I've found my home

is that a gun in your pocket?

True story: 1998 I went to Florida on my first visit to America. I dragged my children along - yes we went to Disney World, Universal Studios, Sea World, Busch Gardens but, at odd moments, it still felt like dragging. One of the problems we encountered in the land of the free was the fact that my daughter was a vegetarian. Yes, every thing you've heard is true, the portions in America are huge. Most meals need a doggy bag (a very embarrassing item for an Englishman). We fell in love with a restaurant chain called Sizzlers. The idea of this place was, you ordered you meat (steak/chicken/shrimp/ribs) and then helped yourself to the buffet bar. The buffet bar, to an Englishman, was surreal. As many visits as you wanted - in fact we were encouraged to go back, and back, and back. This was not just a salad bar. It contained everything, and when I say everything, I mean everything. Soups, chillies, tacos, chicken wings, salads, breads - hell there was a whole meal there - plus there was a sweet bar. Ice cream dispensers, cheese cake, puddings, jello (that's jelly to you and me), cakes, bums, the lot. The first time we visited, by the time the stuff we had ordered arrived, we were full. We got it "to go". Food was excessive! Morning buffets at Sizzlers cost $4.99 (that's two and a half ponds of your great British pounds sterling) and they were all you could eat - seriously, ALL you could eat.

But, I digress. Stephanie is a vegetarian. One night, on the way back from Islands of Adventure we pulled into a TacoBell, who offered us something ludicrous, something like 15 tacos for $6. Unfortunately, my daughter couldn't eat tacos. So we inquired:

Anything without meat?

We've got beans.

What's in the beans?

Beans, bacon, tomato, beef, and other spices.

So there's meat in the beans?

Not really.

My daughter is a vegetarian. She can't eat meat. Do you have anything without meat?

We've got beans.

What is in the beans?

Beans, bacon...

You see. Right there. You said bacon. Bacon is a meat.

There's not a lot of bacon?

But there is bacon.

There is tomato as well,

And....?

A little bit of beef, onions, spi....

Can I bring you back to the beef? Beef is a meat. Do you have anything without meat?

Beans?

Nope. I think we can discount beans as a vegetarian option. Do you have anything else?

A burrito.

A burrito?

Yes. That's got salad in it.

And....?

Well, we have a beef burrito or a chicken burrito. Both have salad. They could be a vegetarian option?

Stephanie didn't eat that night - well she did, but not from there!

Now: I live in Mexico. Last year we went to Puerto Nuevo for lobster. It was wonderful. The lobster was huge, the shrimps were lobster-sized, it was amazing. Lobster. Huge lobster. Really cheap, really big, lobster. I was stunned. When I returned to school, after the weekend, someone asked what I'd done at the weekend. I started to tell them I'd visited Puerto Nuevo. They got excited, asking where I'd been. I told them the name of the restaurant and they immediately jumped in with: BEANS! Eh? I started to explain about the lobster, the shrim....BEANS! What were the beans like? Well, I remembered there were beans, beans are always served, in a little pot beside the main course, or as a part of the dish. But, but, they were beans. No! Beans are the most important part of a Mexican meal. Beans are everything. Beans are the staple. Beans are, well people will travel miles and miles for good beans. Everyone has a recipe for beans. Seriously, Maria has a recipe for beans which (and I should say now, I really love), if you should ever eat, you have to say (have to, I say) they are the best best beans you have ever tasted. The rules of being a Mexican state: You never (NEVER) insult their mother. You love their beans.

I love Mexican beans, in all their shapes and forms. Oh yes, it gets a fuck of a lot more complicated than you think. There are beans, and beans, and beans. Don't get me started, actually, don't get a Mexican started!

In all this, three years of living, I have yet to have a baked bean. Yep, I know, I'm English and I haven't had baked beans on toast for nearly three years. But tonight, tonight is different. Whilst wandering round Wal*Mart, buying pies (god I love their pies - apple, lemon, blueberry, pecan) I came across a tin of baked beans. Somehow, don't ask me how, the tin fell in my trolley. Actually, to be more accurate, four tins fell in my trolley.

Tonight I am having baked beans! That ain't a gun in my pocket - I'm just pleased to see you!

for three legged cat

During the day we are constantly (aurally) assaulted by salesmen. Fortunately (ish) these salesmen don't use the phone, nor do they knock on the door. Knocking on the door would be impossible anyhoo and not just because we live on a first (second if you are American) floor flat. It is impossible to knock on anyone's door in Tijuana. Every house is a "gated-community". Every house is surrounded by fences/walls/razor wire. Nope, these salesmen trundle up and down the street, announcing their presence in several different ways.

The gasman uses his horn. Three/four times a day, a truck drives up the street, honking the horn, announcing its presence. This is because gas is not piped in to anyone's house. You have to buy a tank of gas, which last (for us) about three weeks, and then (for the princely sum of 400 pesos/$40/20 of your Great British pounds sterling) you exchange your empty tank for a full one. There is another gas company who drive up and down the street, once a week, but we don't use them. Mainly because they play a bloody irritating jingle!

