I've found my home

the red sock always falls first

Every now and then I go check my stats and somewhere, down there on the right-hand side, there is a live traffic feed. It's nice to know that people come here and read my stuff. Often these visitors are regular (hello to both of you) but sometimes people pop in and out randomly. There are the Google searches - most of which are a bit scary: did I really say type that out loud? - and then there are the visitors from  the ex-pat blog.

And then it occurred to me, how much of an ex-pat blog is this any more?

Looking back through the last two months of posts (yes, I realise that means only about ten posts - I'm a very naughty boy, definitely not the messiah) there doesn't seem to have been much said about the differences between living in Mexico and living in England (and I realise there should have been a comma somwhere in that sentence but when I'm on a typing roll, I'm on a roll). It occurred to be that I was no longer a stranger in a strange land. The failure (on my behalf) to learn Spanish isn't as big a disaster as it was. Three years (almost) of living here means that I can follow most conversations and the background chatter no longer sounds totally alien any more. I am coming to know this city When Maria sets off in one direction, takes a turn, I actually know why because I know where we are going and how we are getting there. The sight of palm trees no longer amazes me. Small lizards scurrying away are no longer a reason to stand still and stare. Power cuts, buying gas, going for water are all part of the regular day-to-day business.

What I am trying to say is that...and this is where this post changes...

I started this post at the weekend. However, you might have noticed that I posted four times over the weekend, so I thought that banging out another post might not be a good idea. I thought I'd save this post for a bit later. I also wasn't too sure where it was going. I knew where it was going to end up, just not sure where it was going and how it was going to get there. It was going to end with the dramatic conclusion that, after nearly three years, I've found my home.

And I have. Nothing has happened to change that feeling. This is where my home is. Home is where the heart is. I am happy. I am in love. Everything is wonderful. But (big butt) I have been suffering (since The Lion King) from a certain amount of over-confidence and self-belief. Most of this has been aimed at my professional life but some of it has spilled over into my living life. The other day I admitted that I might actually be good looking! Along with that, I started to write a post (this post here) about how I am almost a Mexican and fully integrated. Obviously it was time for me to get kicked off my pedestal.

Monday night we got stopped by the police (you can read about it here). Mexican police scare me, scare me to death. In her post, Maria tells how I spent most of the time carrying the shopping in from the truck. This wasn't just because I am a wonderful person (ooo, get me) but mainly to do with the fact that I didn't want to hang around chatting with a Mexican policewoman. The police here scare me to death! I am not yet acclimatised.

Tuesday night I stepped out on to the balcony for a cigarette, it was about 9:30pm. As I lit up there was the sound of automatic gunfire, about three blocks over. In the four seconds of silence, that immediately follows any automatic gunfire, I stood watching the kids, who had stopped playing football in the street below. My first instinct was to run inside and hide but I noticed that they resumed their game, as if nothing had happened. For, another two seconds, I resolved to be more Mexican, I would continue to smoke my cigarette, I would carry on regardless. Fortunately Maria called from inside the flat to inform me that she had heard (or read) somewhere that bullets have been known to travel a little further than 20m. She wasn't sure if it was a fact or an urban myth. However, on the off chance that it was a fact, that a bullet, fired from a semi-automatic gun could possibly/maybe travel a little more than 20m, it might be an idea to get my cute English ass off the balcony and behind the sanctity of brick walls. With a slight sense of regret (I am not fully acclimatised to living in Tijuana) and in an orderly/controlled way, I dropped my cigarette and fled back into the flat, to hide under the bed (only pausing to agree that my ass is kinda cute - going to have to do something about this over confidence thing, it just isn't becoming of me).

