I've found my home

monopoly

When I was a kid, if I did something wrong, I was sent to my room.

This was a totally different punishment to "being grounded". When I was a kid, a long, long time ago, being sent to your room was a whole different ballgame to "being grounded". For starters I lived in the streets. When I was a child, paedophiles hadn't been invented. When I was a child: caring, loving parents would throw you out the door at 8am and not expect you back home until7pm. My mum would casually pack me sandwiches and a drink, tell me to be back by 7, then throw me out.

A day where I didn't collect 30+ miles, on my mile-o-meter that I had attached to my bike, would be considered a failure. There were dams to build in the woods. There were moors to be discovered. There were areas of Sheffield that were new to me. The only time my parents totally freaked was when I phoned (2p in a callbox) from Park Hill, casually mentioning that I was going to a fair.

Later in life, as a parent, once 24 hour news came about, I realised that you can never (never) let your children out the house, unless you drive them everywhere and tag them - else you will appear on the news as a bad parent. I also learned that sending your children to their room was not really a punishment. Children's rooms, these days, are full of computers, televisions, bloody everything - it isn't much of a punishment. But, back when I was a kid, my room was a punishment.

Except it wasn't. I had my books, my comics, my writing desk. I also had my brother. We had Lego (please note: in this blog the plural of Lego is Lego!), we had Action Men, we had Monopoly. Monopoly was our godsend. We would play games that lasted three days, we would play four games a day. There were weeks that I played 30/40 games of Monopoly (I was a naughty boy). I lived, breathed, devoured Monopoly. Later in life (sadly) I won a bet - could I name every single square on a Monopoly board? I was a god at Monopoly.

And then I played a game that included my dad.

We were on holiday, a caravan holiday, in the Lake District. It had rained for the first three days and it was raining on the fourth. Despite the rain we had still been on seven-hour forced marches during the day but at night, instead of playing football/cricket/rugby (we were a very active family, I now realise) we had been forced inside the carvan to play card games (by the age of eight I could card count - seriously, you wouldn't want to play whist with me). On day four my brother and I brought out the Monopoly board. My father said: No. We argued, we whined, we begged, we pleaded. He agreed, with one proviso, we would accept the outcome. He then proceeded to destroy the game of Monopoly for me and my brother. In under an hour he managed to suck any enjoyment of the game out of the game. He didn't dance, he didn't say: In your face, he didn't show any emotion. But, in under an hour, he totally and utterly dominated the game. We wanted to quit, he wouldn't let us. Another hour was spent being driven into bankruptcy and tears. I have never played Monopoly again.

It is now 35 years later.

I am old.

The children in my class have brought in a game of Monopoly. There is no money. There is no money because everyone playing is given a credit card. The credit card is placed into a calculator which adds/deducts money as they play the game. And there is something different about the board. There are no train stations - they are airports. The Water Board/Electric Company have become "Cell Phone" and "Internet" providers. But that isn't the worst thing.

To me.

The worst thing is that you get One Million for passing GO. One Million! One Million!! One Million for passing GO!!! Not two hundred pounds, one million somethings. I can accept that Old Kent Road isn't called Old Kent Road - what I have difficulty in accepting is that it doesn't cost forty pounds - it costs 6K.

When did I become so old? When did I become the man who rants at 12 year olds because they don't know what 6K means?  When did Monopoly become so, so, so...I don't know what?

When I was a child, many moons ago, my brother and I called the game Monotony. Now, the game is so hip-and-up-to-the-beat that I no longer recognise it.

I am old.

Still, it makes financial sense to buy the Oranges! Unless you are playing with my dad - that man could just tear you apart.

the duck and parrot

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it's great to be english

Incident One

Maria reads an email from Alan to me. She asks me what I had done to cause this consternation in Alan's life. I show her the email I had written Alan. She reads it.

Maria: So, let me get this straight. You wrote something thoughtless in your blog. Alan is worried that he has upset you. You then write to Alan apologising for upsetting him. He then writes to you apologising for making you feel that you have to apologise. You now want to write back apologising for making him feel like he should apologise for making you apologise? Of course, you know that this means that Alan would have to write a further email, apologising for making you apologise for making him apologise for making you apologise. Is that about it?

Me: Yeah. Sort of. Except, of course, if he writes apologising again, I'll have to write back apologising.

Maria: Run it past me again - how did the English manage to find time to build an Empire? I mean, once you invaded a country, didn't you just spend the whole time apologising for not wiping your feet when you stepped off the boats?

Incident Two

We park the car and head towards Vons (a supermarket). As usual there is a person stood outside the store with a clipboard. She approaches us.

