I've found my home

just in case

One of Spike Milligan's last wishes was the epitaph on his headstone. He didn't get his wish exactly, it wasn't written in English, it was written in Gaelic:

Duirt me leat go raibh me breoite

Which translates as:

I told you I was ill

According to Fox 6 News (your station for balanced news), three weeks ago, there were reported cases of salmonella in San Diego.This was news that I ignored and treated with contempt at the time. The reason? Tomatoes! According to Fox 6 (balanced) News, the outbreak had been traced to tomatoes. Now I had one major difficulty with this (apart from the obvious statement that the newscasters can't pronounce the word tomato! It's tom-ah-toe not to-may-toe), I lived through BSE scares (mad cow to you) and Edwina Curry telling me that I could eat an egg...so long as I boiled it for six hours and then finished it off in a microwave. I know, know for a fact, that you can only get salmonella from eggs and chicken. Those fools at Fox 6 (balanced) News know nothing! They are just scaremongering. You cannot, categorically cannot get salmonella from a tom-ah-toe!

Fools!

Except...it appears you can. Bugger!How stupid do I feel? Well, normally, I would have said, not very stupid because obviously I haven't made a thing about this at all. I mean, I wouldn't have been at a Souplantation two weeks ago, talking in a very loud voice, demanding tom-ah-toes, criticising Americans for being frightened of fruit (it's a fruit donchu'no). No, if I was the sort of person who stood around the salad bar explaining I'm more worried about my prostrate [sic] (they're really good for your prostrate, I've heard, and at my age I have to think about things like that) than catching salmonella which is impossible to get from a TOM-AH-TOE!

Thank goodness I am not that sort of person!

However, if I was that sort of person, I'd certainly feel a bit stupid and start listening to Fox 6 (balanced) News a little bit more carefully.

The weather has turned, actually the weather turned a couple of months ago, it is hot. The thermometer doesn't drop below 28 and spends most of its time hanging around the 34 mark with quick bursts towards the 40 mark. It's hot. There are solutions to this, of course. Most of these solutions involve nekkidness, fans on full blast, swearing sweating profusely, swearing profusely, opening all the windows/doors, and drinking copious amounts of liquids. There is one major drawback to these activities - and it isn't visiting the toilet regularly because the sweating tends to deal with the excess liquids - mosquitoes. All the windows have screens but our doors don't. This means that, during the day, mosquitoes come into the house, find a place to hide and sleep during the heat of the day, come out late at night, find themselves trapped in the flat, decide to punish their prison wardens. Every morning Maria and I wake up to discover that our my bodies body are is covered in mosquito bites (it should be made known that the only time Maria gets bitten is when I am out of the flat. If a mosquito has a choice between biting Maria or me, they pick me). A quick check of my body, as I type this, reveals 27 bites! (Oh, for those of you who are worrying about the nekkidness, I would never post nekkid - I feel that I am talking directly to you as I write and I would never talk to you nekkid, so I post clothed. You can relax.)

And now, finally, I arrive at the point of this post! According to Fox 6 (balanced) News there are recorded incidents of West Nile Virus. Here in California! Well, there in California! But California is exactly five miles over there, as the mosquito flies! The West Nile Virus, again according to Fox 6 (balanced) News, is carried by mosquitoes! I have been bitten by mosquitoes!! I could have West Nile Virus!!!

No, listen, I watched Fox 6 (balanced) News and they told me that the symptoms include:

fever, headache, weakness and drowsiness

That's me, that is. I'm really hot, I've got a bit of a headache, I am struggling to open bottles of coke, and I keep falling asleep in front of the tele! I've got West Nile Virus! The worst thing is that Maria, who is normally very loving and very caring, is convinced that I am making this up. She tells me that I don't have a fever, that it is just hot. I have a headache because I keep refusing to eat, moaning that "it's too hot to eat". I can't open coke bottles because I keep coating my hands with sunblock, paranoid that I will burn and die in the heat. And I keep falling asleep in front of the television because I always fall asleep in front of the television. Maria is convinced that I don't have West Nile Virus. Of course, she never gets bitten, so I don't think she is taking this seriously! And look what happened when I didn't take Fox 6 (balanced) News's Salmonella scare! I was wrong!!

