I've found my home

as we fall asleep

Could we get a hippo?

Would I be a hippo?

What?

You just said: "Would I be a hippo?"

No I didn't.

I know you didn't. But that is what it sounded like.

Damn. Did I say it out loud?

What?

I thought I'd said it in my head?

What did you say?

Could we get a hippo?

You asked if we could get a hippo?

In my head.

You said it out loud.

Didn't mean to.

And, no.

No?

No. We can't get a hippo. They need to be kept in water, otherwise their skin cracks and they open up. We couldn't have a bath big enough for the hippo in this flat. It makes no sense.

So, no hippo.

Nope.

I knew you'd say that. Which is why I didn't want to ask it out loud. Just wanted to ask it in my head.

Goodnight.

G'night...g'night non-existent hippo.

random thought

I'm trying, really trying, to write.

I love writing. I love telling stories. But I just can't seem to get the words out of my brain, down my fingers, and on to the screen.

There's this one idea that is bugging me, driving me to distraction. I think it's a good idea but I just can't run with it. There has to be a good post in the idea, there has to be a good story in the idea. But, try as I might, I can't get a decent handle on it. I can't find the way to start, can't find a middle, can't find an end. Actually, now I've written that, I've realised it might not be a good idea at all.

However, I'll give you the idea, feel free to run with it, write a comment, write a post, or just nod wisely and ignore the whole thing altogether:

Pluto.

Seriously, what was the thinking behind Pluto? And, more importantly, how screwed up must Pluto be? It isn't the fact that his owner is a mouse. That isn't the real problem facing Pluto. The main problem in Pluto's life, his grasp of reality, his sense of worth, has got to be Goofy! As if it wasn't bad enough being the only non-talking animal in a world populated by talking animals, there's a fucking talking dog!

Maybe I haven't had enough sleep yet but this is really bugging the bejaysus out of me.

as the big J didn't say

Blessed are the meek geeks, for they shall inherit the earth.

We come out of Iron Man and Maria is ranting, ranting about this, that, the other and specifically ranting about "that old bloke - you know, the one in the cave with (the gorgeous)* Robert Downey at the beginning. WTF was that all about? It was so wrong, so very wrong, so unbelievably wrong! What were they thinking?" So, I told her. I told her how, unlike most super heroes, Iron Man didn't particularly have that driving force to do good - you know, like a dead mum/dad/planet/uncle - all he had was shrapnel in his heart. What he needed was a conscience. The old man was supposed to be his Jiminy Cricket. This then led to a fifteen minute lecture on Iron Man's history, his problems with alcohol, his problems with Jim Rhodes, his problems with The Armour Wars, his problems with super hero registration, his problems with erectile dysfunction (I made the last one up - but I want Maria to associate erectile dysfunction with Robert Downey...I can be that bitter).

At the end of my fifteen minute expose on the life and times of Iron Man, Maria commented that she didn't know I read Iron Man, was such a fan. I replied, I don't, I'm not. I'm a geek.

Say it loud, say it proud: I'm a geek!

For many years this was not a good thing to be, not a title that I would wear proudly. However, as much as I hate Vista, it is probably time to thank Bill Gates for allowing people like me to come out of our closet. You see, as much as Mr. Gates was probably the person "most likely to be smacked around at school", he has become a shining knight, an answer to all those put downs that geeks receive. Obviously no-one really wants to grow up a nerd**, but geeks are a whole different breed. Geeks can be cool. Geeks can get girls. And then there is the whole Trivial Pursuit phenomenon.

At first, when Trivial Pursuit hit the market, random knowledge wasn't that important. But, somehow, Trivial Pursuit built a totally different subculture that went onto to pervade the rest of society. Don't believe me? Think back to the early 1980s. A time before pub quizzes, a time before quiz shows with million pound prizes, a time when Ann Robinson was just an annoying git (oh, hang on, she still is!). However, the point I am trying to make (yes there is one), is that knowledge is good. Knowing stuff is cool. And it isn't knowing the intellectual stuff, it is knowing the pop culture stuff.