The corn seller uses a horn, a steam powered horn. He wheels his barrow around the place. On his stall there is a gas cooker that he uses to cook his corn, which is kept in a large vat of water. The by product of his cooking is steam which he (environmentally) uses to signal his appearance in the street. This can be a bit scary. Think about it...a steam horn going off under your window! My brain immediately thinks that I a train is about to drive through the building.

The tamale seller drives around in his car. He has a speaker on the roof that informs you of his selection. Normally this is just a tape on a loop. However, there are the moments when, probably out of boredom, he decides to rap his wares.

The ice cream seller uses a bell, which he rings by hand. He pushes round an ice box on wheels. I call him an ice cream seller but he doesn't sell ice cream - just frozen lollipops, big bastards, the size of a one and a half litre bottle.

The gardener drives drives an open truck. The back of which is filled with soil and plants. He tends to shout - a lot - and isn't adverse to kicking his kids out of the truck and making them bang on gates to announce his presence.

However (to get to the point of this post), a couple of weeks ago, three legged cat wrote a post about her (and his) surprise at a rag and bone man's appearance in their street. On Sunday I was talking to my mum who was bemoaning the fact that the council wanted 32.50 GBPsterling to remove a freezer. In the end she paid Comet 7 GBPsterling to take it away. I told her about the time we put our old television in the street with a sign on it saying: Do Not Take. The television lasted seventeen minutes before it disappeared. In fact, as I've mentioned here before, you can't leave anything on the street that someone won't checkout/take. Even the rubbish bins are rifled through. Anyhoo (the point will, get to the point), we have a rag-and-bone man who comes down our street quite regularlry, and here is video proof:

no video today

No video today (I heard that cheering in the background!).

The kids went home and we had an action day. We went to the bank and got the last of our money and then set off to cross the border. As we queued at a set of traffic lights I toyed with the idea of taking a short video of the sellers. At every set of traffic lights there are people who wander down the lines of cars selling stuff. There are newspaper vendors, ice cream sellers, people selling bottles of drink (non-alcoholic), people with bags of fruit, and the sellers of cactus leaves that are all chopped up (don't ask). Plus there are the performers and beggars. The performers range from five year old kids juggling to thirty year old men (who look about 60) fire eating. I glanced at Maria's handbag/purse, though about getting out the camera, but didn't.

As we climbed up to Otay, to get to the border crossing, I looked back over Tijuana. Looking over the bull ring, between the hills, you could see the area our flat is in. I thought, this would make a brilliant 20 second video. But I didn't reach into her purse for the camera.

At the border I got out the car and queued in the "walk-through" line. As Maria drove past me (at 1mph) I thought it would have been a brilliant moment to do a live documentary moment of me crossing the border. But she was in the car, I was in the line, it didn't happen.

I've decided to build a library in my classroom. Try to get 50+ books that the kids could read. We went to the Salvation Army Thrift Store. While searching through the bookshelves I cam across a copy of Dickie Bird's autobiography. Brilliant! Stood in San Diego, looking for books that 12 year old Mexicans could read, and I come across the autobiography of an ex-cricket player/umpire. I forgot to grab the camera and take a picture/video.

We bought three pots of flowers - venus flytraps. We thought about making a video of them, but didn't.

 

We went for a meal at The Outback. The waitress came over once to ask us: Is everything alright? We laughed away, thinking about (s)wine. In my mind I thought that this would make a brilliant video. However, she never came back, she went on a break, so there was no video taken.

Before we crossed back into Mexico we nipped into Vons, a supermarket. We were looking for salmon with the skin on - so that Maria can cook it in her special way. The guy on the checkout was English. But he was so desperate to not notice that I was English, and I, of course, said nothing - because we hadn't been formally introduced! The bag packer, who was struggling to understand either of us (it's our accents), stood there, amazed at this moment of coincidental timing. It didn't help that Maria handed over two $10 notes for a bill of $40 - she thought they were 20s but was coaught up in this whole "English embarrassement" moment. Of course, the guy on the checkout was mortified - how could he point out her mistake? It was hysterical. If only you had been there. I should have taken a video of the whole moment - but I didn't.

You know that moment when you catch a glimpse of something familiar in a film or a tele programme? A street you've walked down, a building you've been in. You know how you spend hours telling people that it was nothing like that really. Example. Hugh Laurie was in a television drama (back in the early 90s), a one off play, that involved a scene in a classroom. It was filmed in the classroom I taught in. The key plot moment to the scene was the teacher finished solving a simultaneous equation and the result was a: vulgar fraction. At which point much hilarity insued in the classroom over the fact the fraction was vulgar - the thing was set in the 1940s, kids those days huh? With their sense of humour! Except no-one knew how to write the solution to a simultaneous equation that resulted in a vulgar fraction. Having been given the day off school, I received a phone call at home to come in and help. Long story short (well, shorter than I could tell it) - the finished equation, on the board, was there in my handwriting, and then in the televised scene, the actor finished it off by writing a vulgar fraction. In completely different handwriting!