This might be my last ever post. I feel a bit weak. I feel a bit drowsy. While I've been sat here, at the computer, for the last five hours, I can feel a headache coming on. And I think I might have a fever, I'm definitely hot and sweaty. I have West Nile Virus. I'm going to lie down. Bye.

the duck and parrot

My mum lives in the middle of nowhere. To be a little more precise, she lives near a Broad in Norfolk.

Mum: While I'm talking, I'm watching a duck on the roof of the house across the street.

This piece of information fascinates Maria. She is stunned that, quite regularly, ducks will waddle up the road from the Broad, and into my mum's garden. Real ducks! Real, alive ducks! Just wandering around the streets. She cannot believe that there are road signs, warning drivers that there might be ducks in the road. She finds it totally amazing that ducks exist in the wild.

Me: That's odd. While I'm talking, I'm watching a parrot sitting on the telephone pole across the street.

This piece of information fascinates my mother. She is stunned to hear that, quite regularly I can watch parrots fly overhead. Real parrots! Real, alive parrots! Just flying around, in the sky, without a care in the world. She cannot believe that everyone else hasn't stopped, in the street, to stare at the sight of a real live parrot on the telephone pole. She finds it totally amazing that parrots exist in the wild.

Actually, I'm with my mum on this one. I still stop and stare when I see parrots. Two days ago, during recess, I interrupted the kids while they were eating their lunch, to point out a humming bird. Yes! A real live humming bird. Just hovering around, moving in and out of the trees. And there was no David Attenborough sound track! Who would believe it? Well, to be honest, only me. The kids at school looked at the humming bird, looked at me, shook their heads in a (fairly) patronising way, and then carried on eating.

Mind you, they all stopped eating when I shouted: "Look! A duck!!"

it's my birthday and I'll cry if I want to

It is probably me - or is it? Maria asked me, this morning, to tell her a story about one of my birthday parties. Now, if you know one thing about me, you know that the chance to hold-the-floor and tell a story, isn't something that I miss. Except...except, I didn't have any stories. I don't remember any of the parties I had before I was 12, apart from the one on my 12th birthday (and the story connected with that has nothing to do with the party). My parents didn't believe in parties once you were a teenager, so there weren't any stories to tell during my teenage year - oh, except for the day my boarding school burnt down and I spent my 18th birthday getting drunk with several firemen and then discovering that I was the second coming of the big Jee. But that is a well known (to Maria) story. My father put in an appearance on my 21st birthday but there was no party. And there was a surprise party on my 30th - a story Maria also knew. And that was that. No other parties to talk about.

Maria talked about an event at her 22nd b'day party, which was sweet. However, when she was 22, I was 34, and it was that during that year that (with 20/20 hindsight I can see) the first domino fell,in a series of dominoes, culminating in the collapse of my marriage. And this is starting to sound maudlin, which was not my intention, however, it is probably me. I don't know if it is my Englishness or my upbringing but I feel embarrassed about my birthday. It's like I am celebrating a day that I had nothing to do with. But, I am three-fifths of the way to being Mexican...so, time to change the direction of this post, become more Mexican and celebrate!!!

I was born on May 15th in England. This presents a couple of problems in my new life in Mexico. The first is that, theoretically/mathematically/time-differencely, I was actually born on May 14th in Mexico. The second problem (for the school and students) is that there is no school  on May 15th - it being Teacher's Day. These two events, taken together, means that I get to celebrate my birthday over two days. Actually, to be more accurate, everyone else gets to celebrate my birthday over two days. You see, your birthday isn't so much about you celebrating, as it is about everyone else celebrating the fact that you are alive and in their lives.

