I've found my home

remember, remember

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it was the night. 

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

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

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

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

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

I'm not disconnected

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

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

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

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

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

plague diary - we've been here before

The results are in and the winner is...positive.

I got sent home today. The tests results were in - you remember? The kid, having a test, see if they'd got H1N1? You do read this blog? I mentioned it on Tuesday. - and it appears that the kid has H1N1. Everyone into headless-chicken mode.

The school has been closed.

Yep, just like that. They shut the school. Turned kids away at the door. Sent the teachers home. Wouldn't even let me on to school property (what with the fact that I've got the sniffles).

Which was cool.

Came home. Changed out of my work clothes. Put on me jim-jams. Dragged the quilt into the tele room. Snuggled up on the sofa. Read a book. A whole book. In one sitting. Nine hours twenty minutes. 

fuck, marry, kill

I got in close to 14 hours of sleep yesterday.Once I came back from work, I crashed. Managed to struggle awake to eat some wonderful chicken soup (cooked by the beautiful maria), post, complete some paperwork for SEP, and then crashed out again.

I dreamt. Long, complicated dreams. These were illness influenced, or drug induced, or a combination of the two, but they weren't (totally) surreal. They didn't delve into that weird and wonderful world that dreams, under those circumstances, can go. The dreams followed a logical progression, one dream to the next.

I'm not going to bore you with the whole thing, but I will hit you up with the main bullet points. Or to be more specific, the main bullet point: I really don't want to have sex with Superman. I was avoiding the whole "sex with Batman" thing, because that was a road I didn't want to go down, so I stuck with the whole: I really don't want to have sex with Superman. Oh, did I mention that in this part of the dream I was Robin? [Geek On: It was interesting to note that only DC characters were involved in this dream, especially as I am much more of a Marvel fan: Geek Off]

Anyhoo, enough of my dreams. Let's get down to the real nitty-gritty of this post:

Superman, The Batman, Spider-Man - Fuck, Marry, Kill?

I'm pretty sure that I'd marry Spider-Man [Geek On: which is good timing, considering that his 21 year old marriage to Mary Jane has just been ret-conned in the comics - but you knew that: Geek Off] I realise that there should be some discussion about whether I'd be better off married to Supes. But really? The guy is known as the big blue boy scout. He has no sense of humour. He is dull, really dull. And there is no way I'd marry The Batman. Oh, he's got a great sense of humour. And he's rich. But he's way too intense. I can't see a marriage lasting much longer than a week. He'd drive me mental. That said, I'm pretty convinced that sex with The Batman has got to be awesome. Probably have to lay down some ground rules, I get the feeling he's probably a little too into S&M, Way too much into it for me. But otherwise, of the three, he's got to be the more exciting of the three in bed. So, if push came to shove, I'd fuck The Batman. Which means, I'd kill Superman.

Right, I'm off to check my meds. See if it's time for another dose.

eagles may soar but weasels don't get sucked into jet engines

I stood and watched my colleagues from across the playground. They stood in fluid groups of three/four, one person leaving a group to move to another, being replaced by someone moving from yet another group. They were becoming more and more indignant. Arms that had been crossed, slowly getting tighter in the crossing, slowly getting higher on the chest, suddenly were being waved around. Feet that had been firmly planted, started to dance, then started to stamp. Eyebrows that had started on the top of their foreheads in surprise, that had dropped to hooding eyes in worry, now were drawn into one straight line of anger. My colleagues had become look-a-likes for the Gallagher brothers.

I've made myself a promise this academic year, not to get involved in whatever it is that rattles my colleagues' cages. This is because it takes very little to rattle their cages. Two weeks ago they almost all down tooled and walked out because they weren't going to be paid. I know, I know, sounds like the thing to do - except they were basing their argument on a dream someone had had. Yep, one person had dreamed that they wouldn't get paid and the rest were willing to accept that as fact. Even after we had been paid (signed our payslips), some were still convinced that we might have been duped, that the money hadn't gone into the bank. So I avoid talking to my colleagues as much as possible. It leads to a lonely life but a much happier life.