Clipboard: Excuse me. Are you registered to vote?

Me: Yes. But not in this country.

Clipboard: Ooooo. Aren't you posh. What with your smoking and your English accent.

Incident Three

Maria is on the phone to her mother.

Mum: But how did you know? How could you know?

Maria: It's hard to explain. You have to know him.

Mum: Explain it. Try to explain it

Maria: He's too polite.

Mum: What do you mean: "He's too polite"?

Maria: It's just that, he's too polite. It is that simple.

Mum: You are telling me that the reason you knew he wasn't an internet axe muderer was because "he's too polite"?

Maria: That's it. It is as simple as that. He's too English to be an internet axe murderer. He's too polite. It would be too messy. It just wouldn't be "the done thing".

Incident Four

Maria: I told my mum that you were too polite to be an internet axe muderer.

Me: Uh-hmm.

Maria: I told her that it just wouldn't be the done thing.

Me: True. Too true. There is no way I'd be an axe murderer. An axe would be totally the wrong thing to use. Probably a hatchet. Yes, a hatchet. I mean, a machete would be too much for murdering with.

Maria: Exactly what I was telling my mum. There was no way you'd be an internet axe murderer. You're too English.

Me: Yep. I know which knife to use, which fork to use, and I sure as hell know what implement of death to use.

Maria: Yeah, that wasn't quite the angle I took with my mum. But, let's go with: "You're English"!

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

for my mum

Because it was Mother's Day, yesterday, here in Mexico, I phoned my mum. It appears that my brother had inflated Speedy Gonzales - a 12 foot inflatable with a bloody huge outboard motor (don't think of this a dingy, think of it as something the SBS [or marines] might use to invade a foreign country) - and taken her out for the day, on the Norfolk Broads. It appears that they ended up on Ranworth Broad, and my mum asked me if I remembered an incident that had occurred there. I did. And I mentally promised myself that I would write the incident up and send it to her. This is the story:

During the Easter holidays of 1972, my father hired a 38 foot cruiser that slept six people and a sailing dingy to tie to the back of the boat As usual, with family trips, we were all awoken at 5am to pack the car. Why we were woken, to stand around in the freezing cold to watch my father swear at suitcases, as he forced them into the boot, and struggle to put Bolshy (our sailing dingy) on the roof, I never knew but those were the rules. By 7am my father was happy and we were ready to go. My mother lined my brother and I up outside the toilet, used the facilities herself and then made sure that we did. We were then bundled into the car, handed reading material, a tin of sucky sweets each and then my parents went back inside the house for a cup of coffee. Half an hour later we set off, stopping to pick up my grandpa on the way.

There must have been a time when my grandpa was dynamic and all there, he had set up many successful businesses in Sheffield and had retired. My grandpa did very little now, he would sit, eat, occasionally mumble, smoke, drink a huge amount of whisky every day and hand out money from a seemingly bottomless pit of change he kept in his pockets - normally with the preceding comment: I feel like a lavatory attendant. Here take some of this change. My grandpa came from an era when there were lavatory attendants, and he was used to tipping them. In his world, if anyone had a pocket full of change it must be because he was a lavatory attendant, weighed down by his tips.

Arriving at Wroxham the car was unpacked, everything being moved from the car to the boat. Bolshy was lowered from the roof and placed in the water, next to the fat slug of a dingy my father had hired. Grandpa was placed in the rear well of the boat and a glass of whisky placed in his hand. We were lined up on shore and reminded once again (as we were reminded annually) that my father could be referred to as dad, daddy, skip or skipper but never captain (captains are in charge of ships not boats, donchu'no). We were sent to our mooring posts, as the eldest I was at the front (for'ard), my brother at the back (stern) and my mother stood on the front (prow) of the boat. My father started the engine:

cast off for'ard, cast off aft

I threw the rope (line) towards my mother who missed it, pulled it back on board and dumped it in a pile. I walked back to the middle of the boat (midships), stepped on board.My brother threw his line to grandpa, who ignored it as it bounced off his head, stepped aboard and crossed to the other side. The boat moved away from the side (dock):

fenders up, everything tidy, break out the rations

My brother and I pulled aboard the fenders that hung down the side of the boat and then returned to the fore and aft of the boat to make sure that the mooring lines were coiled properly. My mother ran down into the galley (kitchen) and poured drinks for her and my father, rushed a glass into my father's hand and then ran back to the stern to fill grandpa's glass. My father opened the throttles and set sail for the high seas - actually, the Norfolk Broads is nothing like the high seas. It is more like a huge boating lake. These days it is probably an aquatic version of a motorway, with boats pootling along at 5 m.p.h., looking for a parking space, near to a pub, so that the drinking could start. As a child, I was of the opinion that a holiday on the Norfolk Broads was nothing more than a pub crawl on water. At some point in the holiday we arrived at Ranworth Broad. This is a huge expanse of water, the ideal place to put Bolshy through her paces. There, in the middle of the Broad, we dropped anchor, except he boat didn't actually have an anchor. The Norfolk Broads are cut into the earth and the bottom of each broad is thick black mud. The best way to make sure a boat doesn't drift in the night is to drop a huge weight which sinks deep into the mud, the mud closes round the weight, sucking it in tightly, the line is tied off tightly, the boat is moored, it will not drift.

