I've found my home

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 :^)

do you validate?

My passport expires in July, which means it is time to renew it NOW! According to all the information I could find on the t'internet, the only possible way to do this was by posting my passport to Mexico City. This I was not too confident about doing. Apart from my fear of the Mexican postal service, there was also the ominous "ten working days plus two weeks" to process it. Being in a foreign country without any particular means of identification is a bit scary.

We'd heard stories how it was easier to get a Mexican passport in San Diego than in Mexico. You just drive across the border, go to the Mexican Embassy, and they process your passport in a couple of hours. Genius! So, all we had to do was find the British Consulate in San Diego - if they had one. The t'internet provided us with a phone number. I phoned. The number doesn't exist. The yellow pages provided us with another phone number. I phoned. That number doesn't exist either - except for a recorded message telling me another number. I phoned that to be told (via recorded message) that the consulate doesn't do passports. It also doesn't do visas. In fact, if you listen long enough, the recorded message tells you that they don't do anything. Unless you've been arrested, in which case they can get you the name of a lawyer.

It was time to try the British Consulate in Tijuana.

Now, we have contacted the Consulate, here in Tijuana, before, by phone. We decided that this time we would pay a visit. We wrote down the address and set off. We couldn't find it. There are sign posts all over Tijuana to the American Consulate, we have never seen a sign for the British Consulate but we were expecting at least a flag, at least a presence. We drove round and round. Nothing.

Eventually we pulled over and Maria phoned the Consulate. Now, I know what you are thinking - why didn't you phone Will? Well, because the last time we phoned there wasn't anyone there that spoke English. And, true to form, there still wasn't. We got directions to a small mall, that we had driven past twice that day (and several times a week, every week, in the last two years). It's a mall we never visit. There is a soup/salad place, there is a habit-MEX store, and there are seven other locations - all empty and available to rent. It is also has the most expensive parking in Tijuana.

We entered the lot and parked. Wandered around the place looking for signs of the British Consulate. There was nothing to see except a small fountain in the corner. Two days after 9/11 the American Marines sealed off the road the American Embassy is on, in Tijuana. Engineers then built road blocks at either end of the street, denying access to the street. This they did without any permission. They wanted to protect their embassy. The British have gone for the other option - they have made their Consulate invisible. Behind the fountain, in the far corner of the mall, is the British Consulate. We found it!

Of course, finding it and getting in were to be two totally different things. There was one person inside the Consulate. He shouted at us through the window (in Spanish - he didn't speak English) that he couldn't let us in because everyone had gone to lunch and they wouldn't be back for an hour. We looked at our watches - it was  3:15pm. He then changed his mind. Everyone was on a course or something, they would be back in an hour. She came back in 45 minutes. She had enjoyed her lunch.

She was very helpful - and I know that I should be more specific about this person but, she doesn't have a title other than "a secretary". And no, she is isn't THE secretary, she's  A secretary. Anyhoo, she was helpful. I can give them my passport and they will deliver it to Mexico City and get it back in two weeks - which is nice. She answered all my questions (she spoke English - a rarity in the British Consulate) including the one that went: Do you validate?

Yes. You're English!

Still had to pay 30 pesos to get the car out the parking lot though!

I'm rich! I'm rich!

There was I, wondering what to do with my life, how I was going to afford the repairs to the car, how I was going to fill Maria's closet with shoes, how I was going to be able to seriously challenge the world record for the greatest amount of marshmallows in your mouth at once. I needed money! (Marshmallows don't grow on trees, you know? - or do they? I'm not sure about where they come from, maybe they are really tiny marsupials.) And lo and behold, guess what drops into my inbox? Yes, an email from Mr.Mr. William Woods (who must have had odd parents - I mean, would you name your son Mr.?) Anyhoo, as this is possibly the last ever blog post I write, considering I will be spending the rest of my life jetting around the world, lying on beaches watching Maria in a bikini sipping at drinks with umbrellas, stuffing my face with marsupials, I thought I would tell you how this complete life change came about. I'd like to share the email from Mr.Mr. William Woods.