The sixth grade - the sixth grade who have caused me so much heartache, so much trouble, so many sleepless nights - were wonderful. After being sung to, by the whole school, I taught the sixth grade for two hours. It was a good lesson, they were attentive, we got a huge amount of work done, one of those lessons that you wish you could bottle/save/pull out every day. Of course (with my amazing 20/20 hindsight), I should have realised that the game was afoot. As I struggled through a rehearsal, the sixth grade out their plans into action and at 11 o'clock, threw a surprise party for me.

My love of tacos is well known to my students, thus tacos appeared. I was allowed to take as many tacos as I wished. I took one. No, no, they insisted, take more. I took another. Please Mr. Kay take more!! I insisted that I wanted to share and was then informed that I could have as many as I liked...so long as I didn't take more than four! They had ordered 20 tacos, figuring that I would have four and there would be one each left over.

We have been discussing foods from different cultures in the English lesson. One student made a sushi cake for the party.

Every recess/lunchtime I always have a sandwich. Sofia's mum makes the best sandwiches in the world, so there were two piles of sandwiches.

Four buckets of KFC. A huge chocolate cake. Three tubs of Oreo ice-cream.

And the children were apologetic. They were really sorry that they hadn't been able to provide two things that they knew I liked: toast and coke. They had asked permission from the school if they could bring a toaster into school but permission was denied. Students are only allowed to bring fizzy pop (soda) into school for parties but are not allowed to bring in drinks that include caffeine.

However, the whole event was wonderful. And, what made it even better for me, the fantastic thing was that it taught me something about birthdays. Birthdays are actually a celebration that the person is alive, that he is in their lives. The sixth grade spent most of the party, checking that I was happy, checking that I was surprised, but, mostly, reaffirming that they liked me. They wanted to celebrate the fact that I had come into their lives.

Damn! I'm going to have to finish this post with the phrase: that I had made a difference.

I think I'm going to go cry a little bit, over there, in the corner. Hell, it's my birthday and I'll cry if I want to!

yo mamma!

It's Mother's Day, here in Mexico.

Forget Independence Day. Forget America v Chivas. Forget Birthdays (and if you know anything at all about Mexicans the whole comment "forget birthdays" sounds totally surreal). Everything, everything, pales into insignificance when placed next to Mother's Day.

On my second day at boarding school, at the ripe-old age of 13, I made a boy cry. I called him a son-of-a-bitch. Now, it is true that I am a fairly foul-mouthed person. It is also true that I can be a bit flippant when it comes to swearing. It is definitely true that I can call people things that, in the cold light of day, are just not nice. However, I tend to be rather blasé when it comes to calling people names. I don't particularly mean it*. So, when this boy burst into tears I was slightly gob-smacked. My jaw dropped even further when, under questioning from other students, he revealed that I had insulted his mother. I was adamant that I hadn't! I had only called him a son-of-a-bitch...ahhhh, I got it! I had called his mother a female dog! His problem was not with me calling him a name, it was the insult to his mother. Fair enough.

As my life has progressed, I have discovered that talking about people's families is not a good idea. Even the most verbose detractor of their own family will take umbrage if you agree with them. It appears that it is alright for someone to slag off their family, but the minute an outsider picks on their family, the wagons circle and heaven help the casual bystander. This becomes double dangerous if you ever get involved with a comment about someone's mum. This I understand. My mum is my mum. I can complain about my childhood, her cooking, her (totally insane) rules but, if anyone ever says anything about my mum then they are in for a shoeing!

In Mexico you don't even want to think about commenting on someone else's mum. If you do the best that could happen is you would die quickly. The fact is, you will probably die - it is just the speed and the added extra pain that you would have to live through before your demise, that is open to debate. This is a country of men devoted to their mothers. A devotion that borders on the weird but, hopefully, never quite crosses the line.

A man's mother is a Madonna. Hell, she might even be the Madonna. It is a conversation that I ain't going to get into.