Then someone left the groups and headed towards me. Worse, like a magnet dragging iron filings along a piece of paper, the rest of the staff followed. They walked with determination, heads thrust forward, jaws clenched. They were heading for me with one thought in their minds: Mr. Cake will sort it out. He'll get them to, to, to...ah, who knows what hare-brained scheme they had come up with this time.

them: You've got to get them to shut the school.

me: Any particular reason?

them: There's a kid in grade three with swine flu. It's been confirmed.

me: Seriously? A confirmed case?

them: Yes. And the admin staff knew. They knew and they kept the school open.

me: A confirmed case?

[At this point, I have to admit that I had (mentally) already left the school. I was on my home to maria, maria who has had a cold the last couple of days. In my mind (in my mind) I could see us both, curled up in each other's arms, dying of swine flu together.]

them: Yes, the mum told us yesterday, when she came to pick up the sister.

me: Wait, you mean the mum knows one kid has swine flu, and she still brings the other to school?

them: Yes and [insert the crack of thunder here] she's in your class.

me: [Pause] You mean Ana Maria's brother?

them: Yes! Her brother's got swine flu.

me: No. Her brother's got Type A Influenza.

them: Yes, swine flu.

me: No. No. Type A Influenza. Type A Influenza isn't swine flu.

them: It is. He's got swine flu.

me: No, he's got Type A Influenza which isn't swine flu.

them: Well, what is swine flu?

me: H1N1

them: Well he's got that. Swine flu.

me: But he's got Type A Influenza.

them: We know.

me: What do you mean "we know"?

them: We know he's got Type A Influenza, that's what his mum said.

me: She said he's got Type A Influenza. She didn't say he had swine flu.

them: No. She said he's got Type A Influenza, which is swine flu.

me: It's not.

them: Not what?

me: Not swine flu. It's Type A Influenza. It's a cold. He's got flu.

them: Yes, swine flu.

me: NO! He's got Type A Influenza.

them: Which is swine flu!

...repeat to fade...

The school wasn't shut. We carried on for the rest of the day. There is a chance that some teachers might not be in tomorrow. There's swine flu in the school donchu'no.

faux news

Ten o'clock, most nights, is the signal for me to start going to bed. Last night SYTYCD had just finished, and I stood up to go have a shower, when Fox (fair and balanced) News came on the tele.

Tsunami Warning!

It appeared that a Tsunami warning had been issued for San Diego, and therefore, I assumed, Tijuana - being as they share the same bit of coastline. It appears that out in the Pacific Ocean there had been an earthquake, a major earthquake. This earthquake is what had caused the Tsunami that was, as I stood there mouth open, heading towards our coastline.

Images of a giant wave swallowing our flat came to mind. Should we get in the car and drive east now? What to do? What to do? More importantly, how much time have we got? I mean, if this thing is about to hit landfall soon, instead of running, shouldn't we be getting nekkid and enjoying our last few moments alive?

The Tsunami was expected to hit land at 9:16pm tonight! 9:16pm tonight!! Hell, that's less than 45 minutes ago. I've got no time to get nekkid, the Tsunami hits land 45 minutes ago!!!

Hang on! Forty five minutes AGO?!?! The thing has already hit? It's been and gone? You mean Fox (fair and balanced) News is giving a Tsunami Warning for an event that has already happened? In fact, they have a reporter on the beach, telling me that when 9:16pm came along, there was nothing to see. 

Great! Fox (fair and balanced) News had just wasted seven minutes of my life, seven minutes I would never get back. Plus there was all that mental anguish, all the stress. Thank goodness maria was out the room. At least she hadn't wasted/stressed over a stupid Tsunami warning. In fact, she didn't know anything about it. Anything at all. 

maria! maria! Quick, get in the bedroom! Get nekkid! No, no time to explain. There's a Tsunami! Yes, I know. Now, stop talking and get nekkid.