Hello,

[I know, a bit informal, I was a bit shocked that someone I didn't know would just start with a straight out "Hello". I was tempted to delete it straight away - but, fortunately I read on.]

I humbly crave your indulgence in sending you this mail, if the contents do not meet with your personal and business ethics, I apologize in advance. This is by virtue of its nature as being utterly "CONFIDENTIAL". Though I know that a transaction of this magnitude will make any one apprehensive and worried, I am assuring you that all will be well at the end of the day.

[He humbly craves my indulgence - I think I might be in love. And he apologises immediately - he could be English! Oh, hang on, there is a "z" in his "apologize". However he is (apart from being American) well-mannered and cultured. Although I'm not sure I totally understand the sentence "This is by virtue of its nature as being utterly "CONFIDENTIAL"." I mean, I understand all the words in the sentence, I understand where he is going with the sentence but, let's be honest, his sentence structure is worse than mine. And I'm a bit worried about those inverted commas around CONFIDENTIAL. Does that mean that this isn't confidential? Is he being ironic? Or should I say, is he being "ironic"? Never mind, I shouldn't get too worried or apprehensive because all will be well at the end of the day. And that is all I need to know to meet my high personal and business ethics standards!]
 

I have decided to contact you due to the urgency of this transaction, as I have been reliably informed of your discreteness and ability in transaction of this nature. Let me start first by introducing myself properly to you.

[Oh bum! Probably telling all my readers isn't very discrete - but I can trust you (both of you) can't I? And I am impressed with his knowledge of my "ability in transaction", whatever that means.]

I am Mr.Williams Woods, of Dept of Bill and Exchange with Barclays Bank in the United Kingdom. I need your consent to handle this transaction because it entails a large amount of funds (₤6.4 Million GBP) deposited by a deceased customer in our bank who died long time ago but has an open beneficiary mandate on his file though, there has not been anyone from his family to make claim of this funds.

[Hang on, he is from the United Kingdom. Then why is his spell checker stuck on English (U.S.) rather than English (fucking ENGLISH) like mine is? And seriously, how high up is he in the banking trade if he needs my consent? However, I am intrigued about ₤. I have never met this number before. Is it the mathematical symbol for squillion? The other thing worrying me is why isn't Mr. Mr. William Woods contacting people from this bloke's family? Oh well, onward and upward.]

THE PROPOSITION:

[That just sounds sexy.]

I wish to know if we can work together. I would like you to stand as next of kin to my deceased client, who was among the people that lost their life in Kenya air crash in 2003, with the wife, children and entire generation.

[2003? 2003? I thought he "died a long time ago"? And an entire generation? Is he implying that he had his wife, children, parents, brothers, sisters, in-laws, anyone who ever knew him on that plane? That was a bit unfortunate - I'm using the word "bit" here in a totally different way to its normal use.]

He made some deposits to my bank, and died without any registered next of kin and as such the funds now have an open beneficiary mandate.

[Oh, he is implying that. Wow! Mr. Mr. William Woods' client wasn't that on the ball then was he? He had a will, he had several business transactions, he had lots of money and then he went and put his entire generation of a plane. I think this was an insurance scam.]

Click on the link and see the details because this link gives a very comprehensive picture of what I'm saying. If you are interested do let me know so that I can give you comprehensive details on what we are to do.

[Ha, ha, ha - the joke's on you. That's you, gentle reader, because I'm not stupid, I haven't put the link on here. You'd be clicking away and trying to get your hands on my squillions of GBP.]

I urgently hope to get your response.

[I have already started packing, Maria is doing something about a bikini line (whatever that means) and I have contacted The Guinness Book of Records about my world record attempt at marshmallow-face-stuffing.]

Best regards,
Mr.Mr.Williams Woods.

[Bye then. The next time you see me, dear reader, will be in the pages of "Hello". I will be the bloke with really fat cheeks with one arm around a bikini clad, drink with umbrella sipping Maria and the other arm aroundTom Cruise (gosh, he's a lot smaller in real life).]