So, it is Mother's Day. If it was a working day, it would be half day, people need to go see their mothers!! If it wasn't a half day, people just wouldn't turn up for work. It is Mother's Day. Already we have received several random phone calls from (virtual) strangers, congratulating Maria on being a mother. Hell, I even have been commanded by my employer and my father-in-law to phone my mum and congratulate her.

Happy Mother's Day to anyone who is a mother.

Oh, and my mum is better than yours! Don't agree? I'll see you behind the bike-shed later and come prepared. Because, in the words of Carlin (the Daddy of them all) I'll be asking you: Where's ya tool?

 

*It should be noted that friends of ours, Mexicans, have taken to casually telling me to "fuck off". However, the casualness of the moment is normally ruined when their Mexican-ness kicks in and they follow the comment up with "no offence".

breaking down the stereotypical walls

What's the difference between a Yorkshireman and a coconut?
You can always get a drink out of a coconut! Boom-boom!!
Thank you. I'll be here all week. Try the chicken.

The thing about a Yorkshireman is that he will always call a spade a spade.

And then, of course, there is always this:

Now, I'm allowed to type this/post videos about Yorkshiremen because I am from Yorkshire. Whether I agree with these statements/video is, actually, irrelevant. I know that I am always the one to buy the first round of drinks, but I also know that I can wax lyrically on about "t'good old days of yore". I suppose that it isn't my place to discuss a stereotype from Yorkshire. Of course, I could go on about people from Liverpool/Manchester, Lanchastrians, soft-Southern Jessies, Cockneys, Midlanders, Cornwallians (don't think that is a word), and that is if I just stick to picking on the inhabitants of England. Don't get me started on the Welsh, Scots, Northern Irish. Or even Europeans. Heck, I could probably rant (quite happily and I would think amusingly) for hours about most groups of people. But a blog is not the place to do that. Also I might find that I have offended all of my readers (both of them) and I would be a lonely blogger, rolling around in my own bile.

And, of course, internal stereotyping isn't just an English trait. No matter what country you are from/in  there is always a certain section of the populace that is portrayed one way by the rest of the inhabitants. Mexico has been a learning curve for me. The first hurdle I had to get over was where the fuck Mexico was! I had an idea about Mexicans (sombreros, mariachis, tequila, moustaches) but (honestly) thought it was a South American country. It's not! It is North American (and pity the poor fool who makes that mistake!). Plus, it is also a country the size of Europe+. This means that there isn't really a typical Mexican. What you (as a non-Mexican) may think of as a stereotypical Mexican is not what a Mexican thinks of as a stereotype.

Within the country there are many different types of people. I am going to talk about one stereotype - the people of Sinaloa. I know about people from Sinaloa because I have sat in conversations with Mexicans who are not from Sinaloa. Fact: All Sinaloans are drug dealers! That's all you need to know!! And if you sit and listen to the chattering classes, here in Tijuana, you will quickly become informed that most of the drugs/kidnappings/shoot-outs in this fair city can be traced back to one group of people - Sinaloans!

Except - there is a guy who works at the school. He is the nicest, kindest man I have ever met. He as a great sense of humour, he is fun to talk to, he is fun to hang out with. He speaks no English at all and yet I count him as a good friend. The other day he spent some quantity (and quality) time with Maria. They talked for hours. It was wonderful. She got to tell him all about me, he got to tell her all about him. By the end of the conversation they were best friends. However, by the end of the conversation he was still using the Usted form when he talked to Maria. Although she told him, several times, that he needn't be so formal, he couldn't stop himself. He is an exceptionally polite, kind man. He is from Sinaloa.

Except - there is this parent who found my blog. He commented on a post, a post in which I mentioned his daughter. This freaked me out. However, the next day, his daughter talked to me, passing on a message from him. That day we had an email conversation. Friday, his wife talked to me and I got to meet him face-to-face. He's a nice man. A very nice man. He has also become a blogger - he'd been thinking about it for a couple of months and discovering my blog, pushed him over the edge! So, in the links, at the side, you will see two new links, because the man hasn't just opened one blog, he's opened two! One in English, one in Spanish. Please visit them, read them, feel free to comment in them.