And then, yesterday, I heard the best news ever. While surfing through 100 television channels (and there was nothing on), I landed at VH1, where they were showing a clip. 'Twas Bow Wow Wow singing "I Want Candy". For no particular reason, I announced out loud:

You know, Bow Wow Wow are made up from the backing band for Adam and the Ants. Malcolm McLaren, once he'd lost The Sex Pistols, was brought in to help Adam and the Ants. His advice to the group was to ditch their lead singer, Adam Ant. He then took all the musicians, added a 14 year old girl that he'd found in a laundrette, and thus you have Bow Wow Wow. Of course, Adam Ant also went on to become a huge star in the UK. With a new band.

At that point, I turned and looked at Maria. There was a big grin on her face. Her eyes were shining. She told me that she loved me. I asked why? Thinking it might be my incredible charm, my good looks, my sexy hat that was perched jauntily (exceedingly jauntily) on my head. No, she informed me. It was none of those things.

It's because you don't have Alzheimer's.

It appears that a knowledge of trivial facts, the ability to recall those facts, is a good sign that I don't have Alzheimer's. You see, being a geek is a good thing. All that stuff packed inside my head is what is keeping me sane! One day, I will inherit the earth.

Of course, I'm not sure that I have got my head around the fact that Maria thinks I am a candidate for Alzheimer's. Is it 'cos I is old????

*she might not have actually said the gorgeous but it was implied - or inferred. Nope, think it was implied!!

**let's be totally clear about this. There is a world of difference between geeks and nerds. I am not a nerd!

the first time timmy saw yellow

Timmy left the house clutching the penny in his hand. He loved the size of the coin, it was so much bigger than a farthing or a ha'penny. It was much bigger than a thrupence or a sixpence. It felt solid, felt good, in his hand and he was allowed to spend it all. He knew that this was because he had managed not to stare at his uncle's face or, at least, not stare at the place where half of his uncle's face should have been. He hated the Saturdays when his mum's brother came to visit. Saturdays should be spent playing in the bomb sites, playing cricket or football, getting into mischief - as his grandpa would accuse him of doing every Saturday night. But when his uncle came round he would have to sit in the front parlour, making sure that he was seen but not heard. This was almost impossible. The hessian material of the chair seat made his legs itch, he had to wear his formal Sunday shorts. The neck of his shirt tried to strangle him, he had to wear his Sunday shirt. The conversation would mumble into his ears, all he could hear was a soporific murmur. The only way he could stay awake and stop fidgeting was to stare at his uncle's face, imagining what it must be like to kill Germans.

His mum always made a fuss over her brother, he'd been away to fight in the war and come back a hero. Not like his dad who had spent the war down the pit, digging for victory. His parents would argue, his grandpa would make snide comments. His dad was proud of what he'd done, his effort in the war, but it wasn't enough for mum and grandpa. All dad had to show for his sacrifice were a few cuts and grazes, he hadn't lost half his face. When mum's brother came round, dad would head out - to the allotment and then on to the pub. Timmy would go to the pub, after his uncle had left, and shout in through the door that dad could come home. Dad wouldn't come home for another couple of hours after the all-clear had sounded. And when he did, it would mean that the arguments would start all over again. He hated the Saturdays when his mum's brother came to visit.

After tea and sandwiches and hours and hours of boring conversation, his uncle would always call Timmy over. Tell him that he had seen something behind Timmy's ear - Timmy could see everything behind his uncle's ear because there was no ear to block the view. Then the uncle would pull a shiny penny out from behind Timmy's ear and give it to him. This was the moment he was dismissed. He would look at his mum, begging her to let him go to the shops. She would review his behaviour throughout the afternoon and then decide what could be done with the coin. If Timmy had been particularly restless, or staring, then the whole coin had to go in his piggy bank. Or, through degrees that Timmy didn't understand, his mum would allow the spending of a farthing or a ha'penny or three farthings. Today he'd been especially good. Today he could spend the whole penny. Now, now he just had to find someone so that he could gloat. He hoped that the rest of the kids on the street would be around as he headed over to the corner shop. A whole penny to spend. He might even share some of the booty he was about to purchase.

[to be continued...maybe]

just a random thought

I didn't know what barbarism meant. It sounded like something to do with haircuts but that didn't sound right. The picture in the book showed the tribes with with long messy hair and the Romans with short hair or helmets so maybe barbarism was to do with haircuts.
                                                                    the Dead Fathers Club - Matt Haig

This morning, Maria read me a passage from the book she was reading. This led to one of those surreal conversations where one idea leads to another, leads to another. We were both sober, neither of us had taken any drugs (legal or not), we were both wide awake.

