I've found my home

my dad

I've had a rough couple of weeks the last two weeks. There has been something bugging me, something that I couldn't quite get a hold of. You know, that moment when you can feel a shadow of a thought, just hovering at the back of your brain, on the left-hand side. But each time you try to creep up on the thought (by going round the right-hand side of your brain, staying close to the skull, creeping up on it) it has disappeared. A bit like that dream I had the other night. You know the one where there was a..oh what was it?...and I saw...something...and then I did...something else..and, damn! I can't remember any of it but I know it was important, it was the answer to life, death and the universe - but all I can remember was...I think there might have been a spoon involved, or was it a blue teacup? No, it was a...damn, can't remember the name of the thing now.

Anyhoo, there has been something bugging me, and I couldn't quite put my finger on it. The last two weeks have been taken up with the school play, so I've tended to think that, whatever it was, it was something to do with that. I reckoned that if I ignored it long enough, it would get frustrated and shout out its presence in a big way. I was right. It did. And it wasn't what I thought it was.

It was my dad.

I've been working on the school play "The Lion King". For those of you who don't know the story it's about a lion cub, Simba, who runs away from his father's death, leads a life of fun and frivolity (Hakuna Mutata), then returns to take up his father's role and kick out the evil uncle. (Yes, I know that it is based on Hamlet but this is what I've been working on.)

On Thursday I ended up telling stories about my dad to a colleague. Half way through the stories, as we were laughing away at the wonderfulness of the man, my colleague managed to splutter out: Wow, your dad sounds like a great man. I always thought you hated him.

Friday (s)wine left a comment on my blog:

You're not old. Shit has DEVOLVED. I never dug Monopoly, even as a child. Didn't understand the whole "need to buy" shit. Guess it stuck. Guess I'm a Socialist at heart. Don't know. I don't play cards either. What has happened to your dad financially since those days? What was the lesson learned? For him? For you? Questions. I suppose I'm not in a good frame of mind. On vacation in Ottawa, and on my 3rd martini at 0956. Sorry for being rude.

and Maria and I sat on the balcony and talked about it. It was then that the shadow, at the back of my brain (you remember the shadow? the thing I was talking about at the beginning of the post) decided to leap to the forefront of my brain. It was my dad. Oh, before I go any further I should say, you weren't being rude (s)wine, I love comments, I love your comment, it was (in retrospect) a fantastic comment because it opened up a whole world to me. True, it started off as a world of pain but it has ended up in a good place. Thank you.

My dad is dead.

Died seven years ago.

I miss him. I miss him more today than I have ever missed him before in my life. I love him more today than I have ever loved him before in my life. I think he is a better father today than I have thought of him before in his life. This is mainly because each day I appreciate him more. Each day, as I live my life, as I grow more aware of his influence on me. Each day, as I learn to love myself more (thank you Maria) I realise that I am who I am because of my parents, because of my father. Each day, as I grow older, I face the fact that I am my dad. And, the one thing that makes me feel good about this change is, I really, honestly believe that my dad was a good man. A good man in the full and true sense of the meaning of good.

Where to start? I dunno because I don't have the time to tell you everything about my father. I know who he was, I know it know, my shame is that I didn't know it then, I didn't know it when he was alive.

To answer (s)wine's questions:

What has happened to your dad financially since those days?

My father was financially successful. Exceedingly successful. How successful? Well, in England, when I was of the age, if you went to University the government gave you a grant - you got money to go to University. However, this grant was means tested. If your parents had a high income then you got no grant. Knowing this, my father took the two years off work, before I went to University, so that his income would register as zero - thus, making sure that I got a full grant. He was financially secure enough to spend those two years not working. Instead, my parents spent the first six months cruising the world on the QEII, the second six months involved in charity work. The second year my father took on the role as captain of the golf club...and falling in love with another woman. Half way through the second year he left my mother. There were two side-effects to this decision. The first (the one that might interest you slightly) was that he become financially crippled. All of my father's businesses were Limited Companies - this meant that if anything went wrong with them, he would be financially vulnerable. In order to protect this vulnerability everything (everything) was in my mother's name. He gave up everything (everything) for the love of another woman. The second (slightly interesting point to you - very important to me) is that I walked away from the life that was planned out for me. In a whole fuck-you-I'll-do-what-I-fucking-want-to-do-because-you're-sleeping-with-another-woman moment I ran away from home. I didn't go to University, I didn't get the full grant. Oddly enough, though, when I finally went to University, I did get a full grant...as a student from a single parent family!

My dad survived, financially. He took a major cut in his wages, he took on jobs that would have been beneath his status before (instead of doing the books for multi-million pound companies he dealt with individuals) but, he bought his dream apartment - looking out on to the sea, at a port, so that he could follow the ship-to-shore movements - and then, when the time was right, moved into a perfect house with a manageable garden. My father was successful.

What was the lesson learned? For him? For you?