Oh, and I might have forgotten to mention - he's from Sinaloa. Me thinks that, as he continues to write, and I continue to read, my opinion of Sinaloans is about to go through a major-overhaul.

not all tequila and mariachis

It has been officially decided that I am back in a good mood. This is important, here in Casa de WillandMaria. There are moments I dread, moments when I am perceived to be in a bad mood (ie. a mood that means I am not happy) because Maria takes it personally. This means that she, unilaterally, decides that it is her fault and the solution is: I leave. Now, I understand her logic: (1) Will is in a bad mood (b) I am Will's everything (III) I am therefore the cause of Will's bad mood (delta) If Will is not with me he will be in a good mood (ergo) Will leaves and everything will be happy in his world. Of course, understanding her logic and her logic being logical is a totally different thing. When she mutters the word leave, I go into total freak mode. I know that it isn't what I want, but she just said it, so it might be what she wants, she wants me to leave? If I wasn't upset before, I am totally mortified now.

The punchline is: if I'm in a not-good mood then I really have to tread lightly. However, it is official (I've just shouted over and checked) I am in a good mood. So, in that case, I can say a couple of things that I hate about Mexico, without it meaning that I want to leave. Yes, there are actually a couple of things I dislike about Mexico - I know, I have always painted it as sweetness and light but - I need to rant about two things (I say two things now, because there are two things that really piss me off, of course, once I get into the flow, who knows how much bile will come out? However, if you are reading this Maria [as if you don't] remember (1) I love Mexico (b) I love you (III) I am in a good mood (delta) I am not leaving!).

Bins by the Toilet

Beside most toilets in Mexico there is a bin (not in our flat). This is for used toilet paper. And when I say used toilet paper I don't mean for that moment when you blow your nose or rearrange your mascara - I mean when you have used toilet paper for what toilet paper was meant to be used for. Why? Because for years there was a plumbing problem in Mexico. Toilets couldn't flush away toilet paper. It appears that there might still be a plumbing problem, toilets still can't flush away toilet paper. But - and I suppose this is just me - I really can't deal with bins beside the toilet. I suppose it is me, or maybe it is my upbringing, or maybe it is my Englishness, but I really don't need to know that someone has used a toilet before me. Oh, I know that someone has used the toilet before me but, in my rose-tinted world, I can pretend, can't I? The last thing I need to know (to see) is that someone has been there before.

Banks

I just don't understand how banks work in Mexico. From the age of 16 (and that is thirty years ago) I have been courted by banks for my patronage. I moved banks three times as an adult. Each time was a massive upheaval - changing standing orders, getting new cheque books, just that whole moving-from-a-comfort-zone into the unknown. But it wasn't a total unknown. Each bank made me feel welcome, offered me a sexy new deal. Each time was a step-up. I knew that the bank wanted my custom and they were willing to bend over (in what they thought) was backwards to get me to sign on the dotted line. True, they didn't offer me the world on a stick because they were going to make a profit out of my money. So they offered me free chequebooks, free statements, a cash point card (ATM), free overdrafts, and interest. And all of these things totalled a lot less than the interest they were charging for loans - and that was what they were doing with my money, loaning it out at exorbitant prices. But I knew that, they knew that I knew that, and we were both happy with the arrangement. Here, in Mexico, it as though the bank is doing me a favour. My wages are paid into an account, an account that is only accessible via a cash point card. Each time I use the card I am charged 7 pesos. In other words, it costs me to get my money back. I am not allowed a chequebook. If I want a chequebook I have to open another account (for which I need the names of three referees). For this account I will be charged 200 pesos a month. Each cheque I use I will also be charged for. None of this makes sense to me. How much profit does the bank make with my money? And then they charge me every month for the privilege of being used like this. Partially, I feel as if my place of employment charged me for working there, rather than paying me. However, this is not what annoys me the most about banks in Mexico. And (and this will come as a surprise to any Mexican reading this) it isn't the queues in the bank either. Seriously, if you actually try to visit a bank you have to factor in a wait of at least an hour. And then, more often than not, when you get to the window, you discover that the cashier can't deal with your problem (you know, something complicated, like putting money in your account) and you have to go see someone else (another hour). No, it isn't the queues that annoy me the most. It is the fact that I have yet to find a bank in Mexico that is connected to the internet, that can actually cope with international banking. Fact: I have an account with HSBC - the world's bank. Unfortunately HSBC Mexico doesn't seem to acknowledge the rest of the world. This might not be as surprising as you thought. A bank in Mexico can't recognise the bank next door. Our landlady is registered with Banorte. We have to take our money out of an HSBC, cross the road, pay it into a Banorte. It takes two hours to pay the rent. At least that is possible. It is impossible to pay anything into a bank in England from Mexico. Actually, to be fair, it is impossible to pay anything into a bank in England from the USA. It is like the internet doesn't exist. There is no connection between banks. They just don't talk. And (to make matters worse) the world's bank doesn't talk to any other branches outside Mexico. It appears the world isn't as big as I thought it was - or maybe it is a fuck of a lot bigger.