Got lurve Fox (fair and balanced) News.

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.

peter o'parker

In many ways, Tijuana is a city caught between two countries. It is, very firmly, in Mexico. It is Mexican, it is populated by Mexicans, it thrives because it is Mexican. However, some a lot of that"thriving" is due to its proximity to the USofA. In many ways it is town of people who are moving. Many want to move five miles north, into the USofA. Most have moved to Tijuana. Some want to move back to their home towns. The number of people who actually want to be, to stay, in Tijuana is a very low percentage. Of the 23 children in my class only the both parents of four children were born in Tijuana. Six children have one parent who was born in Tijuana. Which means (for those of you who can't do the maths), thirteen (just over 50%) sets of parents are from other parts of Mexico. And you know what I find surprising about those figures? In the four years I have taught the sixth grade, it is the highest percentage I've come across. Last year it was under 25%, the previous years it was in the 30s. Basically, what I'm trying to say (and prove) is that not a lot of people in Tijuana, come from Tijuana.

Tijuana has jobs. Tijuana has money. Tijuana has the USofA next door. Two thousand maquiladoras (factories) provide jobs for close to a million people. The North American Free Trade Agreement means that you can put a factory in Mexico, build your goods, ship them into the USofA, and it is free - no import tax. And there are reasons to put factories in Mexico. The workforce is cheap. The hours are long. The holidays are short. The unions are non-existent. 

The USofA is the promised land. Jobs for illegal immigrants are on offer because you can pay less than the minimum wage. But that salary is still much more than the average Mexican can earn in Mexico. It's possible to work in the USofA and earn enough to keep an extended family (in Mexico) living a good life. Plus, there is tourism. For Americans there is the chance to visit a different country - a country that (according to television/Hollywood) has a drug selling prostitute holding a bottle of tequila on every corner. Oh, and a drinking age of 18.

This back-and-forth across the border, the desire to not upset foreigners, means that the dollar is legal tender in Tijuana. Most bills, most receipts, have two figures on them - one in pesos, one in dollars. The shop on the corner doesn't have an electric till, he has a drawer and a calculator. The calculator is for working out the exchange rate, so that (if you want) you can pay in dollars. In passing, I should mention I don't, pay in dollars that is. I am paid in pesos and the exchange rate is crippling, without adding in a backwards exchange. Unfortunately, my foreignness betrays me, and more often than not Iget presented with the cost in dollars.

The good news (for me) is that this proximity to the USofA means that there is a desire to speak English, a great desire to speak English. The language of the executive boardroom is English. The language of the street seller on La Revolución is English. The guy who follows me round the supermarket, desperately trying to guess what I want from the shelf before I reach out for it, he wants to speak English, practice his English, improve his English. Schools advertise their English. They emphasise their English. They boast the fact that they have a 100% English Curriculum - all lessons are taught in English.

And then you have to get it out there, get it in front of people's faces, tell them that your school is English speaking. So, there's L0nd0n Bridge, there's Engl!sh Red Apple, and (obviously) there is the school I work at - The Briti$h Americ@n Institute.

Yesterday I went on a photo-shoot with maria. High, up in the hills, we came across a school:

Yep, Kinder Irlandes. For those of you who don't speak Spanish as well as I do, let me translate: Kinder Irish Irish Kindergarten. Yes, in the middle of nowhere, someone has decided to build a castle-like structure, paint a rainbow, with a pot of gold at the end of it, and a leprechaun (or is it the Lucky Charms bloke?) on the side of it, and call it an Irish Kindergarten.