Anyhoo, the point I am trying to get to (slowly) is that, in every American film/tele programme there is always a checkpoint that Americans have to go through to cross the border into Mexico. In fact, in The Shield they actually pay someone $10,000 dollars to smuggle someone into Mexico. The reality is, no-one checks your entry into Mexico. You just drive straight in. That's why people "run away" to Mexico. You can get into the country without anyone knowing! Suddenly Maria announces:

Let's debunk a myth! Take a video of us driving into Mexico and everyone will see that we aren't stopped! Ha! Take that Hollywood!

So I reached into her purse, for the first time that day, and...there was no camera! No camera!! We were sure that we'd packed it. There were all those moments we were going to use it because we were convinced it was there. Maria went into shock/despair. She'd lost the camera. It was her fault. We'd lost the camera. How the hell were we going to get another camera? How could we afford it? How was I ever going to make another video? What to do? What to do?

Ten minutes later (notice it takes us nearly two hours to get from our house to where we were crossing from Mexico into the States but ten minutes the other way round - there are no border checks getting into Mexico Hollywood! Do some research.) we entered the flat, a bit down, a bit depressed.

The camera was sitting on the dining room table.

So, no video today because I didn't make one yesterday. However, the good (or bad) news is that there will be more soon - we've still got a camera!

crash - like a tidal wave

There are two questions that I am asked the most often (yes, I keep a record of how many times I am asked questions. And, no "how do you get your eyes to be that colour?"; "do you dye your hair and how is it so soft?"; and "you want me to put the which-what in the who-where?"; aren't in the top two.):

1) Do you have any regrets?

b) Do you miss anything?

1) Do you have any regrets? For my sins I have been watching The Moment of Truth. And this leads to lots of shouting at the television. Most of that shouting is around the fact that the answer is "Yes" when, the question, really demands a "No". Fact is, if I was strapped to a lie detector and you asked me: "Do you have any regrets?" the answer I would say is "No". This would be lie. In the split second that the question is asked, my body would know that I have regrets. Two seconds later I would know that I don't really have regrets. This is the life I lead now. This is the life I want. This is the life I wanted. Has it caused me some pain/anguish to get here? Yep. Do I regret that pain/anguish? Two seconds later the answer, once I have balanced everything up, would be "No". But there are regrets. Honestly, I don't think I could have done this better. I don't think that the life I have now would be any better if I had done it a different way. In fact, I'm sure that any other way that I had tried to make my move would have resulted in me not making my move. So, long term (two seconds) I have no regrets. Short term (half a second) I have to think that there could have been a way that my children still speak to me. That is what I regret - losing my children. But, in so many ways, they were lost to me already. So, hey-ho, no regrets.

b) Do you miss anything? No. Emphatically, positively, absolutely, NO!

And no-one believes me.

Everyone is convinced that I should miss something. Everyone is convinced that this is a lie. But, think it through. If I am going to miss something what would it be? That normally stumps people, makes them come up short, makes them think. The world is a lot smaller than you think (but I wouldn't want to paint it - hahahaha). What could I possibly miss that I can't get here? What was so necessary in my life that I haven't found a replacement (a much better replacement for) here? I could honestly answer: Nothing. I miss nothing. There is nothing that I want. And then, as is the way of the world, Maria asked me a question yesterday. It was a simple question. Nothing complicated, nothing devious, nothing soul-searching. But it led from one thing to another and suddenly I was confronted with what I was going to miss. The question:

So, the Olympics, yes or no?

One of the joys of living with someone is finding out all the new stuff about them. Obviously, over time, you run out of new stuff: you put salt on your avocado? you like Kevin Costner films too? you want me to put the which-what in the who-where? Eventually, over time, you learn each others ways: she'll have a diet coke; steak, medium rare, chips; I'll put the which-what in the who-where. But, it has only been three years, so there is still new stuff to learn:

So, the Olympics, yes or no?

One of the (many, many) joys about living with Maria is her love of sport. She likes sport. In fact, to be be more specific, there are moments that she loves sport. I don't feel guilty when there is sport on television and she comes into the room. Hell, there are times when I wander into the tv room to find her stood on the sofa, shouting at the screen. But, she asked the question: So, the Olympics, yes or no? There was a slight tremor in her voice. One of those wobbles that makes you pause before you answer - just in case you give the wrong answer and she replies with a fuck-off-back-to-England. However, and here is the good news, the only wrong answer I can ever give is a dishonest answer. So I answered honestly:

I love the Olympics. Well, I love most of the Olympics. Actually, I hate the swimming. Not too cool about anything to do with horses. But I love the Olympics. I love all the stupid events. The rowing, the badminton, the sailing, the shooting. Oh, I hate gymnastics. But I love the Olympics.

And I'm safe. Maria likes the swimming, she hates the gymnastics, loves the Olympics. It's decided. Come 8.8.08 we will be sat in front of the tele, watching the Olympics. Together.

And then it hit me. Crash. Like a tidal wave.