For him? I'm not so sure. Hell, I don't know what he learned from the event. For me? Well, I learned several things. Several things that I didn't notice at the time but now, looking back, I learnt things that have stuck with me, subliminally and overtly.  The first thing I learnt was not to play games with people better than me unless I was willing to lose. This has stood me in good stead. I don't gamble - actually I do, except I gamble to lose. I work on the principle that the house will always win, the house always wins. This means that when I gamble I work on the basic fact that I will lose my money, Often I don't. Often I come out with more than I went in with. This is nice. But I never (never) gamble with the expectation of winning. The fact is there is always someone out there better than you.Don't get me wrong on this, I don't have an inferiority complex, I don't think that everyone is better than me. My parents loved me (maybe they didn't show it physically but they showed it verbally) and they believed in me. They were the first to say that I was good, I was great, I was clever, I was brilliant. However, they were also realists. They knew I would never be number one, there would always be someone out there a little better than me. I was targeted and aimed at the number two slot.

Every Christmas, Father Christmas (Santa Claus) left a present, under the tree, for the whole family. It was always a game, a family game. On Boxing Day (the day after Christmas), after lunch (cold turkey!), my father would open the game and read the rules. He would read the rules and make notes. We would then gather around and play the game, making sure that we followed the rules carefully and explicitly. My father was very much a man who followed the rules. I don't break rules. I push, I moan, I complain, but I don't break rules. I know exactly how the game is played and I follow those rules. True, I some times use the rules to my own advantage, but that is because I know them and know them well. If you know the rules, really know them, and follow them then you can win at the game. There's a life lesson if ever there was one.

I'm not sure that this post tells you much about my dad, it doesn't tell you as much as I'd like, but I don't have the time (and you probably don't have the interest) to tell you everything about the man. You can probably pick up a couple of facts and see a reflection in my life. Yes, there is a moment when I gave up everything for love. Yes, I made that move just after my father died (as he did). Yes, I follow the rules but I know and understand the rules. There are many other things about me that I get from my father - my love of literature, my love of Sheffield United, my liberal tendencies (and yes, I get my whole socialist view from a man who voted Conservative all his life), my belief in non-violence, my ability to tell a good story, my need for alcohol, my dependency on pain relief tablets, my mannerisms, my hair colour.

I spent way too much time in my life trying to impress my father, trying to be the son I thought he wanted. I then spent too much time fighting with my father, trying to be my own man, trying to get out of (what I perceived as) the mould he wanted me to fill. I now realise that I want to be my father. A man I loved, then hated, then ignored, then accepted as a friend - now I know he is my role model. I want to be my father. And as I look back on my life, at this point, I realise that I have followed his path very closely.

Honestly, if I achieve what my father did, if I do what my father did, if I live the life my father lived, if I leave behind me the legacy my father left (for family, for friends, for those who came into contact with him), I will die a happy man.

My dad - a man I admire, a man I love, the man I want to be.

monopoly

When I was a kid, if I did something wrong, I was sent to my room.

This was a totally different punishment to "being grounded". When I was a kid, a long, long time ago, being sent to your room was a whole different ballgame to "being grounded". For starters I lived in the streets. When I was a child, paedophiles hadn't been invented. When I was a child: caring, loving parents would throw you out the door at 8am and not expect you back home until7pm. My mum would casually pack me sandwiches and a drink, tell me to be back by 7, then throw me out.

A day where I didn't collect 30+ miles, on my mile-o-meter that I had attached to my bike, would be considered a failure. There were dams to build in the woods. There were moors to be discovered. There were areas of Sheffield that were new to me. The only time my parents totally freaked was when I phoned (2p in a callbox) from Park Hill, casually mentioning that I was going to a fair.

Later in life, as a parent, once 24 hour news came about, I realised that you can never (never) let your children out the house, unless you drive them everywhere and tag them - else you will appear on the news as a bad parent. I also learned that sending your children to their room was not really a punishment. Children's rooms, these days, are full of computers, televisions, bloody everything - it isn't much of a punishment. But, back when I was a kid, my room was a punishment.

Except it wasn't. I had my books, my comics, my writing desk. I also had my brother. We had Lego (please note: in this blog the plural of Lego is Lego!), we had Action Men, we had Monopoly. Monopoly was our godsend. We would play games that lasted three days, we would play four games a day. There were weeks that I played 30/40 games of Monopoly (I was a naughty boy). I lived, breathed, devoured Monopoly. Later in life (sadly) I won a bet - could I name every single square on a Monopoly board? I was a god at Monopoly.

And then I played a game that included my dad.

We were on holiday, a caravan holiday, in the Lake District. It had rained for the first three days and it was raining on the fourth. Despite the rain we had still been on seven-hour forced marches during the day but at night, instead of playing football/cricket/rugby (we were a very active family, I now realise) we had been forced inside the carvan to play card games (by the age of eight I could card count - seriously, you wouldn't want to play whist with me). On day four my brother and I brought out the Monopoly board. My father said: No. We argued, we whined, we begged, we pleaded. He agreed, with one proviso, we would accept the outcome. He then proceeded to destroy the game of Monopoly for me and my brother. In under an hour he managed to suck any enjoyment of the game out of the game. He didn't dance, he didn't say: In your face, he didn't show any emotion. But, in under an hour, he totally and utterly dominated the game. We wanted to quit, he wouldn't let us. Another hour was spent being driven into bankruptcy and tears. I have never played Monopoly again.

