I've found my home

can't sleep

That wasn't our car alarm.

I know.

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

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

What gunshots?

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

There wasn't any gunshots.

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

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

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

No.

You were asleep weren't you.

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

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

I was asleep wasn't I?

You were asleep. Now, go back to sleep.

I can't.

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

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

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

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

Goodnight Will.

tell me why I don't like w*dnesd*ys

[I have just sat down at the keyboard, intending to write a post. My mind was settled on an idea, it was going to be a good post (honest). On the way to the computer I happened to pass Maria. I don't walk past Maria! I stopped and kissed her. We kissed. In the background Radio 4 (BBC) was playing. Radio 4 informed us, as we were kissing, that certain French kings were "well known because of their body odour". There are certain things that can kill a moment. There is nothing romantic about kissing your lover while a woman (with a BBC accent) informs you about the bathing habits of 17th Century people. I still want to write the post I sat down to do but my mind has moved to a joke:
A customs officer is inspecting a French woman's luggage. Inside he finds 7 sets of underwear. The French woman points out that she changes her underwear every day. Seven sets of underwear, seven days. The next person is an Italian woman. She only possesses five sets of underwear. When asked why she replies.: "One for each day of the week - and I wear no underwear at the weekend!" In the next suitcase, that he inspects, he finds only four sets of underwear. He enquires, of the English woman, why she only has four sets of underwear and is informed: "Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter!"
Sorry.]

In The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Arthur Dent, as the planet Earth is destroyed, comments: "It must be a Thursday. I've never got the hang of Thursdays." For me it's W*dnesd*ys. Long time readers (both of you) will know why the vowels in W*dn*sd*y are blanked off (it has to do with a certain football team in Sheffield). One person knows why the "e" was allowed back into the word. But, the truth is, "I have never got the hang of W*dnesd*ys", and it has nothing to do with football teams. I am going to assume that you all have a list, in your mind, of your favourite days of the week. This means that (think about it) you also have a list of the days of the week that are your least favourite. In my case I hate W*dnesd*ys. They just never go right for me. Mondays are just Mondays. Tuesdays and Thursdays are a bit crap but only because they aren't Fridays. Saturdays are my favourite day. Not too keen on Sundays because of the threat of the next day. And I still have to work on a Friday. But W*dnesd*ys suck!

And then there was today - W*dnesd*y - which was fucking brilliant!

On Tuesday we went across the border. According to my sexy new phone (turn green (s)wine) I walked over 15000 paces, 19km (there was a visit to IKEA involved). As I went to sleep, my feet were throbbing, I was tired. I slept really, really well.

I woke, well rested. I kissed Maria, I held Maria. I went out, on to the balcony, for the first cigarette of the morning. I hadn't checked my lemon seeds for over 24 hours. There were 5 (five!) shoots. Three more than the last time I checked them! I was so excited that I decided to check my avocado pit. As I picked it up, by one of the cocktail sticks stuck in it, it fell in half. I killed my avocado! It was then that I realised it was W*dnesd*y and it was probably all downhill from here on in.

Do you know that moment when you teach a killer lesson? Ok, so maybe only a couple of readers know that moment - but it is that moment when everything goes fantastically right. You want to bottle it. You want to know why it doesn't work like that every time. All your aims and objectives are surpassed, all the kids "get it", you throw in a couple of extra things. At the end of the lesson, when you fill in your notes, you just write: "Brilliant!". From that lesson I went to a rehearsal. The rehearsal (at least my parts) flowed perfectly. So perfectly that there was actual applause from kids, from colleagues. But that wasn't the best bit.

Kindergarten is a separate section to the school, I don't really come into contact with the children in Kindergarten that often. When I do I am normally being LOUD. At the sports day (Olympics), at the special assemblies, I am normally playing a role, being loud. There is a girl in Kindergarten who cries whenever she has to pass into the elementary part of the school. And the reason she cries? Me. She is frightened of me. Monday and Tuesday I have tried to "bond" with this child. Monday there was still floods of tears. Tuesday was a bit more settled. And then today. Today there was no tears. Today I actually talked to her and she talked to me - not a long, deep conversation, I said "Hello" she said "hello". But we talked without tears. And it meant everything to me!