I miss England. I'll miss David Coleman waffling on (and on and on and on) during the opening ceremony, a ceremony that I will not understand - and will understand even less after Mr. Coleman has tried to explain it. I'll miss the coverage of the weird events, the event you never knew existed but you find yourself up at 3am watching because there is a chance that Britain might get a bronze (or at least place in the top eight). I realised that I was going to have to follow the Olympics on American television. Where's the fun in that? Britain's athletes can always be counted on to get 10-30 medals (at least three of them gold). Thirty medals over 21 days means about a medal a day. One day spent following the judo. One day spent following white-water kayaking. One day spent following up-hill-under-water-pea-pushing. The damn Americans win ten medals a day (on average). The Olympics are going to be just following the winners of the BIG medals: the 100m; the floor exercise; the we're-number-one events. I love the Olympics. But I love the little events. I love the guy from Smallbottom who's been playing table tennis for twenty years. The girl from Ashby de la Zouche who travels every day to France just to shoot her shotgun. I'm going to get pre-packed, face on the box of cornflakes, winners. The Olympics isn't about "stronger, higher, faster" it's about being there.

I miss the BBC. I'm going to miss the BBC coverage of the Olympics. Yeah, I miss something.

[Oh, and as a sidenote, when asked: So, how many medals do you reckon Mexico might win this year? It appears that they are hoping to win (drumroll) ONE. Not really bothered about the colour.

Which leads me on to my Olympic joke - I dig this out every four years:

Husband: I've bought some new condoms! They are Olympic based.

Wife: Olympic based?

Husband: Yes. Their a packet of three. One gold, one silver, one bronze.

Wife: Ooooo. Could you wear the silver one tonight?

Husband: Yes. Why?

Wife: It'll make a change. You coming second.

Thank you. I'll be here all week. Try the chicken.]

letting people in

Seventeen years ago I sat on the stairs, in my house, while my (then) wife and two children sat in the car waiting for me. I was planning how to crash the car safely - you know, causing enough damage to the car that it would be incapable to make the journey, but not enough damage that anyone in the vehicle (or outside) would be injured.

Sixteen years ago I started a course of beta-blockers. This, after a certain amount of research, was decided as the best way to deal with my problem.

Fifteen years ago I quit taking beta-blockers because they were not having the desired effect.

Twelve years ago, in order to prepare myself for an operation to remove four wisdom teeth, I starved myself for three days prior to the day of my admittance to hospital. I drank nothing but water and ate three slices of bread per day. It was a plan, just not a very successful one.

Ten years ago I travelled abroad for the first time in eighteen years. I prepared for the event by starving and taking a cocktail of  drugs - anti-diarrhoea tablets and over the counter sleep aids.

Eight years ago I attended six sessions of hypnotherapy.

Two and a half years ago I left England for Mexico and received an email from my brother that mentioned that when most people run away from home, they get as far as the end of the drive, as an agoraphobic he had suggested looking for me in the wardrobe - how the fuck did I get to Mexico?

Since the age of 25 (twenty-two years ago) I have lived in fear of going out, leaving my house, eating anywhere, visiting anyone, partaking in a life outside my front door. This is a fear I have lived with every second of the day. It is a fear that I have had to face constantly, every single day of my life. And I live with it. I have, in the last twenty-two years, missed under 15 days of work. I have attended all of my children's school functions. I have gone to parties. I have been to the cinema. I have eaten in restaurants. I have attended concerts. I have slept over-night in other people's house. I have gone on holiday. I have gone shopping. All of these things have caused me a certain amount of fear. All of these things have been a chore. The best moment, of any event, is the moment when I get home and close the door.

I have often said that my biggest fears alternate between: showering in a prison; coming to find two paddles on my chest and someone shouting the word, "Clear!" I have one bigger fear. One fear that I don't share with anyone because it is TMI. It is my Room 101. The thing I fear the most is not being able to find a toilet in time. The thing I fear the most is shitting myself.

Wow, that was slightly easier to type today than I ever thought it would be. Obviously, as if you need me to tell you, this is the moment you can stop reading because, unfortunately (for you) I am going to continue. This is my therapy.

In 1992 a doctor finally mentioned Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS) - and that was all she did. Her understanding of the problem was about as good as mine. The feeling was that the problem was mental rather than physical. I was either "stressed" or I was caught in a "downward spiral" or it was a combination of the two. Basically the feeling was that stress was upsetting my stomach; because my stomach was upset I would start to stress more; this would upset my stomach more; I would stress more; this would upset my stomach more; etc. The solutions given to me all involved dealing with the mental problem - beta blockers, hypnotherapy, mental techniques. These didn't work. After six months on beta blockers I had a discussion/argument with my doctor because I felt I was being given placebos. My problem actually seemed to worsen! The hypnotherapy seemed to centre more on my father's death even though I had been suffering long before his death. The mental techniques just failed miserably. I was left on my own, to deal with whatever the problem was by myself. This I did by using a method of starvation, anti-diarrhoea tablets, and locking myself in my house.