What if all wars were based on fashion? What if the history books have been lying to us all along? What if, deep down inside, what really, really drives people to war isn't politics, isn't expansion, isn't truth justice and the English/American/[insert name of country with a desire for global dominance] but is, in fact, a dislike of the other person's fashion sense?

Hang on, don't dismiss the idea immediately. It's Friday and you've got nothing else better to do than spend a couple of minutes listening to the ranting of...me.

Adam and Eve v god. God threw Adam and Eve out of the Garden of Eden. Yes, I know that god came up with some excuse about eating apples but (here's the kicker) what drew his attention to this fact? What really pissed him off?? It was clothing!

Romans v The World (as they knew it). Sensible haircuts, togas, short battle skirts against (well in the case of the ancient Britons) long hair, nekkidness, and painting your body blue.

England v Scotland. Englishmen wear sensible (this word has been deleted by Maria - as inflammatory and stylistically wrong [so she says]) trousers. Scots wear kilts. Think about it.

Roundheads v Cavaliers. The English Civil War might have been about democracy against monarchy but look at where they went with the names of the two sides. Cromwell led his army of neatly coiffured republicans (Roundheads) against those royalist with their floppy tresses.

Spain v Mexico. One country wore clothes the other...well they were busy sacrificing, slicing out hearts, throwing them into the mouths of gods (the statues that is) and eating the rest of the body - and as anyone knows, blood is a bitch to get out of clothes...yeah, they were nekkid! It is also quite hot there as well!

England v France. Where to begin? Let's go with the Napoleonic Wars. Napoleon wore his hat sideways. Wellington and Nelson wore their hats pointing forward. Obvious victors there!

Americans v Indians Native Americans. Yes, I know that General George Custer was known as "Longhair" but how annoyed was he with the Indians Native Americans head-dresses? The way those feathers made their hair look so wonderful. And Indians Native Americans? They, of course, would scalp their victims.

Israel v Palestine. Of course this is an argument about land. This is a war about survival. But Yasser Arafat made such a thing about his keffiyeh. He was very, very precise about the shape of it. I think this is what annoyed the Israelis the most.

Germany v The World. Now I realise that this is a very sensitive area and I have to be careful not to offend but, just for a moment...facial hair. Hitler had a silly moustache. All British people know this. You only have to slide your finger over your top lip and, lo and behold, it is a Hitler impression. And how did Germany get to a position that they could wage war with the whole world? Appeasement. Appeasement was what allowed them to rebuild from the First World War to a position of strength. Who was the foreign secretary who allowed this? Anthony Eden. Yes, the moustached Anthony Eden. It was only when Britain got a non-moustached leader (WC) that war was ON!! (Of course it would be totally tasteless to mention that the German uniforms were really sexy, so I won't.)

Italy v Anyone who wants it. Yes, I know they never win but let's get it right, they are stylish bastards. No wonder everyone really likes to invade them and kick all types of shit out of them.

America v Iraq. Forget the oil. Forget WMD. Forget everything. Focus on the fact that no person could ever become the President of the United States (in the modern era) with facial hair. Where do the Bush family come from? Texas. What country did Texas once belong to? Mexico. What are Mexicans well known for? Their moustaches! How do you impersonate Saddam Hussein? Stick on a moustache! YES! The moustache point has already been proved (see Germany v The World).

Ok, maybe I should stop there. But think about it. And if you find this post offensive is it because:
(1) it is offensive?
or
(b) because you don't like the way I dress?
I'm off for a haircut.

the unwritten list

Originally, when Maria organised this trip, it was going to be a quick in-and-out. She'd leave Friday afternoon, be back Sunday morning. She was nervous about the whole trip and, the last think she needed, to add to her worries, was me. So my activities were planned:

She'd drive me to work in the morning.
I'd get a lift back from school.
I'd enter the flat.
Lock the door.
Never leave.

Whilst in the flat I was not to shower, not to shave, not to drink to excess, not to watch "Field of Dreams" (or any other film that would make me morose - so, no "Fiddler on the Roof" either).
Ideally, I should get home, crawl into bed and not move.

