I've found my home

flicking a V

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

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

NOOOOOOOOOOOO! They say is shock.

YEEEEEEEEEES! We reply.

WHAAAAAAAATTT? They demand.

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

NOOOOOOOOOOOO! They say is shock.

YEEEEEEEEEES! We reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So now you know.

Peace Out.

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.

plans - mice - men

So, we had plans. Not the best plans, but plans none the less.

A group of friends were going camping this weekend. They'd invited us, which was nice. We'd declined. You see, I don't do camping. As a child I was dragged around England for various reasons. My parents were very into walking, my father was into sailing and fishing. This meant that at odd times we would be whisked away to conquer some mountain, walk some trail, sail some lake, fish some sea. Sometimes this would involve staying in hotels but, more often than not, it would involve a caravan. There would also be camping, with friends, with the school, with the scouts. [Yep, I was a scout - sort of. It's a long story but involves being a conscientious objector.] I married young, had kids young, we had holidays in caravans.

I promised myself, a long time ago, that I wasn't going to do any more camping, ever.

I'm old. It is a struggle to get out of bed some mornings. parts of my body ache. A couple of bad moments during rugby matches means that I have a weak back. Sleep the wrong way, get caught in a draft, my back can lock-out. Bowling, at cricket, put more strain on my back. It also did something to my knee. That, plus years of footy, means that sometimes (actually today) my knee doesn't flex. I have to warm it up. Two years ago I broke a bone in my right ankle, playing footy. Last year I tore something in my left ankle, standing on uneven pavement. My left ankle is still fatter than my right. I really need to sleep in my own bed. I can't sleep on floors, in chairs, in cars. Well, I can but after I can't move.

I can't go camping. No matter how attractive people make it sound. No matter how romantic people make it sound. No matter how much fun people make it sound. I won't go camping.

But we agreed to go along to the camp site, join in the fun, share some quality/quantity time with friends. And then come home.

That was the plan, but occasionally the best laid plans sometimes go awry.

So, you don't get a blog post about us on the beach, watching the sunset, sitting around bonfires, drinking late into the night. Instead you get the total opposite end of the day: breakfast. A video of me preparing tomatoes.

A video of maria cooking eggs, Mexican style.

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.

here's an interesting fact

Jeremy Clarkson was born in Doncaster, South Yorkshire. His mum designed the handmade Paddington Bears that are sold (exclusively) at Harrods. Interesting enough for you? Of course, it helps if you know who Jeremy Clarkson is, who Paddington Bear might be, and what Harrods is all about. If none of those three things were on your radar then it probably isn't that interesting.

So, I'm sat in a bar, in the middle of downtown Tijuana. It is 11pm on a Friday night, the music is cranked up loud, the beer is flowing like...well like sweat has been flowing all day in temps of over 38°C (that's 100°F in old money). maria who is wonderful and caring and sober and protective of me in my drunken state, has already (verbally) kicked one person all around the bar, leaving his spine in the corner as a trophy. He has left, in search of whatever shred of dignity he can beg/steal/borrow that might ensure he can walk upright once again. (Gotta lurve maria when she protects me, she doesn't take prisoners.)

Into the recently vacated stool beside me, slides another person. For a second or two, the whole bar holds it's breath, Depeche Mode take a break from singing, the guy with the mop and bucket tenses for action. He speaks:

him: Hi, I've just joined #TwittBC, earlier this evening, came to the party, who are you?

And then everything is cool, everyone breathes, Depeche Mode reach out and touch faith, the guy with the mop and bucket goes puts them away. 

me: I'm @willkay.

[I love the way that I actually introduce myself as @willkay. This is "third-person-speak" beyond anything that Mary J Blige ever says about Mary J Blige because it is up a level. Not just talking about willkay but talking about ATwillkay. Genius.]

me: Sorry, I'm will. Good to meet you. You Twitter then? Member of #TwittBC? That's really great. Nice to meet you. How are you doing? Isn't it hot?

[I did mention that I might have partaken in a small intake of alcoholic beverage?] 

him: Are you from Gloucester?

[This is a show stopper of a question. The majority of geographical placement questions put in me in the USofA. A small percentage like to plant me in Australia. Some get as close as Ireland ("Slappin' da bass!"). And one in fifty go for England. But no one has been as specific as Gloucester. My future father-in-law once commented, upon hearing my accent, the first time, that I was from obvious working class stock, which amused me tremendously. I laughed so hard I had to ask my manservant to dab at my cheeks with a special 'kerchief I keep, just for those moments.]

me: Gloucester? That's a bit specific isn't it? I mean, I can understand someone going England. Often people will have a go at London, or Liverpool, or Manchester. But Gloucester? 