It is now 35 years later.

I am old.

The children in my class have brought in a game of Monopoly. There is no money. There is no money because everyone playing is given a credit card. The credit card is placed into a calculator which adds/deducts money as they play the game. And there is something different about the board. There are no train stations - they are airports. The Water Board/Electric Company have become "Cell Phone" and "Internet" providers. But that isn't the worst thing.

To me.

The worst thing is that you get One Million for passing GO. One Million! One Million!! One Million for passing GO!!! Not two hundred pounds, one million somethings. I can accept that Old Kent Road isn't called Old Kent Road - what I have difficulty in accepting is that it doesn't cost forty pounds - it costs 6K.

When did I become so old? When did I become the man who rants at 12 year olds because they don't know what 6K means?  When did Monopoly become so, so, so...I don't know what?

When I was a child, many moons ago, my brother and I called the game Monotony. Now, the game is so hip-and-up-to-the-beat that I no longer recognise it.

I am old.

Still, it makes financial sense to buy the Oranges! Unless you are playing with my dad - that man could just tear you apart.

posts I didn't write

Tee hee! Hi, my name's Will and I'm a bad blogger. Actually, I'm a much better blogger than you'd realise - I have written posts in the last week [checks list and discovers three drafts that haven't been finished], however, it has been one of those weeks that I just haven't got round to finishing a thought, never mind a post. So, here is a list of posts that I didn't write during the last seven days.

W*dnesd*y: Kids will drive us apart (to paraphrase Ian Curtis)

Thanks to the kids being with us our morning routine is destroyed. I don't get the opportunity to go back to bed in the morning, for that moment when I hold her, kiss her. This makes the rest of the day seem incredibly long. When I get home, at night in the afternoon, there is no chance to be alone with her. It is only when we finally get to shut the bedroom door that we are alone. I miss her so much during the day.

Thursday: Insanity is hereditary - it is passed from child to parent [sic]

I honestly believe that my IQ is falling. I have now watched more television in the past four days than in the previous four months. What is worse is that I am enjoying it. I am emotionally involved with the contestants on So You Think You Can Dance? I really wanted Vicki(? I just remember it began with a V - so maybe I'm not that involved)) eliminated from Hell's Kitchen but understood, totally, why Gordon Ramsey got rid of Bobby. I can't believe the idiocy of the contestants on Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader? And The Moment of Truth is just car-crash television! You know you should look away, you know that you should move on, but somehow you are drawn totally to watching the disaster enfold in front of your eyes.

Friday: Look what I got in the post

I got a CD from Alan! I also got two books (the next episode of Lucifer and another Nick Hornby article collection). But, I got a CD from Alan!! Isn't getting parcels in the post the bestest!!! Especially ones that you didn't order yourself.

Saturday: I think I'm going to explode

You know how after eating a Chinese meal you are supposed to be hungry 30 minutes later? I over ate! I'm not saying that I was a big, fat, bloated organism, laying around the flat - but three environmentalists tried to drag me back into the sea, to release me back into the wild.

Sunday: I miss my dad, I miss being a dad

Thank goodness I didn't finish this post! This was one of those very dark, very depressing posts. Luckily the day was saved from total disaster when I received a card from Dani. Sometimes you can't see the good things in life until they smack you in the face.

Monday: seriously, they are that enthused?

The tickets for the Lion King went on sale, at school, Saturday morning at 8:30am. That explains the the seven parents who slept overnight outside the school gates. That also explains the sixty-five parents who were already queueing at 5:51am. Do you start to feel that I might be under a little pressure?

Tuesday: no sleep 'til brooklyn (I think I've used this title before)

The email I got from La Directore at 9:45pm was enough to ensure that I didn't fall asleep until 1am. The power cut at 2am meant that I spent the rest of the night not sleeping, scared that I would not hear my watch alarm, my mobile alarm, because there was no CD alarm to wake me up.

So, there you go. Seven posts that I didn't write. Aren't you glad you didn't have to wade through that stream of unconsciousness this past seven days? And that is without talking about "national stupid driving day" or "the exhibition of cows". Anyhoo, gotta go. The kids have left which means that I should be spending time with Maria, not sitting at the computer. Mind you, it's too hot to do anything - so I might just lie on the sofa and watch television. Can't remember if it's So You Think You can Dance? or Hell's Kitchen tonight. But you can bet I'll be there whichever one it is!

normal service has been resumed

...which probably means nothing - as I am not totally convinced what goes for normal round these parts...