My father had been in the navy, the merchant navy. It is always a source of wonderment to me that, during war time, when Britain was surviving on the arrival of convoys, which meant that these were targets for the Nazi submarines, thus leading to many sunk ships, many dead seaman, that my father would volunteer for such a position. Actually, beside the wonder, there is also a sense of pride. During a war situation, my father volunteered for a non-combative role, a non-violent role. The good news (for me and probably him) was that he never got to sail in wartime. He ran away to sea, rather than becoming an accountant (straight away) in his father's firm. Of course, there was fall back from this decision. At some point (approximately 50 times a year), my father would push back his chair from the dinner table and regale us with his first/second/every trip to sea. In later years, he was joined in his reminiscing by my older brother, who also joined the Merchant Navy. Oh, and if you think that I can tell a story, you really should spend time (have spent time) with my father and brother. Both of them are far, far better raconteurs than I could ever dream of being. However, the long and the short of this is, we were brought up with boats, with the sea, with sailing. [sidenote: My mother was an ARP. For those of you who have watched Dad's Army, it was her job to ride around on her bike, telling people to: Put those lights out! Again, I am in awe that a 14 year old girl (as she was then) would volunteer to cycle round a (blatantly obvious - Sheffield, they make steel! Think about it) target for the Luftwaffe.]

Bolshy was a polystyrene dingy. Now, I know what you are thinking - polystyrene dingy? Why? Well, think a bit further. She was light, very light. Think of a piece of polystyrene on water, think how the wind would move it. She wasn't just light, she was fast - in theory. The reason she was called Bolshy was because she was bolshy! On her maiden voyage she refused to move, no matter that the catalogue had stated that even in a light wind she would zip across the water, she didn't move. However, Ranworth Broad wasn't the same as the river she was placed in for her maiden voyage. It is a huge expanse of water that the wind whips across. Ranworth Broad was the ideal place for my father to show off his sailing heritage. He would sail Bolshy, my brother and I would sail the hired dingy. The hired dingy was a slug. Not even a slug compared to Bolshy, she was a slug. This was a dingy that my brother and me would be safe in. My father sailed Bolshy, we sailed the hired dingy, my mother and grandpa stayed on board.

For fifteen minutes my brother and I tried to coax our dingy into moving. Although the wind was strong, although we kept the sheets (ropes to you) tight, although we kept the sail trimmed, we had managed to get the dingy a whole 100 yards away from the boat. In this time, my father, had managed to zip up and down the whole broad. He'd undone the rust in his sailing abilities. He'd beaten to windward, he'd close-hauled, he'd run, he'd starboard tacked, he'd port tacked, he'd gone about (lee-ho). Basically there were only two things left to do: jibe and capsize. In the next manoeuvre he covered both of them.

A jibe is when you turn the boat around with the wind behind you, instead of a normal manoeuvre (tacking) when you turn with the nose of the boat into the wind. If you turn with the nose into the wind, the boat comes around, the sail switches sides, you move from one side of the boat to another, you continue to sail. However, this manoeuvre slows the boat down, it takes valuable seconds, and several knots off the speed of your boat. If you jibe, the speed of your boat doesn't change. The sail whips round (very quickly) and you are facing the other way. It is, essentially, a dangerous move. As the boom (the bit of wood holding the sail at the bottom), whips across the boat, it moves at a frightening speed. If your head is up then your head is in the water, or at least you have a major concussion. It also throws the whole weight of the boat in an alternate direction. A good, controlled jibe, is a thing of beauty. You know that moment when you see someone swimming the butterfly stroke, and if they do it badly it just looks like they are drowning? But, if you see someone swimming it well, you suddenly realise that the only stroke you ever want to swim is butterfly. It is the same with jibing. When it is done well, it looks perfect, sailor and boat together in harmony. If you have seen it, it is all you want to do. However, when it goes wrong, it goes wrong big stylee!

My father managed to complete the missing two manoeuvres in his sailing repertoire in one move. He jibed, he capsized.