And I can feel myself dropping into rant mode. So I'll stop now.

I am still happy, though. I'm not leaving!

three stories

I received an email t'other day from someone who had found my blog via expat-blog.com. He was thinking of moving to Mexico and asked, in a polite way, why the hell [had I ended up in] Tijuana? The obvious answer was/is love. But, for a second or two, I was confused. Why not Tijuana? It is filled with wonderful people, it is a wonderful city, situated in a wonderful country. Why not Tijuana? In the last six days, three events have reminded me what others see in this city. The news reports, my own blog posts, any television programme/hollywood film that mentions Tijuana. These stories don't change my mind about how I feel about this city but I can see how, to someone who doesn't live here, they can be scary.

Story One

Alejandra doesn't come into school on Friday. The morning passes, lessons are taught, recess is arrived at. As the sixth grade sit around, eating their lunch, Alejandra appears - not in uniform. She's leaving. She's come to say goodbye. She hugs her friends, a few cry, she cleans out her book cubby in the classroom, she leaves. Not just the school, not just the city, she leaves the country. On Thursday she had been in school with no knowledge of what was going to happen in the next 24 hours. As she struggled over algebra, her father was receiving the first of his kidnap threats of the day. By the time she had moved on to her music lesson, he had received his second warning/threat. By the time she got home it was discover that she had to pack - everything. With armed security guards around the house, (paid for by her father) the family spent the night preparing to leave the country. In the morning, with everything in boxes and the boxes in vans, Alejandra was allowed to visit school and say goodbye. There was no surprise shown from her classmates, hers is a familiar story at this school. At just like that....she's gone.

Story Two

Twenty metres as the crow flies, fifty metres if you have to walk around the corner, there is a shop. It is our local. No coke - go to shop. No cigarettes - go to shop. No bread - go to shop. No idea what to eat - go to shop. The guy who works there is wonderful. Two and a bit years ago I spoke no Spanish, he spoke no English. Now we struggle through conversations wonderfully. He is the only person I talk to in Spanish regularly. He is brilliant. He opens his shop at 7 every morning and closes at 8 every night - except on Sundays when he opens at 8 and closes at 7. Monday evening two kids/teenagers (young teenagers) came into his shop and went to the back, where he keeps his six fridges full of drinks (note: only two work, so if you want a cold drink make sure you go to the fridges on the right). They both grabbed a bottle of beer each and headed out of the door. The owner ran out of the door after them.There was a car waiting outside, which the kids were getting into, and the owner shouted at them. The driver got out of the car and pulled a gun. The owner ran back into the shop, followed by the driver. With a gun in his face he was forced to empty out the cash register and hand over all his money (hey, we all know that he never keeps his money in the register - but we're locals). The gunman then swept everything off the counter, onto the floor, and walked out. The owner apologises to us, for the foreseeable future he will be closing the huge iron gate in front of the shop from 5pm onwards. He'll still be open but you'll have to ask for stuff from the shelves and he'll pass it through.