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?

there's something wrong about weekends

During the week my alarm goes off at 6:15am every morning. Actually, it goes off at 6:05am but I have the clock in the bedroom set ten minutes fast - hey, I deal with my anal-retentivity in my way. I hold Maria for a couple of songs and then wander out on to the balcony for a cigarette. I come back in to the flat, undress and climb back into bed with Maria. At this point my body wants to go back to sleep. At this point I want to spend the rest of my life holding Maria. At this point I start the biggest argument of the day. I have to get out of bed - I don't want to get out of bed. Eventually I peel myself out of bed and stagger to the shower. But, the only reason I do this is because I know that at the weekend I can stay in bed.

At the weekend the alarm doesn't go off. I wake up at 6:40ish. I roll over and go to sleep. I wake up at 7:40ish, try not to wake Maria up, sneak out of bed, go for a cigarette, come back to bed. But, can I go back to sleep? NO!

Every morning, during the week, I stand in the shower, and it is glorious. The water pounds down on me. I slowly turn the cold tap off, increasing the temperature. I shampoo, I shave, I wash and then I just stand there. Letting the water run down over my body. At this point I start the second biggest argument of the day. I have to get out of the shower - I don't want to get out of the shower. Eventually I turn off the taps, pull back the curtain and dry myself, before stepping out of the shower and facing the rest of the day. But, the only reason I do this is because I know that at the weekend I can stay in the shower.

At the weekend I get into the shower some time after nine. At this hour of the day everyone else is also up - I mean everyone else in TJ. This means that somewhere, in a city of nearly two million people, there are taps that are turned on, people are using water. The water pressure is low. True, water still comes out of the shower head strong enough that I don't have to glue myself to the wall, but it isn't the same. I stand around in the shower trying to get that feeling I have during the week. That desire to stay in the shower forever. It never comes. Do I stay in the shower any longer? NO!

There is a moment on Friday, as I climb into bed and turn the alarm off, that I hesitate. There is a moment on Saturday night, as I climb into bed, I wonder about turning the alarm on. What if I left the alarm on to ring on Saturday morning? What if I set the alarm to go off on a Sunday morning? I could get out of bed and then climb back into bed - have that wonderful moment when I win the argument, I CAN stay in bed forever. What if I go for a shower at 6:40am on a Sunday? A long, hot shower with the water raining down upon me? Should I turn the alarm on?

Of course I don't. The idea of weekends is that you lie around in bed until you want to get up. The idea is not to be woken up but to wake up naturally. But sometimes, just sometimes, I toy with the idea of getting up early at the weekends. That is so wrong!

just because you're paranoid doesn't mean that they're not out to get you

She's filling out a form in Costco. As usual, we'd been ignored after paying for the cigarettes at the checkout - you have to go to a caged area and hang around until someone bothers to see you, come over, enter the cage, get your cigarettes. As usual the people who are supposed to get the cigarettes were busy flirting with each other. And then Ramon popped up. He'd been helping someone grind their coffee (not a euphemism), noticed our pathetic attempts to be served, come over and got our cigarettes. It wasn't his job (he actually did the whole procedure incorrectly - forgetting to sign and stamp the receipt) but he did it willingly. It was a nice act that needed to be rewarded. So, she's filling out a form to make sure that Ramon's effort is recorded.

She's got her backpack slung over her shoulder. She's brought her backpack into Costco because she likes to prove a point. I'm checking out her ass as she bends over the table to complete the form. I then realise that, maybe, I shouldn't be checking out her ass and so I let my eyes wander over her backpack instead.

Me: Errr, this spider. Is it deadly?

I ask in fake seriousness. There is a yellow-ey, green spider crawling up her backpack. I lift the bag from her shoulders and turn it round to show her the spider. She continues to concentrate on the form, determined to make sure that Ramon gets his thanks and the flirty-bastards get their comeuppance. She glances at the backpack and then goes back to writing her three page dissertation on how flirty-bastards are annoying and how Ramon is wonderful.

Her: Not deadly, no. It will cause your arm to fall off though.

I'm in the middle of trying to knock the spider off the backpack. I've pulled the sleeve of my jacket down, over my hand, because there is no way on god's green earth that I am voluntarily touching a spider with my flesh.