W*dnesd*y night/Thursday morning. We were going to bed after a Mad Men marathon, it was 1:40am. As I wandered round the flat, being my dad, switching everything off, checking the locks on the doors, I asked Maria if she remembered bar-ing the car (putting the bar/crooklock on the steering wheel). She didn't remember so I volunteered to go out and check the car. Theoretically this meant, stepping out the flat, going down a flight of stairs, unlocking the front gate, crossing the road, unlocking the car, putting on the bar, locking the car, crossing back across the road, locking the gate, climbing one flight of stairs, closing the door. All in all, a journey of 40m (there and back) or one minute in time (tops). I grabbed my keys (obviously), my wallet (I might need identification), and my phone (if I got into any trouble I would need to call for back-up). The walk down the stairs was fairly uneventful. I stood, peering through the gate for a couple of minutes, checking that there were no cars on the road, no pedestrians about, no drug dealers/kidnappers lurking in the bushes. The gate unlocked, I ran across the road, pressing the car's remote as I moved. Diving into the car I grabbed the bar, turned quickly and stared back into the street, ready to beat anyone who was trying to sneak up on me. There was no-one there. Now I was in a quandary. If I put the bar on the steering wheel I was effectively disarming myself. What to do, what to do? I toyed with phoning Maria, so that anyone who was thinking of raping me would see that I was in contact with someone. I didn't phone - realising that my mobile would cast a beam of light around me that would just scream "mug me". I attached the bar, ran back across the street (zig-zagging to avoid sniper fire), dived in through the gate, slamming and locking it behind me. Up the stairs (four at a time), and commando-rolled back into the flat. Safe.

I don't really think that I have totally come to terms with living in Mexico. I think that there are still some things that worry me. I think that maybe, just maybe, I am still a foreigner here. An Englishman living in Mexico. Mind you, my girlfriend thinks I have a cute ass!

just in case

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

Duirt me leat go raibh me breoite

Which translates as:

I told you I was ill

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

Fools!

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

Thank goodness I am not that sort of person!

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

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

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

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

fever, headache, weakness and drowsiness

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

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

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?

avoidance tactics

I am supposed to be working - not at work but working. I go back to school on the 7th and I need to plan lessons, need to plan a notice board, need to organise myself so that I'm ready for the start of the year. I was going to do this work on Wednesday but ended up watching Firefly instead (as you do). This meant that I was definitely going to do the work on Thursday. I wasn't just going to be on my own, working, Maria had promised herself that she would clean the flat. So Thursday we went out.

We crossed the border, renewed my visa and set off for Borders. YES! One New Year's Resolution is still alive! $179 later we left Borders with a box of books (good news neil h. - I managed to pick up a copy of Imperium..better news, it was in the bargain bin, $5.99 for the hardback copy). We walked round Hillcrest for an hour trying to work up an appetite for a curry. But, we failed to get that hungry - you really have to order more than two dishes in a curry house! Instead, we ended up at the Shakespeare Grille, where I had fish, chips and mushy peas while Maria went for the beef and mushroom pot pie. A quick visit to the shoppe [sic], where I picked up a Caramac, some Fisherman's Friends and two Pork Pies. Then on to the cinema where we watched Charlie Wilson's War. [If I don't get round to writing a review can I just say that it was an excellent start to the year cinematic-wise]. Home to watch Serenity (not as good as the series, wish we had stopped after that!).

Now it is Friday - 11:24am. Maria has done all the washing up, she has done two loads in the washing machine and is ironing. I have checked my email, read 60 pages of my book, read blogs, surfed the t'internet and not started my work. In my mind (great expression that) I am sure that, as we have the kids this weekend, there will be time to do the work. Maybe I should leave it for the weekend. Of course, with Maria doing all this work I am feeling a bit guilty - sat here, not working. Feeling very guilty. I keep looking over my shoulder to see if she is glowering at me for not working. She isn't glowering, she's luvverly - in fact she is listening to Radio 4 and arguing with the presenters. She's wonderful and I feel like I'm failing her - sitting here, writing a post.