Story Three

This week I am on car door opening in the morning. This is a task I have to do every other week. At 7:30, I go out of the school, on to the pavement, and open car doors. There is a team of six teachers each morning. The cars pull up in front of the school, we step forward, open the door, say "Good morning", let the kid out the car, close the door, step back. The cars queue up, move forward in sets of six, move off. It can become a bit automatic, especially if you aren't fully awake. Tuesday morning I wasn't totally concentrating on my job. I was a bit down, bit thoughtful, spending a lot of time staring at my feet, before stepping forward to open a door. A car would pull up in front of me, I'd step to the door, open it, raise my head, look at the child, smile, go through the routine. I was in the pattern, not fully concentrating. A black pick-up pulled up in front of me, the windows were tinted, there was only one door, I opened it, lifted my face, and stared down the barrel of an automatic rifle. Several of the parents drive their children to school and are followed by bodyguards. If you are paying attention you can normally notice them.Otherwise you end up staring down the barrel of a gun.

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.

just the facts ma'am

The woman with the tiny hands turned to me and said:

I told my daughter bunnies and eggs came from England.

This doesn't rate up there with the daftest question I have ever heard (the prize for that goes to the Swedish person who asked Miguel: do they have potatoes in Mexico?) but it does give me the chance to lecture.

Mexico is a Catholic country, very Catholic. Recently a friend of mine revealed that his girlfriend is a Christian. This caused gasps of horror, people crossing themselves, and him being shunned for the rest of the evening. Now, to my understanding, Catholicism is just a branch of Christianity, a branch that believes in virgin births and transubstantiation. But here it is a whole different understanding. Christians are to be pitied and avoided. Christians are the people who come knock on your door. Christians are the people who try to convert you to...well, to believing in Christ. But, to this outsider, in Mexico Catholicism is based around the Virgin, the big J was just an after thought to the whole story. I call Maria, Maria because it's her name. Unfortunately it is also the name of 80% of the women in Mexico (and, to be honest I might be lying about that statistic, it is probably closer to 90%).  Everyone else calls Maria, Rocio - her middle name -  and that's pretty much the norm for all women in Mexico (or at least 80%+), they use their middle name.

However, come Easter you start to realise that this is a Catholic country.

Maundy Thursday the whole country shut down. Seriously, everything closed. And they have stayed closed for Friday, Saturday and Sunday. No-one is working. But they aren't partying (yet). Most people are going to church and then staying at home. Maria, who isn't the religious type, looks at me slightly bemused when I question this.

It's a man's death - why would you celebrate?

And she's right. If a whole country believes in the death and resurrection then for the Thursday, Friday, and Saturday there really is nothing to celebrate. Come Sunday, of course, it's time to party-on-down. Lent is over, fasting is over. The majority of Mexicans will go to mass in the morning and then ALL Mexicans will eat! Food! No chocolates, no hot cross buns, food - mainly meat because, let's face it, they have been depriving themselves of meat for over 24 hours (which is a lifetime to most taco eating Mexicans).

I've mentioned hot cross buns to Maria. Hot cross buns are luvverly. Slice them in half, lightly toast them under the grill, butter them - wonderful. Hell, they are even luvverly cold. But, every time I mention them she shakes her head in wonderment. At first I thought it was because they have raisins in them - and you really don't want to mention raisins in a conversation with Maria - but then it turned out it was the fact they have a cross on them. And that leads to the Bill Hicks quote:
A lot of Christians wear crosses around their necks. You think when Jesus comes back he ever wants to see a fucking cross? It's like going up to Jackie Onassis wearing a rifle pendant.
But, in the long run, Christians have elected to choose the instrument of their saviour's death as the unifying symbol - how can we complain? So, it isn't too difficult to explain hot cross buns.