[For those of you who aren't sure where "Gloucester" is, it is a town in England, just in England. It is very near to Wales. It is in the west of England and the accent tends to be a little bit more sing-songy. Totally different to my flat Northern accent.]

him: Yes, Gloucester. I'm a big fan of Top Gear.

[Top Gear is a BBC television programme that is presented by Jeremy Clarkson. Jeremy Clarkson was born in Doncaster, South Yorkshire. He was born one year before me and 20 miles away. The basic "back tone" to his accent is the same as mine. He has flat vowels. All of this I know, plus the fact about his mum.]

me: But Jeremy Clarkson sounds like me. He's from Yorkshire, Doncaster. He's not from Gloucester.

[At this point I should probably point out that I don't like Jeremy Clarkson. I don't like his politics. I don't like his way of talking. I don't like his self-absorbed, self-centred, egotistic wankiness. Don't like him at all. However, I like the guy opposite me. I've only just met him but I'm pretty sure that one day he will be my bestest friend ever...or I'll never see him again. Either way, it is Friday night, I've had a few beers, I've already seen one person eviscerated in front of my eyes. I know how important it is to some people that I like The Beatles, drink tea, support Chelsea, and think the queen is a jolly good thing! Pip, pip!! So, I smile as I say Jeremy Clarkson's name.]

him: Jeremy Clarkson? I hate him. He's the worst thing in the show. No, I watch it for....

[I never heard who he said because at that moment he became my bestest friend ever. My real, bestest friend. My besterest friend in the whole wide world.]

Oh, if anyone can remember who I was talking to in the bar, at about 11:30pm, could you email me his name or his email or his Twitter id because I have no idea who he was/is.

isn't it ironic, don't you think?

I'm being bullied.

Oh, it's subtle. So subtle that I hadn't really noticed. At first I'd put it down to cultural differences. Then I'd put it down to the fact that it was my fault. Then I'd just thought it was this/that/the other. But stuff happened yesterday and it upset me. Upset me enough that I woke up at 2am and sat up all night getting angrier and angrier. Of course, the angrier I got, the less chance there was of falling back to sleep, so I thought some more about the problem. This made me angrier. At one point I snapped the screen off my laptop and then tried to stick it back on with lick and masking tape. It was at that point I realised that, at last I'd fallen asleep...ten minutes before the alarm went off. I know it was ten minutes before the alarm went off because I woke up, scared that maria would find out that I had snapped the screen off my MacBook.

Have I mentioned how wonderful maria is recently? I don't think I have and this is incredibly bad of me. In theory all of my posts should, at some point or other, mention how wonderful she is. Obviously her beauty, wit, charm, sense of humour don't really need to be mentioned because they are obvious to all (although, I suppose, that doesn't really excuse me for not mentioning them as often as I should). However it is her wonderfulness that I have failed to comment on at every possible moment. I can see some of you wondering what specifically is her wonderfulness. Well, you know how you go on about how amazing it is that I can move to another country, keep a job, make friends, ignore the violence, and get out of bed every morning ready to face the world a new with a smile on my face. It has little to do with me, it is maria's wonderfulness that keeps me going. Case in point: the alarm goes off this morning, maria wakes, rolls into my arms, asks how the night went. I start to mumble about the neighbours/dogs/people going through the rubbish (trash) and then drop straight into, full-bore, no-holds-barred I-hate-these-two-fucking-women-at-school-and-it-is-probably-my-fault-so-I'm-not-going-to-work-today mode. So, she asks me to explain. And I explain. And she listens. And she asks me what I intend to say. And I tell her. And she listens. And she agrees, tells me to go ahead...if I'm a fucking moron (she can be quite kind that way). So, I ask her to explain. And she explains. And I listen. And I ask her what I should say> And she tells me. And I agree. 'Cos she is wonderful.

She explains that it isn't me. She is amazed that I've been pootling along in my own world, not slapping these women. She explains to me that it has nothing to do with my blond hair blue eyes and everything to do with their brown hair and brown eyes. They hate themselves because I am what I am. And that hatred has extrapolated to them becoming petty/snide/nasty/horrible bitches, bullying bitches. What they are disguising as "harmless fun" is in fact nastiness that might lead to, ooooo, let's say, a 48 year old man sitting up all night and then being scared to go into school the next day. How close is this to being bullied? It's all but the damn definition of the word. I'm a victim!

And then I realise that these people, the people I work with, aren't really friends, they are hardly acquaintances, they are just people I've met. And for a second I feel very alone.

Except.

Except there is maria, and she is wonderful.