Me: Yeah, right.
Her: Hmmmm. A friend of mine once got bitten just below the elbow by a spider like that. Parent's rushed her to hospital. By the time she got there she'd lost all feeling down to her fingertips and it was spreading up and past her shoulder. Do you think I can actually mention that they were flirting or should I just say they were ignorant mother-fuckers?
Me: SHE LOST HER ARM?
Her: What? Oh, no - they managed to save it. Why?

The why was fairly obvious to me now! I'd knocked the spider off the backpack but I'd lost it. I couldn't find it on the floor, couldn't see it on the backpack, was starting to panic that it was on my jacket.

Her: What are you doing? It is rather distracting.

I was now waving my arm around like a mad-wavey-arm-type person who had just entered the most wavey arm in the world competition with the intention to win. Where was the fucking spider? Why wasn't Maria more concerned? How long was it going to take us to get to hospital?

Me: Stop writing the essay. Start looking for the spider. I'm going to lose an arm!!!!
Her: Oh calm down. I need to write this, Ramon needs to get a bonus. Anyhoo, it is only a problem if it bites you and it won't bite you because it is on the backpack.
Me: It's not on the backpack - it's on my fucking sleeve. It might be up my fucking sleeve. I'm going to loose a fucking arm woman. HELP!!!
Her: In a minute.

I can feel the spider inside my sleeve. I can feel the spider under my shirt, crawling down my spine. I can feel the spider on the back of my knees - both of my knees. The spider has got inside my clothes and then magically split into a whole army of spiders. I can feel each individual spider at different points of my body. Each spider is positioned at a joint: my elbows; my shoulders; my knees; each and every single vertebrae; hell, I'm pretty sure that there is a spider at the root of every single hair on my head. All poised to bite. They are reared up on their hind legs, their fangs exposed, the venom dripping off their fangs. They are waiting for that signal from the mother-spider, when they will all strike, simultaneously, biting down at the exact same moment. I am going to die.

Me: NOW! FUCKING NOW!! DO SOMETHING NOW!!!
Her: Yeah, yeah, in a second. I'll just finish this.

I'm going to die! But I'm pretty sure that before I die I'm going to kill her. She's Mexican. This spider is Mexican. She should be talking to it. Convincing it to let me live. Instead she's writing a love letter to Ramon. Ramon! He probably planted the spider. That's why he was so helpful. It's a fucking conspiracy! He saw Maria, came over to help her, put the spider on her backpack to kill me. He wants Maria and he wants me dead. And she doesn't see this? She's writing a fucking reference for a mass-murdering-boyfriend-killing-bastard. Oh, she is going to be so sorry she didn't help me. She's going to be so sorry when she's at my funeral and Ramon casually appears to help console her. I don't believe in ghosts but you can bet your last penny on the fact that I'm coming back from this, after I die, and I'm going to laugh in her face. Teach her a lesson to ignore my plight.

And then I see it - the spider. It's not up my sleeve, it isn't in my underpants, it definitely isn't about to bite my balls - it's there, crawling across the floor. Die motherfucker die. I jump, I smear, I twist, I jump a bit more, I try to spread the murdering co-conspirator across a metre square. It's dead! I'm alive. I win. And Ramon, Ramon goes home tonight alone. Fuck you Ramon and your evil plan to kill Maria's boyfriend. I win.

Her: Right!

She posts the sixteen page essay with reference points and photos and links to pages in the t'internet into the "good service" box.

Her: What were you saying? Something about a spider?
Me: Yeah. The spider that could have had my arm off!
Her: I might have been wrong. It looked a bit like the one that bit my friend but, who knows, maybe it just looked like it. You know, how some spiders try to look like the deadly ones just to annoy birds, stop them from being eaten. I dunno. It was just a spider. You ok?

They didn't check her backpack on the way out. It might not be because she's with me, it might be because there is a devious plan to actually kill me using trained deadly, ninja, spider assassins and they know that they are on the backpack. But I'm on to them now. I know them. I know their plans. And I'm prepared. 

and on a happier note

Methinks that at least two of my readers can handle the HUGE amount of Spanish in this song. The rest of you (hang on - isn't two both of my readers?) will just have to hum along: