got me iWork. All of my Microsoft Office documents have been transferred. And..and it boots up and is ready for work in seconds. It does things when I ask. The keyboard actually works (although maria has got me this horrible membrane that is like a plastic cover on your sofa....but after several days you should see the dirt that has accumulated on it, not nice). And my students love it. I know, I know, why should my students care? Because there is nothing better than a laptop that works in a classroom. I live my life with kids asking me questions, and with this I can answer their questions in seconds, without the laptop going "wait.....wait.....wait....fuck off".

So, I got a laptop, a macbook. I also got a printer. Plus iWork. That's enough. I got nothing else. Why should I?

Oh, I got jim-jams. Three pairs. And t-shirts. And trousers. And lotions/aftershaves. And books. And a suit jacket. And a belt.

And the kids got me T-shirts,and a shirt, and socks, and a belt.

So, I had my birthday. Oh, and I went to Disney, with my class. As you do.