These plans when slightly AWOL the minute the Governor got involved. He wanted to be present at the meeting Maria had to attend. He couldn't make Saturday, so the meeting was changed to Sunday. There are no flights out of Torreon on Monday or Tuesday, the first flight was W*dnesd*y. Suddenly it became a whole different ballgame.

I would have to drive. I had to get to work Monday, Tuesday, and W*dnesd*y.
I would have to shower. I had to go to work Monday, Tuesday, and W*dnesd*y.
I would have to shave. I had to go to work Monday, Tuesday, and W*dnesd*y.
I would have to leave the flat. I had to go to work Monday, Tuesday, and W*dnesd*y.

I promised that I would not get involved in accidents whilst driving. I wouldn't light cigarettes, answer my mobile, and drink coke whilst trying to negotiate a roundabout. I wouldn't drive like an Englishman (because I'd end up in a road-rage incident) and I wouldn't drive like a Mexican (because I can't). I wouldn't drive anywhere else other than school. There would be no popping-out to the shops. No cruising the mean streets. No drag racing. I would drive to school, I would drive home from school, I would not drive any other time!

I promised that I would not dance in the shower. Nor would I drop the soap, accidentally step on it, go arse-over-elbow, and break my neck. I would not drink the shampoo. I would not wash the soles of my feet. I would not take a football into the shower and practise my keepie-uppies.

I promised that I would only shave on Monday morning. I would use the blade that is in my razor, not put a new blade in nor use an old blunt blade. If, five minutes after shaving, I found that one area I had missed (which always happens), I would not rush back into the bathroom and attempt to shave the whole side of my face off. I would live with the irritating patch until W*dnesd*y.

I promised that I would only watch films that were positive, upbeat, included lots of violence (yeah, I see the irony), and had no connection to either my father or my children. Anything with Schwarzenegger was good, anything with father/son, father/daughter, family relationships in them was evil.

I promised that if, for any reason at all - and it had better be a fuck of a good one, I had to leave the flat to purchase anything, I would to go round the corner. No further.

Now, I realise that this set of rules sounds a bit lot like (1) I am a total idiot, incapable of being left alone and (b) Maria is a total control freak who doesn't trust me to be left alone. However, in her defence, she didn't make the rules. I did. I am a total idiot. She knows this, I know this - hell, you probably know it as well. I am also a magnet for trouble/problems. I have discovered, in my long (long) life that, if anything can go wrong, it invariably does. [However, don't get me wrong, I am an optimist. When things go wrong I normally end up saving the day with a winning smile, my good looks, and soft English hair. Also I get some great stories to tell!] I love Maria and would never cause her any pain, if possible. So, to help set her mind (partially) at ease, I made this list of rules and promised to adhere to them totally and utterly! I am a good boyfriend!

And it all went to plan! I drove to school, no problems. I drove back from school, no problems. I spent a couple of hours in the internet. I had two beers (on a Friday night). I cooked ribs and fat chips. I settled down in front of Invincible (don't watch it - it is turgid  crap). I was settled for the night.

And then the phone rang.

I left the flat just after 9pm and got back just after 2:30am.

No broken bones. No police incidents. Safe and sound. In fact, no interesting stories to tell. I had a good night, a fun night - gotta lurve people who take pity on the foreigner stuck at home all alone.

But I broke my promise. I broke my rules. I am not a good boyfriend.

Time to start all over again. I have May's lessons to plan. I have The Longest Yard and Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels to watch. I have an internet to surf. I have blogs to read. I have emails to write. I have a bed to sleep in.

Now I just have to wait to see what else can go wrong with my plans :^)

thirty minutes or free

It's one of life's imponderables - does anyone ever get their pizza for free?

Or is it because we are too polite?

When the guy on the moped sits outside your flat, honking his horn impatiently, as though it were you who was late. As you head down the stairs, mentally annoyed because you've stopped the DVD twice convinced that you've heard him honk before. When does that annoyance turn into embarrassment?

Is it because you know that he earns less than the cost of a pizza an hour and if you refuse to pay it might come out of his wages? Is it because he seems so impatient that you think it is your fault? Does it seem really petty to argue over nine minutes?