It's Sunday, 9:40am, the thermometer has already hit 30 and is threatening to rise even further. This, suggests to the kids, that we should be going to the beach. The good news for me is that Maria is still feeling under the weather. This is good news for me because (seriously) I don't like the beach, not at Playas. My idea of fun is not sitting around, on a beach, burning/melting. The beach in San Diego offers some shade, I can sit under a tree, but the kids don't have their passports. So the only choice is the beach here in Mexico - which means death to me. It doesn't matter that I use SF60, mentally I still freak if I am out for longer than 15 minutes. I will spend the whole time trying to keep my skin covered with clothing, finding a position to sit in, making sure that the sun hits only protected parts of my body. And then I will sweat. And, no matter how much clothing I wear, sand tends to "walk" up sleeves, up trouser legs, down through collars, and before you know it, I am covered in sand! Gah! I hate the beach!! Bah-humbug!!!

(Croila, you can ignore this paragraph - nothing of interest here for you) And there is football to watch today! The mighty Santos Laguna are into the play-offs for the title. It is the quarter finals, second round, and the mighty Santos go into the game with a 2-1 lead! Even betterer are the facts that (1) America never even made the play-offs and (b) Chivas (the red-hot favourites to win) went down 4-1 in the first leg, needing to score 4 goals in the second leg, which they did, except they conceded 4, losing 8-5, meaning they are out!!! (Pretty sure that the punctuation in that previous sentence was awful - so let's hope Nancy didn't read this paragraph either!) Anyhoo, the intention was to go round to friends (fellow mighty Santos supporters) and cheer the mighty Santos on to the semi-finals. Unfortunately, with Maria feeling a bit under the weather, this ain't gonna happen. But I will still be cheering on the mighty Santos! Oh, and while we are on the subject of footy, there was probably some happiness in chez Alan yesterday, congratulations.

An English exam will be writted [sic] today, not because it has to be (it is supposed to be done by Monday) but because it will be.

Oh, and this morning I got some (what I first thought of as) good news. However, the more I think about it, the worse the news gets. Fraggle Rock is one of those programs that hovers somewhere at the back of my mind. I am convinced that I loved it. I know that I still love The Muppets, so I am fairly convinced that I loved Fraggle Rock. So, for 15 seconds, after Maria told me that a Fraggle Rock philum was in production, I was really happy. And then I started to think (without taking a shower!) - maybe Fraggle Rock was good back then. Maybe I enjoyed it then, back in 1983, when I was still a student, with a one year old daughter. Maybe now...actually, the more I think about it - it is bad news. I get the feeling that it will be another good memory destroyed! Ah, well.

Right, onward and upward. I have forgotten to take the chicken out the freezer - I got distracted and ended up doing the washing up instead - and there are worlds to conquer, places to go, people to see, sofas to be laid on. Have a good Sunday, catch you on the flipside.

the terrific tales of Action Will

This will be a "live" blogging event. To prove that I am all action today, I will update this post regularly, so that you can keep track of whether I am fulfilling my promise to end procrastination. Stay tuned (or keep hitting refresh) for the latest news:

6:15am - I wake up at this time every day. Although the alarm is not on, I still wake up at this time today. Today is my day of action. I roll over and go back to sleep.

8:05am - I get up. Check emails, check blogs. Open a coke. Have a cigarette. Go back to bed and wake Maria up. As this is a day of action I get out handcuffs, chains, wiffle bat, and run (run!) back to the fridge for the whipped cream and a stick of celery! (is this T.M.I.? It was the stick of celery that pushed this over the edge wasn't it? Hey, at least I didn't mention the radish! Oops, too late.)

8:57am - get up again. Check blogs. Leave comment on j.a.'s blog. Surf internet.

9:23am - go for shower.

9:34am - still going for a shower.

9:49am - am out of shower and dressed. Whilst in shower I got the joke in j.a.'s comment: In the list of things to procrastinate about, "get a haircut" is at least in the top 5. I will list the rest later. This is, of course, after I had started to, mentally, draw up my own list.

9:57am - run (run!) round house collecting keys, wallet, phone. We have to pick the kids up at ten and they live three minutes away! I will be on time.

10:02am - pick up kids and explain to them that we are having an action day.

10:23am - arrive at Starbucks. Order a power drink!! Full of vitamins, and minerals, and water gathered from the thighs of Cuban virgins (who have been left out overnight to let the dew settle on their thighs - I hope?). Sorry Vanessa, I did not bring the computer - this is family time! And, because I am being all action, I need to turn the time into quality rather than quantity.

11:17am - leave Starbucks. Go back into Starbucks to use the facilities - I don't know much about Cuban virgins but I think their thighs excrete some sort of diuretic??

11:23am - leave Starbucks with empty bladder.

11:31am - enter Blockbusters.

11:42am - start throwing DVDs at Nikos. I love the boy but, sometimes, he's like Maria in a shoe shop - the shoes in the other aisle are always more pretty than the pair in her hands, the ones on her feet, and the other two boxes she has in front of her.

11:45am - leave Blockbusters.

12:02pm - arrive at supermarket.

12:07pm - still wandering around aimlessly! This is supposed to be an action day! Hit upon idea of, instead of wandering around, thinking what we need, systematically go up and down every aisle, filling cart with one of everything!

12:27pm - bill for shopping comes to 987 pesos??? That can't be right!!!