The next scene was one that was (probably) only funny if you were there. Unfortunately, it was 1972 and neither my brother nor I had a video camera/mobile phone on which to record the drama as it unfolded. My mother went into panic mode. Turning the boat's engine on, running to the for'ard, struggling to pull up the anchor, running back to mid-ships, turning the engine off, running to the stern, dealing with my grandpa (who was totally oblivious to the whole thing), running back to the for'ard to struggle with the anchor. For ten minutes my mother was in perpetual motion, desperate to save her (in her mind) drowning husband. What she couldn't see, because she was too busy, was my father righting Bolshy, looking around guiltily, sailing off into the distance to hide his shame. By the time my mother arrived at the spot of the capsize, he was gone. There was nothing there. No sight nor sound of him. Just empty water.

My mother killed the engine, dropped anchor, went astern, and started to explain to my grandpa how his eldest son had drowned/disappeared under the dark waters of the Broad.

Through all of this my brother and I just giggled.

I guess you had to be there.

However, my mum was there. And this is for her. Happy Mother's Day.

breaking down the stereotypical walls

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

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

And then, of course, there is always this:

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

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

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

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

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

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

not all tequila and mariachis

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

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

Bins by the Toilet

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

Banks

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

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

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

it's for you

In England (this might come as a surprise to my American readers), all phone calls cost money and, the longer they last, the more they cost. This is something that I still can't quite get my head around, living here in Mexico. If the phone call is local then, once dialled, it costs nothing extra, no matter how long you talk for. There are moments when I come across the phone, laying on the table, while Dani has rushed off to use the toilet. My English hackles rise, until it is explained to me (yet again) that it is cheaper to stay "on" than to disconnect and re-start. It makes no sense to me! But, there again, I understand why it is cheaper to leave a neon strip light on all night than it is to switch it off and then on again - go figure. The whole thing makes me a bit ansty. However, that might have something to do with my dislike of phones or maybe it is my upbringing - hell, it is probably just because I am old and turning into my dad!

As a child I was never allowed to use the phone at home. Never seems a bit presumptive but, if I ever had the audacity to ask to use the phone, my parents (bless their cotton socks) would look at me aghast (sometimes I think my father only wore glasses so that he could take them off, stare at me, put them back on, and then shake his head) and inform me that god hadn't invented phones, he had invented legs. If I wanted to talk to my friends I should "get on my bike and ride". I would, foolishly, comment that god hadn't invented bicycles - which meant that I would spend a couple of hours in my bedroom, contemplating the enormity of what I had said!??! Of course, this didn't stop my parents making sure that I always carried a 2p coin on me, in case of emergencies! [I never had a 2p coin and if given one, would always spend it immediately on something much more important! Like aniseed balls.]

When I was sent away to boarding school (love the way that statement sounds), the only way to phone was to reverse the charges. This added an extra 50p to each phone call. I know this because the phone bill was presented to me after those first few phone calls. You know the ones: "Mum! Dad! I hate this place. Please let me come home! I have to come home!! And when you come to pick me up, please bring some more food because the food here is horrible. Oh, and could you bring me some more books! And some more marmite!" I knew that my parents would never take me out of the place! Eventually I got over my homesickness and stopped phoning. Mainly because my parents would take the cost of phone calls out of my pocket money.

At University there was one phone in the hostel I lived in. It was permanently broken. By this stage I no longer phoned home and never used a phone.

The first place I lived in, after university, had no phone. When my ex went into labour, with my son, I had to run 200m up the road, to a call box, to inform the hospital that I was bringing her in. After about five years a phone eventually entered the house. It took five years to eventually kit the house out with everything we really needed and a phone was waaaaay down on the list. Every quarter I'd get a phone bill and the line rental was always more than the cost of the phone calls. I just don't use a phone.

I don't like phones. Don't like them at all. This is my life and I quite like being in charge of it. I hate the fact that you can be talking to someone, their phone rings, and they immediately answer it. Why? Why do you blank me, the person who has made the effort to put themselves in your face-space, to talk to someone who can't be arsed to get in your face-space. I hate the fact that you can be living your life, watching a film, cooking, going to the toilet, and the person phoning you has a clear thirty minutes and wants to talk. Well, I might want to avoid you! I really don't like phones.

Eventually, because that is the way of the world, I had to get a mobile phone. It was a pay-as-you-go and I used to load it up with a whole ten english pounds sterling every six months - or more, because I didn't use it! And, I know I sound grumpy, and I know I sound old, and I probably smell of wee, but, this is my life! My phone rings, I look at who is calling, and half the time I don't answer. I don't need to talk to you. I don't need to interrupt my life for you. You are just not that important.