I kept my problem a secret from friends. I would tell people I wasn't hungry, wasn't feeling good, had a "bit of a gippy tummy" so that I didn't have to eat in public. My family decided to live with the problem by ignoring me, leaving me to "get on with it". Most plans were made around me, they would do stuff and I would tag along, if I could. If I went anywhere I would first have to research where the nearest toilet was. I would carry my own supply of toilet paper. There would be a change of clothes in the car. And, whenever I went to the toilet, I would always put the seat and lid down (so that the person after me wouldn't know if I had sat or stood). This was my secret. My problem.

I wasn't raised to talk about going to the toilet, it was not a thing that was ever discussed. At boarding school, going to the toilet was seen as a sign of weakness. Once you were locked into a stall you were a target. The door would be kicked while you were in there, things would be thrown into the stall (including burning toilet rolls), verbal abuse would be hurled - it was all good fun. Visiting the toilet became a military operation, a secret event, done at a time when the toilet block was empty (and would remain empty for your visit), and no-one would know. This was a behaviour that I would carry on for pretty much the rest of my life. You know how people sometimes get up and announce they are going to the toilet? Most people don't notice that I've gone. I leave and return like a ninja!

The main problem with IBS is that I need the toilet now! I dream of being one of those people who say that they need the toilet and then sit around talking for another half an hour (oh, and another thing I do - I know exactly who goes to the toilet and when. It means that I can gauge when the toilet is free. Yesterday we went out for a meal with a friend. We ate in a restaurant with only a few people in it. However, I can tell you that three other people in the restaurant used the men's toilet. I keep a mental record if there is someone in there or not. Damn, I scare myself sometimes.). When my stomach "rolls" I know I have about thirty seconds before my colon spasms and I evacuate my bowels (sorry). And my stomach "rolls" whenever, where ever it feels like.

The beauty of my relationship with Maria is that I told her about this problem. Many people worry about relationships that start on the t'internet - how do you know that he isn't an axe murderer? Well, the fact is, as I thought I would never meet Maria, I started with my faults. I didn't hide any secrets. And this was the biggest secret. She knew more about my problem, how I thought, how I behaved, than any other person. Of course, with 20/20 hindsight, rather than scaring her away, my openness, my willingness to open myself up to her, meant that she knew everything about me and (yet) she still loved me. This openness means that our relationship has no secrets, there is nothing to surprise, I am the man she fell in love with, and I am still that man.

Maria has been (is) wonderful. She has shown a total understanding. When I say "my stomach has just rolled", she drops everything and joins me in my quest to find a toilet. When we arrive at anywhere new, she often locates the toilets first and will whisper their location to me (often when we arrive somewhere her first words are "where are the toilets?" - she does the research for me, knowing that I prefer the ninja offence, she takes the (in my mind) embarrassment for me. I love her.). And life has carried on, here in Mexico. Those who have known my secret can't believe that I can live (and eat) in Mexico. Most can't actually get their head around the fact that I left the country, left my own house. Hell, to tell the truth, I can't believe the life I lead. I go to the cinema! I go to restaurants! I queue at the border! I live in a foreign fucking country! [Although it is (maybe) interesting to note that the first three phrases I learnt in Spanish are: Te amo tanto; Siempre y por siempre; Dónde esta el baño.] We live with my problem.

Last week, after having been bombarded by adverts, we ended up buying a bucket of KFC sauceless hot wings. They were very tasty, very enjoyable, and they tore my stomach apart. I spent, approximately, six hours in the toilet. Sometimes getting out of the room for a couple of minutes, never getting further than 5m away from the room. The next morning (because I do) I went to work, leaving Maria alone at home, alone with the t'internet.

And suddenly my whole world changed.

Maria typed IBS into the search engine.

This weekend I read a book, Eating For IBS, and cried. We bought the book mainly because it is a recipe book. It appears It is a fact that IBS is not a psychological problem, it is a physical problem. There is no possible way to control the attacks mentally, they have to be controlled by your food intake. Certain foods trigger the attacks, those foods have to be cut totally out of your diet. It is interesting to note (well, interesting to me) that, with no information, no real knowledge of what I was doing, I have already cut many things out of my diet already. Somewhere, at the back of my mind, I had been making a mental check-list of problem foods and avoiding them. In many cases I have been living fairly close to a correct diet. Unfortunately (for me) not close enough. However, subconsciously, I have eliminated many things from my diet without knowing why. For example, I don't eat popcorn at the cinema. Did I know about soluble/insoluble fibre? Nope. In fact I'm not sure I totally get it now. But, somehow I had worked out that popcorn upset me, so I didn't eat it. I have already eliminated milk from my diet, electing to go lactose free voluntarily. Of course, because I didn't know, I still have cheese. These last two weeks have been a journey into sensible eating, or at least eating knowing I have a problem. We are still juggling certain food items, trying to work out what inspired the one attack I have had in two weeks. We think we've nailed it, it might be the vitamin supplement drink that I had that day. We are just waiting for a clear day when I can take it again and see if it sets me off. But I am we are working at the problem. Learning to eat often. Yes, eat often! It appears that my method of starvation was totally the wrong way to go. Instead I should have been nibbling all day, so that my stomach isn't "shocked" when I finally take in food.