12:29pm - get out of supermarket car park! Don't these people have anything better to do on a Saturday, other than go shopping? Don't they realise they are holding up a man of action????

12:38pm - unpack shopping. Realise that we forgot to get the things we went for. How the heck can you forget bacon??????

12:42pm - update blog (doing that now!!!)

12:52pm - hit publish and then will get out all my books and start writing my exams.

12:53pm - realise that I forgot to get a haircut. Kids are now watching DVDs and don't want to go out. I need to start my exams. Probably won't get haircut today.

1:36pm - will start to write exams soon. Just surfing at the moment - but it is action surfing.

1:55pm - have opened Word on the computer! Am a lot nearer to writing my exams.

2:33pm - opening Word was a bad plan. The computer froze. It might have had something to do with the fact that I was doing too many things with the computer - foolish me! Computer had to be re-set. It was my intention to open no more windows, just Word and work on my exams. However, Maria has just posted. So, I'll have to go read that first. But will get to my exams soon!!!

2:59pm - did you know that you could buy second hand books from Barnes and Noble? I got a gift voucher for my birthday and now, instead of buying two/three books, I can probably get a load more. Now, I need to sit down and write a list of books I want. Hang on, there is a funny smell in the flat??? Damn, it appears I was supposed to be watching the beans. I don't think they are burnt but Maria is a bit grumpy with me. I told her I was concentrating on the computer...true, it wasn't my exams, it was shopping! However, I'd better open Word and get on with the exams NOW!

3:20pm - have written half an exam. However, have been worrying about my failure to detect the boiling beans. Am now boiling eggs to make my egg salad. Will need to chop up an onion and fine cut some coriander (cilantro). This will take me away from the computer...but I am doing something! I am not avoiding writing exams. Honestly.

3:23pm - run out of gas. Can't boil eggs. Will need to hang about on the balcony waiting for the gasman to drive past. I know, I know. It might look as if I'm just sat on the balcony, reading, but I am doing something. I'm waiting for the gasman!

3:47pm - gasman has been. Have lit the boiler and set the eggs to boil (again). Need to chop some food and wash out the glass I am growing my avocado in.

4:04pm - finished sixth grade maths exam!! Decided I was procrastinating, didn't chop food, didn't wash avocado glass, wrote exam instead! I am a man of action!!!

4:46pm - transferred water from huge bottles into smaller bottles. Bit of a disaster with the eggs - might have forgotten they were boiling? There was still water left in the pan though, so they should be alright. Not that I've been avoiding the fifth grade maths exam but, up on acuerdate de acapulco there is a post in English. This is good news, as Maria is asleep in front of the tele - the kids are watching a film about a tooth mouse (no tooth fairy in Mexico, it's a mouse!) [and no IMDB link for El Raton de los Dientes either] - and so couldn't translate for me. The better news is that she's asleep and doesn't know I'm reading blogs, instead of writing exams!

5:36pm - have written the fifth grade exam. It is not a nice exam (sorry) it is full of questions about circles, which means π. The thing about teaching π, is that it is pronounced "pie" in England, which means loads of awful jokes for the maths teacher to make!

Apple Pie - do you get it? Genius, I'll be here all week. Unfortunately, π is pronounced "pea" in Mexico - and there are no jokes that I am doing about a word that sounds like "pee". Hard enough talking about a Wii!! Anyhoo, onward and upward! It is time for this man of action to make his egg salad!!

5:41 - three legged cat had a haircut today! She is a woman of action!! I feel like a failure. Maybe I should go lie down?

6:05 - just realised that I haven't eaten today! Am going to make the egg salad, open some ritz crackers, and dip away. Might also slice up some saussies and coat them in lemon and chili powder. While I am eating I will go watch some tele - probably an episode (or two) of Chuck. Also realised that I haven't said (on here) congratulations to Croila! Congratulations on your fantastic news!!

6:15pm - aaarrrggghhh. Didn't buy Lea and Perrins, didn't buy any dijon mustard. And now Maria feels ill :^( Not because we didn't buy the correct stuff - she just feels ill. I'll go sit with her for a bit.

8:15pm - still sitting with Maria. She is still feeling ill. I can't leave her. Much as I want to write the English exam, I have to think about her feelings. Plus, I'm in the middle of watching something. Gotta go!

10:28pm - time for bed. The kids have to go to bed, which means we have to retire to our bedroom. Not sure how successful this day has been - I've written two exams out of three but I didn't get a haircut. Good night.

for my mum

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

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

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

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

cast off for'ard, cast off aft

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

fenders up, everything tidy, break out the rations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Through all of this my brother and I just giggled.

I guess you had to be there.

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

no-one gets out of here alive

We had a lesson this week, at school. It was about...how do you say?...sexuality?