I think I'll go for a shower.

procrastination is something or other

The pile of sixth grade essays sits there in front of me, daring me to mark them. Hell, I don't even want to read them, never mind take out a green pen (I find that if I use red the essays tend to look like something out of a Tarantino movie when I've finished) and start correcting the mistakes.

Now, now is the time to run Spybot, Adaware and a full disc scan of my laptop. Anything to avoid the pile of essays. Heck, I haven't heard Ian Dury's Sweet Gene Vincent for ages. Did you know that there are over 200 people on Facebook who are networked into my old school? However there isn't anyone from before 1997. Does this mean that I am cutting-edge or my classmates have lives? I haven't read a book in over two months. I should read something. Anything except the pile of essays in front of me.

Oh, hang on...Dani's phone just went off. Her friends are all meeting up at the mall. Can she go? But that will mean us sitting around a Burger King for hours on end, sucking on a straw in a diet Coke, maybe sharing a large fries, people watching. What a way to spend a Saturday afternoon, sitting in a fast food joint, watching a bunch of kids moving from shop to shop. Except..there is a pile of essays to mark.

Dani, grab your coat, we're outta here.

guess who's coming to dinner?

So, you've been entered into an arse-kicking contest. You've been training, giving it a lot of thought. Everything is covered, you are pretty sure that there is absolutely nothing that can go wrong - actually you are positive that everything will go wrong but you have prepared for those occasions. And then someone cuts off your right leg - you are now the one-legged man in an arse-kicking competition.Life just can't get any better can it?

Maria's dad is coming to Tijuana, this you might have known. At first this didn't worry me because I am quite good with people, people tend to like me. I would be perfect, I would be wonderful, everything would be cool. Of course this all relied on Maria's dad being, well being helpful. I knew that there is a dance that dads and people-who-are-shagging-their-daughters have to do. But this is a dance that I knew from England. Croila commented:

HAHAHAHAH!! Sorry, I feel your pain, honestly I do. A few months ago, when E was about to meet my father for the first time, his reaction was exactly the same. I think for us girls it's meeting the mother that's scary - luckily his is lovely though. When you meet the father though, keep your hands off her, sit over the other side of the room, and do not do ANYTHING to put the thought in his head that you're Getting Up To No Good with his daughter!

And I thought - yeah!!! I know exactly what you are saying. Works for me! Except this is Mexico. Maria has sat me down and talked to me and talked to me and held me as I panicked and talked to me and talked to me. Mexico doesn't necessarily work the same way as England - it appears I will be expected to hold hands, kiss, cuddle. This will be no problem. I will show this man that I love his daughter. I will be loving and caring. I will be attentive. No problem. Of course [I casually mentioned] we won't have any sex while he is here. I listened to the answer Maria gave me and oddly I couldn't hear a single word she said. It sounded like she said:

"God yes! The more sex we have, the better. The louder it is, the better. Will, we will be having really loud, noisy sex. And it will be excellent."

And then I died.

This is our bed.

This is where we would be sleeping.

This is the futon in the television room where Maria's dad will be sleeping.

And then Maria's ex casually mentions that he is going to be away next week. I say next week but I mean this-fucking -week!!! The same week that Maria's dad will be here. Now my blog is not the place to talk about how I feel about Maria's ex, I am sure that he is a luvverly man - hell, Maria liked him enough to marry him and she is with me - but there are odd moments [86390 seconds a day] when I would casually like to take him outside and give him a good kicking. This is the man who doesn't want his children to ever [ever] see me...except when he wants to go off and do his own thing, then it is ok to dump the kids with us. Oh, and in case you didn't know - he hates Maria's dad. There is no way, no way on earth that her kids are ever going to spend time with her dad. Except next this week he has summat to do that means we have the kids - and no, we [of course] have no life so we will have the kids.

Oh how I chuckled. This means that his kids have to spend time with me AND Maria's dad.

I chuckled for at least four and a half seconds. Hang on, your dad and your kids!!???!!!??? How the hell do we do that.