As you eat your pizza and you glance at the statement "30 minutes or free", does it make the pizza taste not as good because you know you should have it for free? Nine minutes doesn't sound like long. Nine extra minutes to wait for someone to bring food to your door really doesn't sound very long at all. Is it terrible that, as a mathematician, I know that nine minutes is 30% - being wrong by thirty percent is actually being very wrong.

Does anyone ever get their pizza for free? Or do we just not tip as much?

a week's worth of blogging

The longest week? Pain seems to make seconds stretch into minutes, minutes into hours and days into weeks. Like Jimmy Stewart in "Rear Window", I have spent hours staring into space (unlike Jimmy Stewart I haven't taken up spying on the neighbours). Incidents have happened, and each time I have thought - there's a blog post in that. But I haven't written them up because each time I sit at the computer the pain takes over and I just want to lie down again. So, for your reading pleasure, here are snippets of posts that will never be written fully:

Sat in front of a class full of ten year old Mexican children. My foot is resting on a metal chair in front of me. I move slightly and my foot slips off the chair. I yelp in anticipated pain, close my eyes and bite my lip. The classroom falls deadly silent. Every child holds their breath. And then a small voice whispers across the room: Step away from the bright light Mr. Kay. Step away from the light.

Sat in a meeting with the 6th Grade parents, discussing their children. I am talking English and it is then being translated. I pause for the next chunk to be translated and a parent interrupts and says something. The translator turns to me and informs me that the parent has just thanked me for continuing to come to work even though my leg is broken. Another parent speaks, followed by another and another. The translator doesn't repeat everything, just the odd phrase: Excellent teacher...my daughter is really motivated...very professional...wonderful...you're a clown. The rest of the parents turn and look at the last speaker and the compliments dry up. I continue my talk.

At the end of the meeting a father comes up to me. He tells me that my cast will come off in two to three weeks. He hands me his card. He tells me that he is a doctor that specialises in foot injuries - mainly football related injuries. He tells me that I must call him when the cast comes off, then I must visit him. He will check my foot and organise a series of rehab exercises. He shakes my hand and walks off.

Hiding round the back of the school, secretly trying to smoke a cigarette at the end of the day before going back to a staff meeting. Juggling cigarettes, lighter and crutches I drop my lit cigarette. Slowly, carefully I bend over, pick it up, stand up and am face to face with the mother (because she has children!) who called me a clown. I no speak English good but I want to apologise. All parents tell me I was rude. I call you a clown. I not good at Spanish either. I mean you funny. Not clown. I mean you make my daughter happy. You good person. I tell my friends you are excellent teacher. I tell all people you are excellent. You not a clown. I am sorry.

The students at school have been fantastic. My books are carried, chairs are set up for me when I arrive, discipline has been easy. Work assignments have been completed. I have toyed with keeping my leg in plaster after it has healed - teaching is dead easy at the moment. As I move from classroom to classroom I am proceeded (preceded?) by a group of boys who are doing all the lifting and carrying and trailed by a group of girls all asking what they can do to help. From below a teacher shouts up: Are you wearing Axe? (for readers in England this would be known as "the Lynx effect").

We sit in our favourite restaurant. It is the night before our anniversary. I have ordered my favourite meal. I have talked for most of the meal. She is now talking. I look at her. I am supposed to be listening to her, she has listened to me for over an hour, but the words just bounce off me. I look at her, taking her in, thinking about all she means to me. And then my vision blurs as my eyes fill with tears. She goes to the restroom and never notices.

No school tomorrow. We can lie in bed. The chance to catch up on much needed rest sleep after a very tiring week. We don't go to bed until 2am and are up and moving around the flat by 8am.

I search for Mel C. songs on youtube - I might not be a well man.

When a picture is worth a thousand words:

too much info

My mum's (and actually mine as well) favourite subject, when she was at school was history This she would tell us often. We (her caring, loving children) would tell her that it was her fave because it was so easy - she was so old that history hadn't happened! Of course this ageist-cruelty was (because god is like that) bound to catch me up. Last week I was teaching Scientific Notation to a class of ten year olds. I was asked, as I am often asked, by a kid why, they had to learn it (this is a fairly regular question in mathematics lessons) and (for once) I had an answer that satisfied (as opposed to "because I said so"): You want to learn how to use a calculator? You want to be able to deal with really, really big numbers? You want to learn how to be accurate to the tiniest degree? Then Scientific Notation is the way to go! And so I was stuck in a classroom with a bunch of ten year olds dealing with numbers that ranged from huge (quadrillions? zillons?) to tiny (24 places behind a decimal point) and I started to realise the futility and stupidity of it all. Yes, they do need to know how to write a number in Scientific Notation but they really don't understand what they are doing.  Does a ten year old really understand a number bigger than 100? Hell, I'm not really sure that I can deal with the concept of a number bigger than 100,000 - as a concept.