We are at a kid's party, a seven year old's party. Nikos is with the other fifty children trying to kill each other on the bouncy castle. Maria, Dani, and I are sitting a table, in the shade, waiting for the piñata, waiting for the cake, waiting for the singing of "Happy Birthday", waiting until it is polite to go home. We've been there for four hours, just waiting. We've exhausted all our conversation, we've criticised everyone else at the party, we've eaten our fill of tacos, and the heat has drained all our energy. For the last five minutes (or so), we've been sat in silence. Maria, in an attempt to stop herself from falling asleep, has gone to the drinks table and is getting another coke, another sprite, another beer. Dani, realising that I am now sat "on my own" and being a well-mannered child, pauses, thinks, and starts up a conversation:

We had a lesson this week, at school. It was about...how do you say?...sexuality?

Dani is Maria's thirteen year old daughter. Because she is Maria's daughter she isn't a child - that sounds wrong. What I mean to say is that conversations with Dani are not childish. Oh sure, there are conversations about childish things but they tend to be conducted in an adult way. She is very intelligent, very mature. And then there are the grown-up conversations. This is something I am used to because it is the way I would talk to my own children. I am not frightened about discussing the big things and I am not frightened to talk about them in an adult way. No conversation is out of bounds. My feeling is, if a child asks the question, follows up with another question, is willing to sit through your answer, and come back with a question/statement, then the child is old enough to talk about it. I will discuss anything with Dani - except sex when we are on our own. Just for my/Maria's mental security, there is one thing that Dani and I shouldn't discuss when she is out of the room/away and that is sex.

Errmmm. Ok. Do you mean reproduction? Was it a science class?

This would be safer ground. This is science, this is biology, this is a conversation I can have. Also it buys me time. I check where Maria is and spot her searching through the ice box. I stare at the back of her head, beaming telepathic messages to her to get her ass back to the table NOW!

No. It was just a talk about sexuality. It was very embarrassing.

I need to buy more time. I need to get Maria back to the table before we cross into ground that I am really not comfortable in.

I remember when we did reproduction when I was at school. It was in a biology lesson. It was embarrassing. Actually, it was made double embarrassing for me. The teacher introduced the topic, told us that we were going to be studying reproduction for the next couple of months. And then, I suppose to break the ice, decided to get all the nervousness over and done with in one go. He told us we were going to study sexual reproduction, we were going to study SEX. Of course everyone started to giggle and no-one looked each other in the eye. And then he said, said out loud: "William, this is a serious subject, not something to giggle about." I suppose he was just trying to get over the embarrassment for the whole class. But he picked on me! Everyone turned and looked at me. I went bright red and everyone laughed AT me. It was awful. So awful that I remember it now, 35 years later!

Where the hell was Maria. That was my story. I have nothing else to say. I am stuck in my own kind of private hell here. Stop looking for ice and get back to the table. NOOOOOOOO! Someone has stopped her, to talk to her. She has to get back to the table NOW!

It wasn't a lesson. It was just a long talk about sex and sexuality.

Uh-huh.

If I sound non-committal she might get bored with the conversation. She might stop talking about this. This cannot go anywhere but bad.

At the end of the talk we were asked to write questions on a piece of paper. Fold the piece of paper up and put them in a box. Then the teacher picked the questions out of the box. One at a time. And answered them.

I have got to stop this!

Ok. Look. I'm sure that there was some very interesting questions but, seriously, I don't want to know.

Yeah, I know. There were some really embarrassing questions. I would never tell you what people said.

Thank you god. Thank you jesus. Thank you lord.

Except for this one question. It was really embarrassing.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Maria, Maria, where the fuck are you. Get here now. I don't want to deal with this. GET HERE NOW!

Look. Seriously LOOK! You don't have to tell me the question. I don't want to hear it. I am going to put my fingers in my ears and go nanananana. Just wait, just wait until your mum comes back to the table. Then you can tell her. I'll leave. Talk to your mum about it.

The question was...

Did I say this girl was intelligent? How did I think she was intelligent? Can't she hear what I'm saying! Oh god she's going to tell me the question, she's going to tell me the question, SHE'S GOING TO TELL ME THE QUESTION! I watched her load the gun, point it at my head, pull back the trigger. I watched the bullet coming out of the gun. I could see it still spinning, I could see the slight smoke from the explosion as the hammer set of the gunpowder.

How do you mend a broken heart when a boy breaks up with you?

I felt the air move beside me as the bullet passed by. And Maria is stood beside me. She places a beer in front of me and asks if I'm alright, I look a bit pale.

I'm cool. Just dodged a bullet.

messing with the clock

Two weeks holiday. Two weeks to accomplish anything you want. Two weeks is enough time to fulfil most dreams. It is now two weeks exactly since I walked out at the end of a video presentation and I have done...well, very little.