But I cried. There are fifteen or so pages at the front of the book. In those pages the author talks about her life, the way of life I should be leading, what I should be doing. One of the things she suggests demands that I do is to announce to the world that I suffer from IBS - this is why (if you are still here) I am writing this. As she points out, most people are are actually very concerned. Tell them you have a medical problem based around diet and they understand - and if they don't understand, fuck 'em (not quite her words). I have a problem, certain foods are poisonous to my system. I shouldn't take these foods in. It doesn't matter how much time and effort someone has put into cooking food or if it is their favourite restaurant, if that food is going to trigger an attack - I shouldn't eat it. And this makes sense. I realise that, to you, it makes obvious sense but it has taken until now for this to make sense to me.

And that is because I thought I was alone. I sat and read and saw my world described in those pages. Does it fully tell you what is wrong in my world? No. But in those pages I saw the life I led, I got what she said. I don't think you, or anyone who suffers from IBS, will ever understand how my mind works. I have an illness. It isn't my fault. I am not mentally fucked. I have a physical disability and I am learning to live with it.

Except, I am not alone. The last three years I haven't been living this life alone. Maria has been here, with me, living this life. She has done the research. She is doing the cooking. She is thinking for me. Supporting me and helping me. Thank you. Oh, and thank you if you have read this far.

Hi, my name is Will and I have IBS.

the red sock always falls first

Every now and then I go check my stats and somewhere, down there on the right-hand side, there is a live traffic feed. It's nice to know that people come here and read my stuff. Often these visitors are regular (hello to both of you) but sometimes people pop in and out randomly. There are the Google searches - most of which are a bit scary: did I really say type that out loud? - and then there are the visitors from  the ex-pat blog.

And then it occurred to me, how much of an ex-pat blog is this any more?

Looking back through the last two months of posts (yes, I realise that means only about ten posts - I'm a very naughty boy, definitely not the messiah) there doesn't seem to have been much said about the differences between living in Mexico and living in England (and I realise there should have been a comma somwhere in that sentence but when I'm on a typing roll, I'm on a roll). It occurred to be that I was no longer a stranger in a strange land. The failure (on my behalf) to learn Spanish isn't as big a disaster as it was. Three years (almost) of living here means that I can follow most conversations and the background chatter no longer sounds totally alien any more. I am coming to know this city When Maria sets off in one direction, takes a turn, I actually know why because I know where we are going and how we are getting there. The sight of palm trees no longer amazes me. Small lizards scurrying away are no longer a reason to stand still and stare. Power cuts, buying gas, going for water are all part of the regular day-to-day business.

What I am trying to say is that...and this is where this post changes...

I started this post at the weekend. However, you might have noticed that I posted four times over the weekend, so I thought that banging out another post might not be a good idea. I thought I'd save this post for a bit later. I also wasn't too sure where it was going. I knew where it was going to end up, just not sure where it was going and how it was going to get there. It was going to end with the dramatic conclusion that, after nearly three years, I've found my home.

And I have. Nothing has happened to change that feeling. This is where my home is. Home is where the heart is. I am happy. I am in love. Everything is wonderful. But (big butt) I have been suffering (since The Lion King) from a certain amount of over-confidence and self-belief. Most of this has been aimed at my professional life but some of it has spilled over into my living life. The other day I admitted that I might actually be good looking! Along with that, I started to write a post (this post here) about how I am almost a Mexican and fully integrated. Obviously it was time for me to get kicked off my pedestal.

Monday night we got stopped by the police (you can read about it here). Mexican police scare me, scare me to death. In her post, Maria tells how I spent most of the time carrying the shopping in from the truck. This wasn't just because I am a wonderful person (ooo, get me) but mainly to do with the fact that I didn't want to hang around chatting with a Mexican policewoman. The police here scare me to death! I am not yet acclimatised.

Tuesday night I stepped out on to the balcony for a cigarette, it was about 9:30pm. As I lit up there was the sound of automatic gunfire, about three blocks over. In the four seconds of silence, that immediately follows any automatic gunfire, I stood watching the kids, who had stopped playing football in the street below. My first instinct was to run inside and hide but I noticed that they resumed their game, as if nothing had happened. For, another two seconds, I resolved to be more Mexican, I would continue to smoke my cigarette, I would carry on regardless. Fortunately Maria called from inside the flat to inform me that she had heard (or read) somewhere that bullets have been known to travel a little further than 20m. She wasn't sure if it was a fact or an urban myth. However, on the off chance that it was a fact, that a bullet, fired from a semi-automatic gun could possibly/maybe travel a little more than 20m, it might be an idea to get my cute English ass off the balcony and behind the sanctity of brick walls. With a slight sense of regret (I am not fully acclimatised to living in Tijuana) and in an orderly/controlled way, I dropped my cigarette and fled back into the flat, to hide under the bed (only pausing to agree that my ass is kinda cute - going to have to do something about this over confidence thing, it just isn't becoming of me).