And it drives Maria spare! The phone rings in the house and I don't move. She tells me to phone someone and I don't. I always feel embarrassed when I phone someone. I don't want to interrupt their lives. I know that I am living a life, I assume that they are living a life, why the hell do they want to talk to me?

Maybe it is my upbringing. Maybe it is just me. I just hate phones. Hate answering them, hate talking on them.

At the moment I have a mobile phone. So does Maria. When it comes to pay them off at the end of the month (they are both on contracts), my phone bill is always exactly what I contracted for - I cover the texts I have, I cover the free minutes I have. And it annoys Maria intensely. Her bill is always a little bit more. But that is because she has a different attitude to phones. She uses them, I don't.

On Monday, as Maria drove me to work, I checked my mobile - the clocks had gone forward and I needed to change the time on it. According to my phone the "battery [was] low". I didn't think much about it. Maria dropped me off, I went into school, signed in, went to my office, changed the number of the day, turned on my laptop, discovered I had forgotten the power lead, went back out of school, lit up a cigarette, typed (thumbed) a text message to Maria.

And the phone went dead.

Black screen. No battery. No phone.

I thought that I wouldn't care. I had no phone, so what? Do I use my phone when at work? No.

And then I realised - I do. I send texts. I receive texts. I get Twitter updates. But, more importantly, I have my phone! I have that one device that can take me out of this world. When the going gets rough, I run away and phone Maria. When I am lonely, I text Maria. When I feel like I am lost, I reach for my phone to ground me.

Monday was the longest day. I had no phone. I was all alone. I had no way of reaching out and touching.

I love my phone.

If you want my phone number, please email. If you want to text me, please do so. If you actually phone me, I promise I'll answer. If you want to save money, get on Twitter and I'll follow you. I love my phone! I need to be in contact with the real world!!

new and different things

One of the real joys of living in another country is discovering new and different things, things that I might not have ever discovered. Prime example: Taco Bell tacos are not real tacos! And,as much as I enjoyed a tray of Taco Bell tacos before, there is no way I am ever going to order/eat at Taco Bell again. I have tasted the real deal and there is no going back. Saturday night, we dropped the kids off back at their father's and, as we swang (swung?) back home, stopped of at La Unica. Eighty pesos purchased three carne asada (that's beef) tacos and two adobada (pork) tacos. These were stuffed with meat, guacamole, and salsa, wrapped in a freshly made soft tortilla. I was also given an empty bag which Maria filled with grilled onions, grilled chili peppers, slices of cucumber,  radishes, and lemon halves)*. Luvverly.

One of the joys of living with Maria is discovering new and different things, things that I might never have discovered. Prime example: books. I never feel guilty about buying books and reading books. There is never a moment when I suddenly say, I want to read and she looks at me with that whole there-is-a-lawn-to-mow/dishes-to-wash/tummy-button-fluff-to-weave look. She understand that there are moments that you just want to dive into a book and stay there. She has also opened my eyes to so many other books - can you tell I'm excited at the moment? I'm reading Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, a book I would never have picked up (she bought it), and I am loving it. Luvverly**.

One of the embarrassments joys of living in another country is explaining new and different things, things that are part of my culture that Maria has never discovered. Prime example: Triffids. I received an email from my mum, telling me that she had just finished Chocky - a John Wyndham novel - and it appeared that Maria had never heard of John Wyndham. More to the point (because I am pretty sure that 85% of the British nation hadn't heard of him either), she had no idea what a Triffid was. This amazed me. Maybe I'm wrong about this, maybe I just existed in circles who knew the term Triffid, but the idea that someone didn't know what a Triffid was, I found unbelievable (hell, even my spell-checker knows what one is!). This had to be rectified. I spent an hour, or so, trying to explain what a Triffid is/was. This didn't work. I downloaded a television series and sat her down in front of it. This was a mistake. Oh, sure she now knows what a Triffid is but I don't think she was really scared. Actually, she was horrified - but not by Triffids. I thnk she was more frightened by the acting/the plot/the haircuts/the blue eye shadow. Maybe I should have got her the book rather than a television series from 1981!

I now live in fear. What if she ever asks me: "What is Blake's Seven?". Now, that is something I will never be able to explain.

 

*this still excites me. The fact that you can fill an empty gallon plastic bag with as much free stuff as you want. I am that easily excited!

** and I just can't start to list the wonderful books she has introduced me to - although you should go read "The Dancer Upstairs", "The Life of Pi", "The Queen of the South", and I've stated to list them! Just go read something!

just the facts ma'am

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

I told my daughter bunnies and eggs came from England.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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