When I talked to my brother I mentioned that I was on holiday. He asked me where I was going, on my holiday. We'd had plans. Maybe we'd drive down to Torreon and see Maria's family. Maybe we'd drive over to Phoenix and see a friend. Maybe we'd drive down the peninsular and see more of Baja. However, before we did any of those things we knew we'd have to get the car checked. We'd put aside $400 (USD) expecting to have change, maybe enough to buy a tyre or two. Three hours after dropping off the car we got a phone call. It was the workshop with a list of things wrong with the car. Of the fourteen things on the list we could only afford the first six. Worse, two of the things further down the list could well cost more than $500 (USD). It always amazes me how the roads seem to be full of cars that are more beat up, more in need of repair, than the car I am driving. And yet, it is always my car that is in the garage. Is it just because I'm a bit of a freak? Anyhoo, the point of the new truck was that we would have a beaten up car that we could drive around with warning lights on and not care. We got the first six things done and we'll worry about the differential later. Yes, we are driving a car around that isn't as good as yours! It is good enough for going to the beach, going for tacos, and going shopping. It isn't good enough for driving to Torreon, Phoenix, or down the peninsular. So, I answered my brother, why would I go anywhere? I'm in Mexico!

I have to take my driving test. At some point I needed to sit down and go through the written part of the test with Maria. No matter what Emilio says, I wouldn't even know how to start bribing an examiner nor, to be brutally honest, am I brave enough to actually do it. My fear of Mexican jails is a lot stronger than my fear of failing a test. It probably goes without saying, but that has never stopped me, we haven't sat down and studied yet (as if the yet means we will).

I am getting hellishly unfit. Since breaking my foot, at the end of last year, I have done no physical activity. Before this holiday started I thought that I might take up some sort of exercise regime. You know, start slow - bit of walking - and then build up to something a bit more strenuous - maybe running. Of course I didn't start at the beginning of the holiday because, well because I was on holiday! I needed a break! However, as the days have progressed I have managed to not start. And now, it is so near the end of my vacations, that it just doesn't seem worth it. I'm sure that once I get back into the classroom, I'll start walking around (instead of laying on the sofa eating crisps and drinking beer) and that will suffice.

I have managed to read - success. Reading is a joy that I always rediscover. This year I have already managed to read nine books and I am loving it. I have just started another book (having finished two books this holiday) and it is wonderful to start immersing yourself in another world. My problem is that the book (Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrel - if you're interested) is over 800 pages long and I am worried that I am just not going to get enough time to read it when school starts again. With only a couple of days left I should be spending time with Maria but all I want to do is read my book.

Time with Maria - success. It always amazes me how much I love her. Every day I think that's it, I've reached the point of how much I love her, there can't be anything more, I'll just sit on this plateau. And then something else happens and I learn to love her a little bit more. Life is wonderful and the spectre of returning to work just means that I will lose eight hours a day not with her. But, the important fact is, we are in a better place than we were two weeks ago - and where we were was wonderful.

My body clock - success! The first week of the holidays I was still waking up just after six, even though the alarm wasn't set. True, I would roll over and go back to sleep but, at the back of my mind, I was still thinking that when the holiday ended I would wake up, on the first day of work, ready for action. Somehow I've managed to screw that all up. The kids stayed with us until Tuesday. While they were here we went to bed at ten, the flat is small and once the kids are settled into their beds there are only two rooms left in the house - the bathroom and our bedroom. However, Tuesday night we were on our own and ended up watching tele until 2am. W*dnesd*y I still woke at 6am but fell back to sleep almost immediately. That night we again didn't go to bed until after 2. Thursday I woke at 7, rolled over and didn't get out of bed until midday. Thursday night we went out, after 10, to a friend's house. We stayed until after 3am. This morning I woke at 9am and didn't get out of bed until after 2pm. I already know that tonight will be another late night - hell, we've only just got up! This will continue through Saturday and Sunday. Because it is Benito Juárez's birthday on Monday (yes, I know he was born on March 21st but the Queen has an official birthday which is different to her real birthday, so I am not saying a word), I have the day off work! This means that at about 10pm on Monday night I will suggest that we go to bed because I have to get up and go to work on Tuesday morning. Of course, the act of going to bed will not mean I will go to sleep. I have screwed with my body clock. Monday night I will go to bed, read, talk, read, switch the light off, toss and turn, talk a bit more, put the light back on, read a bit more, switch the light off, hopefully fall asleep at about 3am. The alarm will go off at 6:15am. I will go into school and the first question will be:

Enjoyed your holiday?

Followed by the obvious question:

Are you well rested?

To which the answer is:

NO! I had such a good holiday I've managed to mess with my body clock. I've had three hours sleep and I really don't want to be here.

Gotta lurve going back to work!

[May 1st is Labour Day in Mexico. It is a Thursday. May 5th is the anniversary of the Battle of Puebla. It is a Monday. May 10th is Mother's Day. May 15th is Teacher's Day (it is also my birthday). For those of you who are now worried that I am not getting enough free time, I have the following days off:

May 1st to May 6th. May 10th is a half day. May 15th. Kids stop coming to school on June 27th. Teachers stop coming to school on July 4th.

Gotta lurve being a teacher in Mexico.]

down time

Dateline: Easter Sunday.

Last night we had the most awful food. I would like to blame someone else, anyone else, but it was all my fault. For some reason "scallops wrapped in bacon" sounded luvverly - and the picture on the box looked nice as well. Normally, after spending a certain amount of time in the toilet (with multiple visits) I can feel happy - it is caused by "lactose covered frozen things" or ice-cream (as most people call it). But it tasted horrible, it smelt horrible, and it made me ill. The long and the short of all this was, we ended up loosing two hours of real life and so, to regain it, we didn't go to bed until after 2am.