Oh, and did I mention social-networking? Now breathe (inhale, inhale, you're the victim...sorry that song is stuck in my head at the moment). Yes, I know what they say: social networking isn't real friends, it isn't real. I can see some of you getting all hot under the collar because you've read, somewhere, that this computer malarkey doesn't lead to real friendship. Nope, if I want real friendship then I should be hanging around the water cooler, chatting with me colleagues, getting face-time not facebook time.

And I would, of course, agree with you...except...well, except blogging got me to where I am today. Blogging was the way that I found maria. And, lo-and-behold, social networking is actually getting me out the house. I realise that social-networking is supposed to tie you to the house, force you to sit in front of a computer screen, messaging, writing on walls, throwing sheep, buying (imaginary) drinks but someone forgot to tell the members of #TwittBC the rules.

The last two Fridays, unlike the previous 28 Fridays in 2009, I could be found with friends. Oh, and then there was that other Friday night in July. Today, as I have been struggling with the evil-bitches-from-hell, I have been invited to go camping (I declined. I didn't get where I am today by camping beyond the age of 19). I have also been invited out to someone's birthday party. Suddenly, thanks to sitting in front of a computer screen, I have a busy social life outside the flat.

Which is a bit ironic, don't you think?

footprint

It's not what you know, it's who you know - according to the old saying. I was once offered a job, at the age of 18, in a bank. Small(ish) bank, at the time. The job meant that I would have to travel out to Hong Kong, maybe work five years there, see what turned up next. This was in 1979, just as everything was about to take off. I didn't take the job. The reason I mention it though, is not through some sort of regret, it is because I was offered the job by a director of the bank. At the time I was caddying for my dad, this man was my dad's golfing partner. He offered me the job because he could. It had nothing to do with my qualifications, it had everything to do with who (my dad) knew. It wasn't what I knew, it was who I knew.

A year ago I was in a classroom with a bunch of parents, it was the day that all the parents have to bring in their child's supplies/utensils/stuff/crapola. The parents get a long list of books, notebooks, workbooks, pens, pencils, stationery, packs of photocopier paper, sterile wipes, a bicolour, rulers, stuff - all the stuff that the school thinks they will need for the next year. Anyhoo, the parents bring it in, I tick off a long list, they put the books in their kid's cubby, they stand around chatting, I check off another set of stuff. A dad gets up to leave and on the way out says to me:

Is there anything I can do for you? Seriously, is there anything I can do for you? Anything I can get for you? Anything you want done? 

I look up from the pile of books, laugh, and comment that a drink would be good at this point. He laughs, he leaves. The next day I receive a bottle of tequila.

I have to explain to maria where the bottle comes from and halfway through the story she stops and stares at me. Haltingly, I complete the story, not sure what I've said to upset her.

What? What have I done wrong? What have I done? Shouldn't I have taken the bottle? I should have said nothing? Oh, god. What have I done? I've given up my professionalism? What did I do wrong?

It appears I did everything wrong. Basically I wasted my free wish. This is the man who can do anything. This is the man who can get me anything. This is the man who can get anything done. And I got a bottle of tequila. maria then points out that the-worst-night-of-our-lives might never have happened if only we had this man's card. Why didn't I get his card? What sort of fool was I? 

Obviously a large one. The rest of the year was spent, trying to get the man's card. But, it was impossible - I'm too English and polite, there was no way I could force myself on him. I just didn't get the way that Mexico works. [maria knew the-man-to-know back in Torreon and she knows how things work.] The man and I were on good terms, I would receive regular presents, we would chat, but the offer of anything never came up again and I was too English to push it. And at the end of the year, his daughter left school. The chance to know the-man-to-know had gone.

Except, except at the end of every year I do exactly the same thing, I give all my students my email address, and I give them a promise: If they write me an email, I promise that I will write one back. Some students throw the address away immediately, some write once, some write twice, some I keep in contact with. Hey, it is something I do. And the kid wrote to me. Couple of times, through the holidays the kid wrote, and then, last weekend, asked if I would come to a concert at which she was performing. Now, I'm the sort of teacher who thinks that if a kid has summoned up the gumption to invite their teacher, then that teacher should go. I will stick my head-in and say hello at kid's parties. I will attend church for ten minutes to shout: Mazel Tov! [yes, I know!] And I will turn up at a concert to watch a kid perform. It's something I do. So we went.

We went and had a great time. We sat at our own table but were quickly joined by the-man-to-know. We sat and talked. Talked and told stories. The-man-to-know was shocked when he heard about the-worst-night-of-our-lives, and told how he would have made sure that none of that had happened. The-man-to-know was over-joyed when he heard we were getting married. He immediately offered to find us a judge. Yes, he could get us a judge, anytime/anywhere. In fact, if we wanted, he could also get us a fake judge. Oh, how we laughed. And then maria gave him her card because, well she had pictures of his child from school events, and she could email them to him. And then I gave him my card because he wanted to get me a bottle of scotch, and he needed to write the name Bushmills on something.