I taught another lesson - and it was brilliant. Who'd have thought that a lesson on "double bar charts" could go so well? After the lesson I spent the rest of the day involved in politics. But they were politics that went well, without any problems.

At home, Maria had built the furniture bought at IKEA and it is great. It fits perfectly. It makes the house more of a home. She has worked on the house all day and it would be a shame to eat, to cause washing up, to do anything else that would mean tomorrow there would be something to clean up. So, we are off out. We'll eat. We'll come home. We'll flop in front of the tele and eat ice cream (did I mention I'd found some fantastic dairy-free ice cream?). We'll go to bed.

Has there ever been a better day? And it's a W*dnesd*y. How much better does life get?

the kiss of death

[This isn't really about football, so you don't have to panic. Just skim read the first paragraph.]

Incident One

It's been building since Sunday. The excitement. The tension. We haven't said anything to each other because we didn't want to jinx it, but it has hovered between us, unspoken. Maria has supported the mighty Santos Laguna all her life, and all her life has been filled with disappointment after disappointment. Oh, there was 1996 and 2001, when they actually won the Championship, but, on the whole it hasn't been great fun to be a mighty Santos follower. They finished 2006 with the threat of relegation. And then I appeared on the scene! Suddenly their fortunes have changed. I have supported a team that wins - wins big and wins often. When we watch matches together, there are two totally different supporters in the room. One (Maria) is full of doom and gloom, waiting for the inevitable collapse, the crushing heartache. The other (me) is full of optimism, waiting for the equaliser, the hat-trick, the annihilation of the opposition. On Sunday the mighty Santos, 92 minutes into a 90 minute game (go figure) managed to squeeze into the finals [and yes, by that point, one person was crying into her pillow waiting the inevitable defeat, one person was sat on the edge of his seat waiting for the inevitable victory].

So, we haven't talked about the football. Thursday night (the first game in a two leg series) has been hanging over us.

We got back home, from work, at about 3pm. The match kicked off at 6pm. Neither of us said anything about the game, it was just there, hanging between us. We talked about inconsequential things. By 5:30pm I was sat at the computer, wasting time, and Maria wandered into the television room, to put on the pre-game show.

Maria: Will, come here.

Me: Ummm. [not moving]. There's a problem?

Maria: Will, come here!

Me: What? [not moving] Is the game not on?

Maria: WILL! COME HERE!!

I move, fast! This sounds like a cockroach problem. I should have been more sensitive in my listening!!

Me: What? Where? I'll get it!!

Maria: Look.

Me: Where?

Maria: There.

Me: WHERE?

Maria: At the tv.

Me: WHAT?? There is nothing on the tele. I can't see the cockroach!!

Maria: What cockroach?

Me: Well, what the hell have you called me in here for?

Maria: To look at the tv! LOOK AT THE TV!!

Me: There's nothing to see on the television. There's nothing to se....oh!

Maria: YES! OH!! There's no picture on the tv!

Me: What have you done?

Maria: I don't know. I do know. I'm sorry. It's me. I've killed the television.

Me: What? Why? What? No, let's go with: WHY?

Maria: It's me. I have the kiss of death. I killed the television. I noticed it this morning. It was on but there was no picture. I switched it off. Switched it on. There was a picture. Switched it off. Switched it on again, just now. There is no picture. I've killed the television!

Me: No. It's fine. Just switch it off. Switch it back on. It'll be fine.

Maria: It won't. [switches the tele off and on again - there is still no picture] I took the wrong television.

Me: What?

Maria: Four years ago I killed this television. It imploded. My ex went at it with a soldering iron, fixed it, and announced that it would last another two years. That was four years ago. When I left him I took the wrong television. I should have taken the new one. But it weighed 80kg. When you are running away it is probably not a good idea to run with an 80kg television.