W*dnesd*y night/Thursday morning. We were going to bed after a Mad Men marathon, it was 1:40am. As I wandered round the flat, being my dad, switching everything off, checking the locks on the doors, I asked Maria if she remembered bar-ing the car (putting the bar/crooklock on the steering wheel). She didn't remember so I volunteered to go out and check the car. Theoretically this meant, stepping out the flat, going down a flight of stairs, unlocking the front gate, crossing the road, unlocking the car, putting on the bar, locking the car, crossing back across the road, locking the gate, climbing one flight of stairs, closing the door. All in all, a journey of 40m (there and back) or one minute in time (tops). I grabbed my keys (obviously), my wallet (I might need identification), and my phone (if I got into any trouble I would need to call for back-up). The walk down the stairs was fairly uneventful. I stood, peering through the gate for a couple of minutes, checking that there were no cars on the road, no pedestrians about, no drug dealers/kidnappers lurking in the bushes. The gate unlocked, I ran across the road, pressing the car's remote as I moved. Diving into the car I grabbed the bar, turned quickly and stared back into the street, ready to beat anyone who was trying to sneak up on me. There was no-one there. Now I was in a quandary. If I put the bar on the steering wheel I was effectively disarming myself. What to do, what to do? I toyed with phoning Maria, so that anyone who was thinking of raping me would see that I was in contact with someone. I didn't phone - realising that my mobile would cast a beam of light around me that would just scream "mug me". I attached the bar, ran back across the street (zig-zagging to avoid sniper fire), dived in through the gate, slamming and locking it behind me. Up the stairs (four at a time), and commando-rolled back into the flat. Safe.

I don't really think that I have totally come to terms with living in Mexico. I think that there are still some things that worry me. I think that maybe, just maybe, I am still a foreigner here. An Englishman living in Mexico. Mind you, my girlfriend thinks I have a cute ass!

can't sleep

That wasn't our car alarm.

I know.

I'm sorry. Did I disturb you? Is that why you got out of bed?

No. I got out of bed because of the gunshots.

What gunshots?

Fifteen gunshots in ten seconds. Outside the flat. Just now. That's why the car alarm went off.

There wasn't any gunshots.

There was! That's why I got up. Did I wake you?

No. I was awake. I couldn't get to sleep. It's too hot. I can't get comfortable. I can't sleep. That's why I thought you got out of bed. I was moving around. Trying to find a cool spot in the bed.

I got out of bed because of the gunshots. You didn't hear them?

No.

You were asleep weren't you.

I wasn't. I can't sleep. I'm wide awake. Look! WIDE AWAKE! It's too hot.

But if you didn't hear the gunshots you must have been asleep. Think about it.

I was asleep wasn't I?

You were asleep. Now, go back to sleep.

I can't.

Why? Is it too hot? Do you want me to put the fan on?

I can't sleep because there were gunshots in the street.

But you didn't hear them. You were asleep.

Yes. But now you've told me I can't sleep.

Goodnight Will.

the hottest day of the year so far

The hottest day of the year so far. This doesn't impress me as I have a stinking cold. My sinuses are blocked and I have that stuffed feeling behind my eyes. Worse, I have become a "mouth-breather". My nose is totally useless for inhaling. It is make up by doubling it's exhaling. I sneeze, in sets of four, every ten minutes and it is permanently (look away now) running (sorry). My mouth is dry, permanently dry. The heat, combined with the breathing, means that I have to permanently sip liquids. This annoys me, in that way that stupid things can annoy you, because I want to be dehydrated! In my mind (in my mind) I am convinced that if I am dehydrated my nose would stop running - hey, I didn't say that colds made me an intellectual!

The hottest day of the year so far and Maria spends the day spring cleaning. I come home to a clean house (no dust to irritate my nose - oh, hang on, still going to sneeze a lot!) with all the windows open. The house is cooler than outside and, probably, smells wonderful. I can't tell.

The hottest day of the year so far and it is draining. This has been the longest week, topped off with a Friday meeting after school. A meeting that goes on for two hours. This cold has really taken it out of me, this week has really taken it out of me. I just want to go to bed and sleep but the kids are here. Also there are 'foreign' kids in the house, Dani has brought two friends home with her. There is no way I can go to bed. I drag my body, wearily, through the rest of the day, until nine when everyone goes home. I want to go to bed but we haven't eaten. Maria prepares me a chicken, tomato, and noodle soup and we collapse in front of the television. An episode of Gilmore Girls. Ten minutes into the second episode I can't stay awake anymore. I announce that I'm going to bed.

The hottest day of the year so far and I go through my "going to bed ritual". Television off, DVD off, computer off, balcony door closed and locked, front door closed and locked. I'm leaving all the windows open, it's the hottest day of the year so far. Thanks to my cold my ears have popped. I'm living in a world where all the excess noise are being filtered. As I turn the lights off and move towards the bedroom Tijuana sounds quiet - quiet for Tijuana and positively morgue like for Tijuana on a Friday night. No car noises, no sirens, no gun shots, no mariachi music, no karaoke. The only sound is dogs barking. Lots of dogs barking. I'm no expert on dog counting, when only hearing them bark, but I would put the number at more than fifteen but less than fifty - let's go with lots. There are lots of dogs barking. And then the neighbour's dog, downstairs, joins in. So there are lots of dogs plus one barking.