It is Danny's birthday today and Maria had to pick the kids up at 10am. At 8am I got that worrying thought, what if the clocks went forward today? This isn't as daft as you might think. Five miles away in the good ol' US of A, the clocks went forward two weeks ago. Of course I couldn't just lie in bed worrying, I had to get up to check. Once the computer was switched on I noticed several comments on my blog and an email from my mum. I didn't go back to sleep.

The kids phoned at 9:20am, why hadn't they been picked up? Well, mainly because we were on Tijuana time not Mexico City time (which is two hours ahead), where they had been for the last week. Maria picked them up, happy birthday was sung, presents unwrapped, and Danny chose to watch the Bourne trilogy - now she is 13 she can watch them unsupervised! I phoned my mum - she was at my brother's house, celebrating Easter.

As Maria and Danny settled in front of the tele it was up to me to keep Nikos entertained. Thank the t'internet for lego.com. We built cities, we spent time as firemen, we hunted dinosaurs. As Nikos built, fought fire, exterminated, I surfed the t'internet on my laptop. Posted several times on expat-blog.com, read blogs and commented, followed Santos as they drew with Pumas.

It is now 6:45m. Nikos is now in front of the tele watching Alvin and the Chipmunks, Danny is at the computer updating her myspace page, Maria is cooking, and I am posting.

It all counts as downtime.

my dad was a fiddler of knobs

[and if that title doesn't improve my stats via google hits, nothing will]

I'm getting old (and I don't need Helly to tell me!).

I'm standing in the shower, trying to get the temperature just right. Too much hot, too much cold, just right, just right, oh fuck - it's gone wrong. And I suddenly realise that I am turning into my dad (as opposed to Eddie Izzard [six minutes into this]).

We got our first colour television in 1970 - yes! I did emphasise the word colour! [and yes, I realise that you weren't yet two Helly but, to be pedantic, Maria was minus ten!] In 1970 there were only three television channels in England: BBC1; (the fledgling) BBC2; and ITV. Most of the programmes were in black and white. Until we got our new tele I had heard about colour television but didn't really believe it. Once the 1970 World Cup came around my dad decided that we would have a colour tele - I loved my dad!

The problem was that it took the arrival of the new tele to realise that my father never really sat still for longer than 20 minutes. Before we got the tele I now (then) realise(d) that every couple of minutes my father would get out of his chair and do something. Pour another drink, wander round the house switching lights off or fiddle with the thermostat for the central heating. The most overused phrase in our house was: I'm not paying to light/heat the whole of bloody Sheffield. My father could never understand why doors had to be left open, why people couldn't put another jumper on, why people didn't want to sit in the dark. In fact, he was the one person I ever met who would encourage people to read under the bed clothes with a torch - until he worked out that his collection of batteries, that he kept in the garage, had dwindled away to zero. All of this would happen around us and hardly affect our lives - until the colour tele arrived in our lives.

Every Thursday we would get The Radio Times. In those days, the days before anyone could publish television times, this was the bible of the BBC. There was a rival magazine, TV Times, which only published the times of programmes on ITV.We didn't get this (except for the Christmas two-week bumper issue) because we didn't watch ITV - it really wasn't my mother's type of television programmes. Now, you have to realise, that there wasn't much tele in those days. There wasn't 24 hour TV. There would be schools programmes in the morning but the first real television programme was at 12:45 - Watch with Mother. This was followed by the one o'clock news and then the station shut off until 3:45pm. Children's programming until the news at 5:45. Then a news-magazine programme, then actual television as we know it. This all shut down at about 11pm, when they would play the national anthem.

On Thursday night I would go through The Radio Times, reading it from cover to cover, planning what programmes I could watch. Some programmes were banned (and if it was a programme my parents wanted to watch [mainly my dad] we would have to go sit in the study and read) and often my mum would randomly ban television - the tele sat in a wooden case with a sliding door, she would just close the door and that was that, end of argument. Anyhoo, the week we got the colour television I went through The Radio Times picking out the programmes that were in colour (about 10% of the programming). This was going to be brilliant.

Except I hadn't factored in my dad.

The colour was never right for my dad. He'd have the back of the tele off, he'd alter all the twisty knobs on the tele (and it was all twisty knobs in those days). Watching television with my dad was a nightmare. You never got to watch a whole programme all the way through. There was always something wrong. In fact he took to settling down in front of the television with a glass of scotch in one hand and a screwdriver in the other.

I love my dad.

But I am turning into him. I have found myself wandering around the flat, shutting doors and in my mind I am saying: I'm not paying to heat the whole of bloody Tijuana. I can be found prowling around, following Maria (or kids) switching lights off: I'm not paying to light Tijuana. And now I find myself in the shower, playing safe-cracker with the  taps. I am my bloody dad - desperately trying to get the colour to balance on the television. Worse, I have started to wear slippers!!!!

I am old. You don't need to remind me Helly :^)