So we have been out and bought a bed. We wanted a sofa for the living room but we bought a bed, a bed that we could probably throw cushions on and pretend it is a sofa.

Odd thing. In my world I would call this a single bed, in America it is called a "twin". A Twin what????? Anyhoo, it is a bed and once we start throwing cushions about the place it will work as a sofa. But for the next week it will be a bed.

This is how it goes in Maria's mind: She and I will sleep in our bed; Dad and Nikos will sleep on the futon; Dani will sleep on the single twin bed.

But look carefully at the picture of the single twin bed. Do you reckon it could be turned round and become a jail-cell? I think: Maria and Dani in our bed; Dad and Nikos on the futon; me in the single twin bed.

And then he would know - I AM NOT HAVING CARNAL RELATIONSHIPS WITH HIS DAUGHTER!!!!!!

kev's dead

I'm not a pet person (yes, I realise that all of my readers [both of you] are but I'm not). As a child I had a rabbit for four months and that was it. My brother had goldfish for about a year but my mother does not like animals and so...no pets. In my previous life my kids had hamsters, gerbils, rats and there were cats in the house but none of them were mine. I'm not a pet person.

I like animals, am quite fond of SeaWorld and Zoos, can watch the odd nature programme on tele and am quite willing to stroke/listen about/look at friends' pets but have no interest in having one in my house - thank you very much indeed! The main problem is I don't trust animals. At their core I believe that they are animals not "just like a human being". I worry that dogs will bite, cats will sharpen their claws, rats will go to the toilet while sitting on your head. I also don't want the responsibility. I don't want to take dogs out for walks (especially when I don't enjoy walking), I don't want to clean up dead birds hidden round my house, I don't want to tell my children that their pet is dead. And I don't like sharing love. I really don't need to feel that something (it isn't a someone it is an animal!) in the house is more loved than me - and, rest assured, there have been moments in my life when a cat is ill and has to spend the night "on my side of the bed" that I have felt a second class citizen [but maybe that's just me :^)].

We had a goldfish called Kevin.

Now, some of you might remember that we had a goldfish called Joe-short-for-Dave, a gift from Efraín and Ileana for the kids. Unfortunately Joe-short-for-Dave died a couple of months in. The kids were upset and so we did all the right things. We made a little coffin out of cardboard, dug a small hole in the garden, buried the coffin, said a few prayers, held a wake We flushed him down the toilet and when the kids came round at the weekend we went out and bought a replacement fish. A quick search of my blog reveals that I never mentioned the new fish. The reason was because no-one liked him!

When we went shopping for a replacement the advice was "get a Beta fish." At first I though that this was just people being stupid "get a better fish" but it appears that there is a make brand type breed of fish called a Beta. They are supposed to live longer. They are supposed to look beautiful. They are supposed to be a better fish. Supposed! However, it appears that Betas are bastards. They don't like each other, they don't like other fish and (from what happened next) they aren't particularly friendly with humans either. They are kept in their own individual plastic cup at the pet shop and it was from a stacked pyramid of Betas that Nikos picked one. We took it home and Dani named it Kevin. And that was probably the last time either of them showed any interest in Kevin, his care was left in our Maria's hands.

Kevin didn't eat for the first week. Refused to eat. Sulked most of the time, sitting at the bottom of the tank, hardly moving. This was to be the norm for the rest of his life. He would do nothing. No swimming around, no acknowledgement of anything or anyone. Kevin was well named - Kevin was a typical teenage boy who would just sit in his room sulking all day.

Kevin has been with us for nearly four months now. Yesterday Maria pointed out that he was "not moving" in a particularly strange way. Instead of his usual "sit at the bottom and do nothing: he was actually pointing straight down. He was dead. However, as a final "fuck you" he had elected not to float to the top of the tank and go belly up. No Kevin decided that he was going to die with his head buried in the sand.