Me: But the match! The match!?! What are we going to do about the match????

Maria: No. This is worse. IT is back.

Me: What's back?

Maria: The Kiss of Death. I have the kiss of death. I've killed the television. Oh god, oh god, oh god. What will be next?

Incident Two

The next day. [For those of you keeping tabs - the mighty Santos won the game 2-1. The second match is on Sunday. There is a whole different story about how we got to watch the second half of the game but I'm not telling it now.] I'm in the middle of a rehearsal, arguing with the dance teacher. She wants the actors to start their dance laying on the floor. There is no logical reason for this to happen. I have no idea how to get the actors from a standing position, into a prone position, to leap to their feet, back into a standing position. It makes no sense. Unfortunately  the dance teacher speaks no English and the (little) Spanish I speak means that I can: order beer and tacos: ask after a person's health: inform someone that their mother is a whore and I know this for a fact because I slept with her last night, me and thirty other men - oh, and she wasn't that good in bed either, well, not as good as the person's sister, whom I had had the pleasure of taking the night before! I'm not sure that any of these conversational gambits will be of much use (although the third one would give me a certain amount of stress relief), when my phone vibrates in my pocket.

Text from Maria: I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I have the kiss of death!

Text to Maria: What's happened?

Text from Maria: I killed the iron.

Text to Maria: Are you ok?

Text from Maria: No. I've got the kiss of death. What else will go wrong?

Text to Maria: Stay away from the microwave.

speed blogging VI

[deep breath] I haven't done one of these for over a year, but I just don't have time to write, I'm having a life, and I realise that I've posted recently, but stuff has happened, and I want to mention it before I forget, and (let's face it) the day that Alan is a more prolific blogger than you then you're doing something wrong, and I've got a couple of minutes, so I thought I'd throw out a couple of ideas, it's not much of a blog post, but, hey, it's something for you to read. [and relax]

Sunday

Got up early, we needed to cross the border because we were going to see the Indiana Jones film. Got straight across the border in under five minutes. Which meant that we were in the States at 8am with nothing open.  Went to Mission Valley and sat in Ruby's Diner. Ate a stack of pancakes and kept refilling a diet coke for a couple of hours, then hit the shops.

I don't know if it is because I am old, or because I hate spending money on me - but $150 dollars for a pair of trainers seemed a bit steep to me. No matter that they are sex on a stick, no matter that my knees are giving me a hard time, no matter that I look damn cool in them - they were $150!! However, I lost the argument, Maria got them for me, and I sat outside the shop and put them on! This was a good idea because by the end of the day I had (according to my funky new phone) walked 9.8km.

We went from shop to shop, moved to another mall (Chula Vista small world), and by 2pm I was weighed down with bags. I was the proud owner of (working up my body): a pair of trainers; three pairs of socks; two pairs of jeans; a pair of trousers; six pairs of underpants; two t-shirts; one shirt; and a hat. The hat is brilliant! Actually, everything is brilliant, but I really like my hat!! The only thing I didn't have was money in my wallet. We couldn't go to see the film!

Back across the border in time to see the mighty Santos play in the semi-finals. 0-0 at half time. The Monterrey goalkeeper was having an amazing game (bastard!). Ten minutes into the second half, Monterrey scored. Thirty minutes into the second half, they scored again. In theory it was all over. Maria was sat, head in pillow, crying. And then, with only five minutes left, the god-like Vuoso pulled a goal back. Could they score another in the last five minutes?....No! But the referee (who had an awful game) signalled an extra five minutes of play. Three minutes in and Arce (a player I loathed with a passion) smacks the ball in the back of the net! All over 2-2. And because we had a higher league position, the mighty Santos Laguna rolled on towards the final!! There was much singing and dancing in our house that night!

Monday

I really don't want to write about work. Suffice to say, it wasn't a great day. Don't get me wrong - students were fine, lessons went well. However, there are days that I would enjoy so much more if some of my colleagues either (a) didn't turn up for work or (2) tried thinking as a new hobby.