Me: Can you hear all the dogs barking?

Maria: I'm getting pyjamas and putting them beside the bed.

Me: Pardon?

Maria: I'm getting my pyjamas and putting them beside the bed.

Me: Yes, I heard you. I'm just not sure what you are saying not what you are saying. I'm ill aren't I?

Maria: I'm getting pyjamas and putting them beside my bed because I don't want to be the one, crazy, woman running round the street naked.

Me: Again. I hear what you are saying but I'm not sure I understand what you are saying.

Maria: There is always one, crazy, woman running round the street naked and I don't want it to be me. Oh god, I hope that it isn't the woman from number two. It would be just like her to be the one, crazy, naked woman running round the street. And, let's face it, if there is one woman I don't want to see naked, it's the woman from number two.

Me: I'm lost. Did I blackout in the middle of a conversation? What the fuck are you on about.

Maria: I need my pyjamas beside my bed so that when we get up in the middle of the night and run outside I won't be the one, crazy woman running around naked.

Me: Nope. Still not computing.

Maria: Can you hear the dogs?

Me: Errrr, yes. I think that is how the conversation started.

Maria: Why do you think all the dogs are barking?

Me: Ok, you've got me there. Is it something to do with 101 Dalmatians?

Maria: Nope. Earthquake. All the dogs are barking. What do you think the first warning of an earthquake is? And, if there is an earthquake, I'm not going to be the one, crazy woman running round the street naked. I love you. Goodnight.

Me: I love you. Goodnight.

It's the hottest day of the year so far. I have a stinking cold. I am tired, really tired. Shattered. Five minutes ago I thought I couldn't stay awake to save my life. I realise that, as a statement, that is probably the most incorrect I have ever been. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to lots of dogs (plus one) barking. I reach out from under the covers and check that my pyjamas are still there, on the floor, beside the bed. I wonder if I should put them on now. I don't want to be the mad foreigner running naked in the street.

It's the hottest day of the year so far and I sleep fully dressed.

new and different things

One of the real joys of living in another country is discovering new and different things, things that I might not have ever discovered. Prime example: Taco Bell tacos are not real tacos! And,as much as I enjoyed a tray of Taco Bell tacos before, there is no way I am ever going to order/eat at Taco Bell again. I have tasted the real deal and there is no going back. Saturday night, we dropped the kids off back at their father's and, as we swang (swung?) back home, stopped of at La Unica. Eighty pesos purchased three carne asada (that's beef) tacos and two adobada (pork) tacos. These were stuffed with meat, guacamole, and salsa, wrapped in a freshly made soft tortilla. I was also given an empty bag which Maria filled with grilled onions, grilled chili peppers, slices of cucumber,  radishes, and lemon halves)*. Luvverly.

One of the joys of living with Maria is discovering new and different things, things that I might never have discovered. Prime example: books. I never feel guilty about buying books and reading books. There is never a moment when I suddenly say, I want to read and she looks at me with that whole there-is-a-lawn-to-mow/dishes-to-wash/tummy-button-fluff-to-weave look. She understand that there are moments that you just want to dive into a book and stay there. She has also opened my eyes to so many other books - can you tell I'm excited at the moment? I'm reading Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, a book I would never have picked up (she bought it), and I am loving it. Luvverly**.

One of the embarrassments joys of living in another country is explaining new and different things, things that are part of my culture that Maria has never discovered. Prime example: Triffids. I received an email from my mum, telling me that she had just finished Chocky - a John Wyndham novel - and it appeared that Maria had never heard of John Wyndham. More to the point (because I am pretty sure that 85% of the British nation hadn't heard of him either), she had no idea what a Triffid was. This amazed me. Maybe I'm wrong about this, maybe I just existed in circles who knew the term Triffid, but the idea that someone didn't know what a Triffid was, I found unbelievable (hell, even my spell-checker knows what one is!). This had to be rectified. I spent an hour, or so, trying to explain what a Triffid is/was. This didn't work. I downloaded a television series and sat her down in front of it. This was a mistake. Oh, sure she now knows what a Triffid is but I don't think she was really scared. Actually, she was horrified - but not by Triffids. I thnk she was more frightened by the acting/the plot/the haircuts/the blue eye shadow. Maybe I should have got her the book rather than a television series from 1981!

I now live in fear. What if she ever asks me: "What is Blake's Seven?". Now, that is something I will never be able to explain.

 

*this still excites me. The fact that you can fill an empty gallon plastic bag with as much free stuff as you want. I am that easily excited!

** and I just can't start to list the wonderful books she has introduced me to - although you should go read "The Dancer Upstairs", "The Life of Pi", "The Queen of the South", and I've stated to list them! Just go read something!