Maria phoned the kids last night (as usual) and told them of his passing. They weren't that "plussed" in fact they took nonplussed to new heights (depths?) for nonplussedness. I have a feeling that Nikos actually asked "Who is Kevin?"

We might get another goldfish - we have the tank, the light, the pump - but I think we will go for a goldfish rather than a Beta. Something that "lives fast, dies quickly" but at least feels like it is part of the family for its brief adoption, rather than a sullen visitor.

Bye Kev, no-one misses you :^(

everything changes, everything's the same

We are not moving, I am still writing a play.

The house we were going to move into is new. So new they haven't finished building it. So not finished building it that there are no closets, no banisters at the top of the stairs, no second coat of paint on the kitchen furnishings, no chance that it will be ready when we were planning to move in. The contract needed someone to sign that they would vouch for my good name - La Directore would not sign. We would leave the flat with an outstanding water bill - do a runner. This is not something that Maria and I feel good about. Maria does not have a job at the moment and money is tight. We love (LOVE) this flat. All of these things added up to a moment that we decided the new place was not for us. We will stay where we are!

Word got to me that several of my colleagues were not happy about the play. The one thing that worried them was having to stand up in front of children and say things. This, of course, surprised me - fuck! they are supposed to be teachers for fucks sake! Their job means that they should be able to stand up in front of kids and talk! But, in the long run, what do I care? It would mean less (no) work for me and so the idea of writing the play got casually binned. One day later I was approached by another colleague. Secretly 18 other teachers all wanted to do the play (don't you just love it when a minority are more vocal than the majority) - would I please write the play? I am writing the play.

There are days when I feel that I have gone through that most annoying of Maria's "techno-speak-babble" moments. Let me explain. She comes out of an interview and there is smoke coming out of her ears. I will ask her:

What's wrong?

They used that fucking expression again!

Not the angle one?

Yep. We have decided to turn the company round through 360°. Don't they realise that that means they are back where they started?

Some days I feel like I have gone through 360°. The rest of you can carry on as normal.

good news/bad news

Good News - grandma was wrong! For those of you who can't be bothered to click on the link: to summarise - the woman in flat two (yes, that woman!) is convinced that our new neighbour (the woman in flat four) is a prostitute. She's wrong! Not that we ever believed her but it was nice last night to have her doubts removed. Of course I am using the word "nice" is a totally appropriate way - I am using definition 6: " Showing or requiring great precision or sensitive discernment".

Bad News - grandma was wrong!

It appears we haven't been sleeping as soundly as we think. It appears that we have both been sleeping with (at least) one ear tuned to the noises outside. I have noticed that Maria disturbs at night and will often wander into the living area to glance out the window and check on the car. I know that I have added an extra 5m to my "middle-of-the-night-toilet-visit" to glance out the living room window and check on the car. Both of us have been checking on the car - worried that something might happen to it. But I have been assuming that we have been sleeping normally and this panic-checking has just been a result of too many beers/too much cheese. Last night I was proved wrong. A car alarm + an engine revving + a woman screaming = two people sat bolt upright in bed.

Did you hear that?

Uh-huh.

I'm checking the car.

I'm with you.

Both of us were out of bed (her faster than me) staring out the window, trying to see if the car was alright. I was delayed by trying to focus on the time - 4.07am. The car looked ok - well, as ok as a car can look through a window covered in condensation and a flyscreen in the way.

There's a can or something on the car. I'm going to get it.

She throws on a coat and is out the door before I can react - that's my excuse! She pauses on the top of the stairs - the door to number four is wide open, lights on. Downstairs the gate is wide open. I watch her cross the street and get the cup (it is a polystyrene cup) from the bonnet. On the way back up to the flat she locks the front gate. Back inside she recounts her adventures.

There was a car downstairs. Four youths. Two in the car, two outside. When I came out the two got in the car and drove away.