Maria picked me up from school. Back home to change (all new clothes and a great hat). Over the border in under three minutes. Ignored all the shops and went to the cinema to see Indiana Jones - at last. Great film and good fun. We tried to go shopping again - this time for trainers and jeans for Maria - but, somehow, that shopping magic had left us. We couldn't find anything that appealed. Ended up in the Outback restaurant (again), and, yes (s)wine, Bukowski was right, every five minutes the waiter asked how we were doing!

Tuesday

I really don't want to write about work. Suffice to say, it wasn't a great day. Don't get me wrong - students were fine, lessons went well. However, there are days that I would enjoy so much more if some of my colleagues either (a) didn't turn up for work or (2) tried thinking as a new hobby.

After Maria picked me up from work we went to Costco. Back home I got a bit snappy with Maria. I was tired. It had been a long (annoying/frustrating) day at work, it has been an action packed five (or so) days, and I was grumpy. I didn't realise I was grumpy, but I was grumpy. It was time for a power-nap! Forty minutes with my eyes shut and everything is alright with the world.

Out on the balcony I have new lemon trees seedlings appearing through my pot of soil. At the moment I can count three!! (which, considering I planted 12 pips, I can't work out is a good ratio or not - or maybe there are more to come). My avocado seed is splitting, so that looks like it is also growing - yay me!

And I suppose I should spend some time on the t'internet - reading blogs, posting comments, writing emails. Except, I was grumpy with Maria earlier, so I'll go and sit with her instead. Bye!

procrastinate NOW!!!

Eight weeks ago Maria mentioned that I needed a haircut. I disagreed.

Six weeks ago Maria mentioned that I needed a haircut. A part of me agreed with her but a part of me disagreed. I have this thing about barbers - mainly, the fact that I still call them barbers should be the biggest clue. Until the age of 12 I wore a cap to (and from) school as part of my school uniform. The rules for length of hair were fairly strict - it had to be off your ears, off your collar. I suppose the rule for length of hair was: hair should have no length. However, once I entered my final year, we no longer had to wear caps - it was a privilege! Along side this privilege was also the fact that our hair could cover our ears and approach our collars. From the age of twelve to sixteen I only had a haircut three times a year. From sixteen to eighteen this event was reduced to once a year. All of the haircuts I had were paid for by my mother. At the age of nineteen I went for a haircut and it cost me 90p ($1.60). 90p!! I was horrified. 90p meant that, with a 10p tip, a haircut cost me a whole English pound sterling. I realised that the next time I had a haircut it would cost me over a pound. Over a pound for just getting a haircut! Had the world gone mad??? So, I did what any sensible person would do - I stopped visiting the barber!

Now, as much as this made sense to me, I was a student for four years - no money for frivolities like haircuts or food - I was a teacher on the Burnham Scale - which meant I started on a salary of 4200 of your English pounds sterling and thus had no money for frivolities like haircuts or clothes - it did mean that my hair got a bit long.

Eventually I succumbed and got my hair cut. However, I didn't visit a barbershop, mainly because they no longer existed. I also couldn't visit a hairdressers because, well because have you seen the exorbitant prices they charge at those places?  And (horror or horrors), I have heard rumours that they actually wash your hair? Why would a grown man pay to have his hair washed? It made no sense to me. No, I got my haircut by a friend of a friend who, instead of accepting pictures of the Queen printed on coloured paper, happily walked out of the house with cans of food, with pictures of a cat on them. This was a method of payment I could understand. A haircut for six cans of cat food - made perfect sense to me! And so I kept my hair at a sensible length. (Well, I thought it was a sensible length but I also thought that was a sensible moustache!)

Eventually I got old and the time came to stop with the long hair. But I never went to a hair salon!

And suddenly, I realise that this is not what I am supposed to be blogging about. I am not supposed to be writing about haircuts from the 80s. I am supposed to be writing about procrastinating. Enough of this drivel - on with the blog post!!