But, the thing that I have to question, seriously have to question, isn't the leprechaun, the rainbow, the pot of gold, is Spider-Man. Ah, you didn't notice the Spider-Man. Look at the picture again. Look to the left. You can see the princess? (Or I assume it is a princess because the whole thing is a castle, so it should be a princess. And notice that it's a red haired princess because, well, she's Irish.) Well, just behind the lamp-post, that's Spider-Man. Yep, ol' web-head himself.  Which I really don't understand because, you see, I know my Spider-Man. I really know my Spider-Man. And I'm definite the only possible connection between Spider-Man and Ireland is...the first football game (American Football) that Peter Parker went to was with his Uncle Ben. Peter Parker is a New York jets fan (he is also a Mets fan rather than a Yankees supporter). And, the Jets play in Kelly green. How you get from that to whacking a painting of Spider-Man on the side of your school, I'm not sure. But, it is there.

Unless, during the whole Spidey clone saga (when I dropped the title) Ben Reilly turned out to be Irish???

a side effect I didn't expect

28th June 2009, seventy six days ago, a fifth of a year, I finished The Olivetti Chronicles. 76 days ago.

It is September 12th and so far, this year, I have read five books to the end. Five books. Only five books. What the hell happened here? Last year I read over 30 books, that's two and a bit books a month. At the moment I am averaging at under one book a month. I realise that I shouldn't really be looking at reading as a statistic, I mean the books could be huuuge, they could be really complicated, they could need reference books just to get through the first three chapters...ah, who am I kidding? I've read nothing this year. Nothing.

And I'm upset. This morning maria inhaled sharply as she was reading. It was one of those moments that you know the person has just come aross a beautiful piece of writing. She turned to me, wanting to share the moment, but before she spoke, she asked if I'd read the book. I said no. No? But the book was Seeing by Jose Saramago, the follow up to Blindness, a book I loved (and raved about here). Why hadn't I read it? And then, then she couldn't share the moment with me. She rolled over and continued to read. I continued to lie there, staring at the ceiling, not reading.

So, what's gone wrong? Why have I stopped reading? It's not because I don't like books. At this moment,as I look at the "to read shelf" it is at the fullest it has been - actually, it is also totally misnamed as the "to read shelf" is now three shelves big. There are loads of books on the shelves that I am desperate to read: there's a couple of Chabons, there's a Nick Hornby, there's an Ian Banks. There are books that maria has already read and recommended, there's books that I know nothing about but am really looking forward to reading, but I'm not.

Of course, at this point, your eye is probably drawn to the sidebar of this blog because you know that there, to the right, a little lower down, is a box that tells you what books I am reading, and there are four books there. What gives? Well, the sports book is articles, the sort of book you pick up and put down. I'll probably never finish it. The Roddy Doyle book is in the truck. I read it when I'm stood in the queue to cross the border. The other two books are beside my bed, book marks stuck in them. But I don't see me finishing them any time soon.

You see, I'm old. I'm old and my eyesight is failing. I need glasses. This is not news, I've needed glasses (and had glasses) for a couple of years now. Except, I'm not used to using glasses. They sit in my bag, in their case, rarely coming out. Oh, I pull them out when I have a huge pile of books in front of me to mark. Sometimes I remember to wear them during lessons for reading the text book, but often I don't. Mainly because the book is on my desk and I'm stood up - you see it's not my eyesight that is failing, it is my arms that have gotten too short. However, I can't teach in my glasses. I have to take them off to look around the classroom, write on the board, eat Krispy Kreme donuts. So I don't wear them. And, when I get home, they never leave my bag.

So I'm not reading. I never realised that the side effect to getting old would be me reading so much less. I had sort of seen myself sat in my library, wearing a smoking jacket, pipe in my mouth, whiskey on a side table occasionally making a noise as the ice cubes melt, my tartan slippers keeping my toes all nice and warm, reading a book. Instead I end up lying on the sofa, watching reality television, unable to read because I can't be bothered to get my glasses from my bag.

There is hope for me though. maria (because she's wonderful that way) has come up with a plan. She's going to go buy several pairs of those $5 dollar glasses from Costco and leave them all round the house. This means that there will be a pair of glasses within easy reach no matter where I am in the house.

There is just over a quarter of a year to go. I don't think I can get my total books read up to 30 but I really should get it into double figures...I hope.

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?