Bunnies and eggs becomes a little harder. It becomes a little harder when you have to explain to people that most (all) of the dates on the Christian calendar are arbitrary. Take the fact that's it's 2008. If the baby jee was born in Bethlehem because of a census, well that census was in 5 B.C. not 1 B.C./A.D. You see, the church made the dates up. (Try explaining this to a woman with tiny hands whose English is better than my Spanish, but isn't great). On the pagan calendar there were two really big parties - one of them was in the winter - a chance to party-on-down when it was cold, wet and miserable - the other was in Spring - when it was time to throw off all your clothes and get some pro-creating done! When the church decided to sell Christianity to the masses, they needed to convince people that they could still celebrate. So they went for: baby jee born in winter; grown-up J born again in Spring. And that's why bunnies and eggs at Easter. They are fertility symbols. Breed like a rabbit!

But why chocolate? asks my tiny handed inquisitor. This one is the tough one. I suppose it has a lot to do with breaking fasting. Shrove Tuesday (also known as Pancake Tuesday, AKA Fat Tuesday. AKA Mardi Gras) is the day before Ash Wednesday. Ash Wednesday is the beginning of Lent - 40 days of fast and abstinence before Easter Sunday. It is supposed to replicate the 40 days the mid-life-crisis Jee spent in the desert before his entry into Jerusalem. The day before you go into fasting mode, Tuesday, the idea is to eat everything in the larder. For some reason that means pancakes. The only thinking I can come up with for chocolate is that, now the fast is over you can indulge. And what is more indulgent than Ferrero Rocher?

Anyhoo, that's as good an explanation as I can give. If you can do it better, feel free. Oh, and if you are going to rise to the challenge can I ask you to also explain one other thing that has always puzzled me:
Why do chocolate eggs taste so much better than a bar of the same chocolate?
Either way. Enjoy your Easter break and (just to annoy Blue Witch) don't forget there are only 276 shopping days until Christmas.

good will writing

A couple of years ago I wrote this blog post about a night in a bar on the 16th of September. What made this night special is that 16th September is Independence Day. I wrote that post two years ago and promptly forgot about it - the post that is. I haven't forgotten the evening nor the sentiments it invoked. Oddly enough, well odd to me, someone hasn't forgotten the post. In fact, it now turns out, this someone has been regularly the post to people up and down Mexico. He loves this post.

He's also a good friend, Efraín. We have spent many nights drinking and telling stories. Now, none of you have ever met me in real life, so you have never had to actually sit through me telling you a story (lucky you). But it appears that I am a good story teller. I tend to be an active story teller, I am passionate as I speak, I am engaging. Efraín loves watching me tell my stories.

Under normal circumstances these two facts wouldn't lead anywhere but these are not normal circumstances. Efraín is a qualified engineer who works very hard (and successfully) at his job. He has now reached a point where he is so successful that he can satisfy his one major desire - to make films. He is attending night school where he is studying a course in film direction and he is, already, writing/directing/producing short films.

He wants to make a short film about my blog post.

At the moment it is still in the negotiating state. He has his ideas, I have mine. I think that it is mainly going to be a "talking head" type of film, with me sat at a table telling the story. However, it will also include cuts (ooo, get me with my movie-talk) that will include me re-enacting events of the night as I tell the story - yep, there will be two of me on the screen at the same time...or not,it depends on how he wants to do the whole thing.

Anyhoo, all films start with a script. And that is where I come in. Before the project goes any further (into the storyboard section for those of you who are enjoying this slight brush with the bizzness) I have to sit down and write a script. Which I've done. Obviously, there is a good chance that this will go nowhere. So, rather than have my script hanging around in limbo I've decided to publish and be damned!

For your reading pleasure:  Download script_for_a_short.doc