It is now eight weeks since Maria mentioned that I needed a haircut - and I still haven't had one.

On the 10th of March I wrote a post saying that I was going to take my driving test - I still haven't.

Two hours ago I started this post (the one you are reading), informing Maria that I would just be a couple of minutes. It is now two hours later.

I'm pretty sure that I had a point to make but I seem to have drifted off. I should stop now. Hit publish. Go and do something constructive. I should stop procrastinating. And I will. Tomorrow I will stop procrastinating. I will stop putting off all those things that I said I would do, those things I should do. Tomorrow I will be Action Will. I will be decisive. I will be a man who gets things done. I will start tomorrow!

For now, I think I'll just go lie in front of the tele. You know, get the last bits of procrastination out of my system. But tomorrow I'll be a totally different person. Of course, you won't know about this change because there is no way I will have time in my busy schedule to sit down and write posts. Oh no. A man of action doesn't have time to sit at a keyboard, he is out doing things.

So, I suppose I should say goodbye.

Or maybe...maybe, maybe men of action write blog posts? Maybe men of action set targets like: I will write a blog post tomorrow! Actually, they probably say: I will write a blog post now! Damn! I'm all confused. Didn't I say, about twenty lines ago, I was going to hit publish? That's what I'll do! I'll prove I'm all action by hitting publi

toys for the boys

Gotta new phone! Gotta new phone! Gotta new phone!

Yes, I know that I'm not really a phone-guy. This has been made patently obvious to me as I have transferred all my contacts from my old phone to my new phone - yes, I had to transfer them because I hadn't worked out how to put the numbers on my SIM card, so when that got moved, my numbers didn't. However, I am a music-guy. I was assured that this was the top-of-the-range-music phone. It even came with little speakers!! Two days later I have loaded up 376 songs and I am ready!

That is not all though. I have also discovered the delights and joys of adding special stuff to my contacts. I realise that this isn't new to you (and you) but it is to me. I have been allotting different ringtones to different people. Worse, I have been changing the ringtones every hour (or so). This is daft! I have had the phone now for two+ days and the only person who has phoned me (so far) is Maria. Not that I've answered the phone when she has rung. I've just been listening to the ringtone! I am this sad.

Sad - yes. But I have a sexy phone! And it plays music!! And I can change tracks just by shaking it!!!

[Oh, it also has a pedometer. I now know that on Friday I walked 4.4km, Saturday 1.3km, Sunday 3km, and today I have managed a whole 0.4km. OK, that just probably proves how sad I am.]

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.

I'm a little bit jaded

Maria is asleep in the television room. The kids are lying around watching cartoons in Spanish. Everyone is tired. It is amazing how four hours of being sociable can really take it out of you.

In theory, four hours spent at a friend's house, surrounded by friends, a huge paella cooking on the chimera, sitting in the sun, drinking beers, chatting, no work today, no work tomorrow - well, it should be very relaxing. Substitute the words friend's/friends in the previous sentence for colleague's/colleagues and it all becomes a different ballgame, an afternoon of stepping over landmines. Agreeing about school politics, disagreeing about school policies, agreeing that that person is the best, agreeing that that person is the worst. The afternoon becomes one mad desire to get out of the place alive. To not upset anyone. To not do anything that will be talked about for the next four years. Believe me, these people can be extremely bitchy behind your back. I know, mainly because they were incredibly bitchy about one person until (surprise, surprise) that person turned up and suddenly it was all sweetness and light.

However we are home. Shattered, a bit down, but home. We left early (we left first) so there will probably have been some talk about us once we had gone. But it can't be any worse than if we had stayed. I'm not sure how much longer either I or Maria could have continued to smile politely.

So, it is done and our long weekend can continue. I am not going to Disney tomorrow as my passport still hasn't arrived back from Mexico City. This, in the light of today's events, could be a bonus. A day in bed is calling. Maybe two days in bed if we are lucky!

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 :^)