When I was ten I learned how to use a slide rule - it was something that I learned to do outside of school (I was a bit of a geek) - but a slide rule was only good for numbers up to three digits big and even then wasn't that accurate. Logarithmic tables were good for four digit figures but I didn't get my first calculator (and I was one of the first children in my class to get a calculator) until I was 13. It was called a "pocket calculator" but 'desktop' would have been a better description of its size. I didn't use a computer until I was 20 - that's use! The University I was at had five computers!!! I didn't own a computer until I was 22. Didn't have a phone in the house I lived in, after I left Uni, for a couple of years. I remember having to run up the street to a call box to inform the hospital that I was bringing in my wife (at the time) for the birth of our second child. Didn't get a mobile phone (brick) until I was 34, didn't have an email address until I was 38. The majority of 12 year olds I know have mobiles, email addresses, myspace pages and their own computer.

Five years after Einstein published the theory of relativity only four people (only four) in the whole world understood it. It was just so mind-bogglingly different that the world's greatest minds couldn't come to terms with it. Now, 50+ years later I can quite casually explain that the "faster you go, the fatter you get" as an explanation of the theory as relativity (the faster you go, the more places you are in time - hence the fatter you are) that a ten year old can grasp the idea.

There are days that I look at the children in my classroom and wonder. I wonder when did our brains change? When did we suddenly discover the ability to cram so much more information into our minds? My grandpa was not a stupid man but I know that he couldn't deal with the world as it is today - hell, the first time he saw a motor car it had a man walking in front of it with a red flag warning people not to jump out in front of it!

There are days when I look around my classroom with awe. I don't think that when I was ten I had enough about me to live in this world, to cope with the amount of information we throw at children today. And yet, tomorrow I will sit in a classroom and teach ten year olds about Greatest Common Factors and Lowest Common Multiples and I will do it all in English. To a class of Mexicans. And on Thursday I will test them on it.

Makes me think.

bullet point blogging

Wednesday 5th
> Maria's dad arrives.
> Go for meal in fish restaurant - have shrimp wrapped in bacon
> Walk on the beach have two photos taken

Thursday 6th
> Kids arrive to stay until Saturday
> Flat crowded and very hot
> Go to Maria's dad's photo exhibit
> Get involved in argument with photographer about what his photos represent

Friday 7th
> Maria's dad leaves
> He likes me

Saturday 8th
> Kids go back to their father's
> Don't get out of my pyjamas all day

Sunday 9th
> Stay in pyjamas all day
> Santos beat America 4-0

Monday 10th
> Work and I manage to avoid sitting in on any lessons
> Watch the beginning of Season one of Felicity
> Computer keeps switching itself off

Tuesday 11th
> Work, sit in on a lesson that starts really badly but after talking to the teacher for five minutes becomes a great success
> Am wearing a cowboy hat to put kids in cars at end of day
> Have no internet connection

Wednesday 12th
> Work, sit in on a lesson that is based around "Fruit Loops" (the cereal) - it is excellent
> The modem is a piece of shit and is replaced
> Computer a lot happier

Thursday 13th
> Work, sit in on a lesson that had so much potential but the teacher is struggling. She asks if I will teach lesson next week so that she can learn from me. Feel really good about myself.
> Maria makes meatloaf - her meatloaf really rocks!!

Friday 14th
> Start auditions for Lion King
> Go across the border and Maria buys me some Marmite
> Go out for a curry - Maria's first curry!!

Saturday 15th
> Go to San Clemente
> Eat oysters and a bucket of wings
> See "The Bourne Ultimatum"

Sunday 16th
> Two years ago Maria landed in England
> Spend three hours on computer writing emails and (finally) a blog post
> Open a beer at 12:50