And he didn't give us his card.

He has no business card. He has no email account. He does not use the internet. The-man-to-know leaves no footprint. Oh, he has people who write and save and upload and download, and his child has an email account - but he doesn't go near a computer. He's not allowed. (I'll say that again) He's not allowed. The-man-to-know is not allowed to leave a footprint.

But we got his phone number. It's on speed dial. Sorted.

that there twitt meet thingy

Many, many years ago, in the last century, I went to my first blog meet. I remember being very scared. Sitting at home, writing a blog, and talking to people was one thing. But to meet these people face-to-face? And, let's be honest, in those days everyone on the t'internet was a 400 pound man called Cindy whose profession alternated between axe murderer and donkey botherer. So, it was with a certain amount of intrepidation that I went to my first blog meet.

And then I died.

Oh, hang on, I didn't. I had a very good time. Turned out that the t'internet was actually populated by people like you and me (except for you, yes you, the one who turned up at this post via a search for donkey botherer). Yes, you can meet some jolly nice people thanks to the t'internet.

Obviously, I took this whole "meeting people on the t'internet" to a totally different level, when I fell in love with maria and moved to Mexico. So, when a Twitt-meet was mentioned, I thought "that would be fun"....for about 30 seconds. Then I started to worry. What if all the 400 pound men called Cindy with the strange professions, lived in Mexico? Worse, they might not be armed with axes!

Last night I went to the Merlot Bistro and met 44 fellow tweeters twitterers people who use Twitter and a jolly good time was had by one and all. No one had an axe. No one was called Cindy. And no donkeys were bothered in the making of the event. As  usual, we arrived early and left last late.

Here are four videos, taken at different stages of the night. I'm not sure that you can see or hear anything clearly, mainly due to the consumption of alcohol by the camerman, and the playing of smooth jazz in the background.

lots of religion, no politics

There is no cross-over between church and state in Mexico. They are two distinctly different organisations and neither the two will mix. maria tells the story about when President Fox's daughter got married (while he was president), he sat outside the church, outside the church grounds. This was because the President of Mexico is not allowed to enter a church during his term in office. Compare that with the President of the USofA or the Queen of England. President Obama isn't as religious as Bush is but he still visits church regularly, and the Queen is often referred to as "the head of the English church" (thanks to Henry VIII). But here, in what is know as "A Catholic Country", the church and state never mix.

It becomes even weirder when it comes to marriage in Mexico. Officially you can only be married by the State. You go to the government and you get your licence and you are married, in the eyes of the law. Of course, you aren't married in the eyes of the lord. Thus, you will find, many Mexicans have two wedding anniversaries: one when they got married by the state; one when they were married by the church. A friend on mine is getting married. When you ask him for the date he will tell you, November 14th. Except, officially, he will already have been married for two weeks before that. November 14th is his church wedding. They will not move into their house (live together) until November 14th, when they are married in the eyes of the lord.

At this point I could then mention that in Mexico same-sex marriage is legal, and has been for many years. This is because marriage is a civil contract. Obviously the church don't allow same-sex marriages, but as a marriage in a church isn't seen as legal anyhoo, where's the problem? The problem comes when religion gets involved with a legal contract. However, I'm not going to debate same-sex marriages in this post (probably not going to debate it any post, actually). No, I have something more important to discuss: religion.

90% of the population of Mexico is Catholic, 5% is Protestant. However, that 5% don't call themselves Protestants, they call themselves, and everyone else in the country does as well, Christians. My friend is marrying a Christian. My friend is a Catholic. As far as I can work out, it would be easier for him to marry a follower of Islam than it is to marry a Christian. Last Sunday, when they read the bans (announced their intention to get married) at the church, his fiancée was outed as a Christian. This led to the priest denying them the ability to marry in the church, unless he got permission from the bishop.

Of course, I am not much help nor very supportive, when he tells these stories because each time I get hung-up on the word Christian. I find it incredibly amusing that Christians are viewed as some what less than by Catholics. It makes no sense in my mind. It is the same god, the same son of god. As far as I can make out, the major difference, the breaking point for Catholics, is the Virgin. Catholics believe in the Virgin birth and those rebel-tastic Christians don't. Oh, there are several other reasons as well but the major stumbling block is the Virgin.

My friend is going to end up getting married three (THREE) times. Once at a civil wedding, once in a Catholic church, and once in a Christian church.

I think my confusion over the whole thing would be simplified if the titles were Catholics/Protestants, rather than Catholics/Christians.

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.