We go back to bed. Switch out the lights. Pretend to go back to sleep. Fifteen minutes later a car pulls up outside. The gate is rattled and much swearing ensues. It is unlocked and a woman (high heels) walks up the stairs and into flat 4 - she doesn't shut the gate.

So, she wasn't kidnapped - a voice whispers in our bed.

We giggle. Fifteen minutes later someone comes up the stairs and goes into flat 4. We giggle. Is it a john? Nope, he leaves two minutes later. Half an hour later another visitor. Slowly (but surely) the people in our bed manage to put one and one together and come up with an answer that doesn't equal prostitute.

Bad News - grandma is wrong. The woman in flat 4 isn't a prostitute! She's a drug dealer. Might be time to move :^)

His name is Joe which is short for Dave

Saturday we were supposed to go round to see Efrain and Ilyana. These people are my best friends in Tijuana. They were/are friends of Maria's but (she will argue with much bitterness and jealousness) she is now convinced that they like me more than her. We were supposed to go to their house but they haven't had water for two weeks - or when they have had water the pressure has been very low (this is a common occurrence here in TJ).  So they asked if they could invite us round to our own flat and throw the party here! We said yes.

I was scared, very scared. Don't get me wrong, I love Efrain and Ilyana but....look, you know when you have guests coming round, people you really like, you want everything to be perfect. I want everything to be perfect. I want them to wake up the next morning and think back to the day before and decide that "Yesterday was the best.day.ever." It should be easy - I am full of stories (in case you hadn't noticed) but Efrain has more! And they are funnier. But I worry. I worry that there might come that embarrassing moment when the conversation dies and suddenly Ilyana is putting on her glasses (her secret signal that it is time to go that isn't so secret) and they will leave. The other thing that worries me is me. From the minute they arrive, to the minute they leave I will drink. I will not be alone in this - we will all drink, copiously. Since arriving here in Mexico I have been a good drinker and an excellent drunk. Gone are the days when I would get moody, angry, no fun. Every time we have been together I have been a good drunk. But I worry, I worry that it will go wrong, Ilyana will put on her glasses and I will lose my best friends. I suppose I should do something about it - like drink less. But I know this won't happen.

I'll put you out of your misery - the day/night went brilliantly. They brought a grill. We had carne asada. I made nachos. We drank the 36 bottles of beer in the fridge and sent Maria out for another 24. I told stories. Efrain told stories. Maria and Ilyana complained about us telling stories and then told their stories. The kids played well. Everything was perfect. The day was fantastic.

The last time we met up was three days before Christmas. We had bought presents for them and their children. On Saturday they turned up with presents for us and Maria's children. I got a copy of Sin City, Maria received a beautiful framed collection of pictures of Nikos and the kids got a fish! Not just a fish - they got a bag of blue stones, a filter pump, a tank, a lid with a light in, a bag of (very smelly) fish food and a fish! There is now another thing living in the flat (along with Maria, Brian and I) a fish! I would like to say there has been some debate about what we should call the fish. I would like to say that we sat down and discussed it carefully, considered names, made the right choice. I'd like to say it - but it wouldn't be true. Someone decided that the fish was called Joe and so, the fish is called Joe. No matter how many times some people might point out that Gary the Goldfish is a good name, the fish is called Joe. I am told that Joe is a name that means dependable. Joe is a name that sends out the signal reliability. Joe is a good name for a fish*. I think Dave is a good name, Dave is dependable, Dave is reliable, Dave is a good name for a fish.

The fish is called Joe. If anyone asks - Joe is short for Dave.

We have a fish!

*Of course, eventually it is going to have to be pointed out to someone that whenever she watches Medium she spends most of the hour saying: "I like Joe. Joe is dependable. Joe is reliable." Eventually it is going to have to be pointed out to someone that she has just named a fish after a character played by Jake Weber. But I think I'll keep that one on the back burner for a couple of weeks. So, please don't tell someone, let me save it for later. Thanks.