I've found my home

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.

ten thousand spoons

It's Tuesday. The alarm goes off and I'm convinced it's Tuesday. I didn't sleep last night. We watched tele until late (11pm is late for me on a school night) and, although I was tired, I didn't fall asleep. I remember looking at the clock as it ticked over to 1:30am. When Snow Patrol blasted from the alarm at 6:15am, I had had less than five hours sleep. And it was Tuesday. My body felt like Tuesday, my mind thought it was Tuesday, I was prepared for Tuesday.

It is W*dn*sd*y.

How the hell did that happen? Here am I, stuck in the middle of what I thought was going to be the longest week and it is already W*dn*sd*y - BRILLIANT! And the rest of the week is already mapped out. I already knew that when I got to W*dn*sd*y that it was going to be a fast week. But I thought it was Tuesday. I thought I'd never get to W*dn*sd*y. Yet, here I am.

I'm starting to love this week.

I know what confused me - I didn't get my usual Tuesday email from the grauniad (that's the guardian to those who don't understand my weird sense of spelling - it's an in-joke). Why the hell didn't I get my email from the grauniad? It appears there was an earthquake in Ingerland! Yep, 5.8 on the Richter scale! It appears that coffee cups were dislodged, coats were knocked to the floor, and some people were woken up (although, others were still awake)!

Let me just think this through...I move to a city that is built on a fault line. I live in a city where we practice earthquake drill once a month. I live in a city that has marked out areas next to every building over three floors (and some that are only one floor) high for people t assemble at in the event of an earthquake. I've lived here for over two and a half years and still, not experienced an earthquake.

It's like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife!

cup o' corn

In 1969 my father had the great idea to walk the length of Hadrian's Wall. For those of you who don't know what that is: it's a wall that runs along the top of England (at the thin bit) that the Romans built to keep the Scots out (or you could read about it here). My father planned this walk with military precision - actually, knowing that I have always thought that military intelligence is an oxymoron maybe I should say - a lot of charts, maps and a big day-to-day calendar. You see, my father wasn't just going to walk it himself, nope he was going to drag his wife, his eight year old son (me) and his six year old son along with him. He took the week off work, calculated a day's driving up there, a day's driving back, which gave him us five days to walk over 70 miles. This was a two-car-operation. Both cars would be driven to the the point we were walking too, one car back to the starting point, we would then walk to the left car, drive back for the first car, drive back to the point we had arrived at, stay the night in a hotel, start all over again the next morning.

Now, at the age of 46, I really appreciate what my father forced us to do. I have a great love of history (now) and the fact that I have walked Hadrian's Wall is one of those things that I feel proud of. However, if you were to ask me what I got most out of that week of walking hell it would be corn-on-the-cob.

Now, this might be hard for you youngsters/non-English people to believe but...when I was a lad eating out was not as fascinatingly fantastic as it was then. Menus were not as diverse, as interesting, as they are now. No, in 1969 I can tell you what the first course options were in any restaurant/hotel were. Orange Juice, tomato juice, soup (inevitably tomato), melon or prawn cocktail. Yes, I know - ORANGE JUICE!!! This was 1969 in England. A glass of orange juice was fairly exotic. I would have always liked to have picked prawn cocktail but that was too expensive (to be wasted on an eight year old) so I always had tomato juice - 'cos you got to add your own Lea and Perrins (Worcestershire Sauce or salsa inglesa for those of you learning Spanish).

On day three of the walk (probably due to my six year old brother failing to be able to complete the 15 mile hike across rough terrain) by two o'clock my father realised that we weren't going to make the next drop off point and so we pitched in and stopped at a hotel that wasn't on his itinerary. This hotel turned out to be a 5 (FIVE) Star hotel! That night, in the restaurant, we were presented with the usual menu but this time there was an added luxury on the list, corn-on-the-cob. Now, I don't remember having ever had corn-on-the-cob before - sure, I had had sweet corn - but not sweet corn actually stuck to the cob. Forgoing my usual tomato juice I decided to branch out. I was presented with a cob, sitting in it's own special dish, swimming in butter with extra butter to put on! To my eight year old mind this was luxury! This was the food of gods. Gods ate corn-on-the-cob. I knew gods ate it because I was in a FIVE STAR hotel (I knew I was in a FIVE STAR hotel because my father pre-empted/post-empted every statement he made with this fact: Make sure you use all the towels in the bathroom, this is a FIVE STAR HOTEL; this is a FIVE STAR HOTEL so you can leave the light on in your bedroom when you leave.

I am not stupid (no matter what you [both of you] think), I now know that corn-on-the-cob isn't the food of gods. I now know that I can have it every day, for every meal. But then, when I was eight, all I wanted was corn-on-the-cob every day for every meal. Hell, let's be honest, there is still a little bit of that eight year old still in me and whenever I actually have corn-on-the-cob I think it is the bestest thing I have ever eaten. But, the 46 year old cynic in me resents this love of corn and so, occasionally I can be a bit disparaging about corn.

Obviously there are many new and exciting foods to be had living in Mexico. Tacos come in soft tortillas (not the hard shells that Taco Bell would have you believe). Burritos, tamales, empenadas. Coconuts! Yes I know you can get coconuts anywhere these days but one of the huge differences about Mexico is that they sell most of their food on the streets, from barrows. Imagine, sitting on a beach and someone just coming up to you and selling you a coconut. They strip it, top it, give you a straw to drink the milk and then smash out all the flesh for you - then and there. Churros. Churros are (probably) the manna from heaven that god sent the jews while they were wandering in the desert. But (big butt here) the one food I have not bothered with is "the cup of corn".

For ten pesos (less than a dollar, less than 50p) you can buy (every 100m) a cup of corn from a street seller. A large (about pint sized) paper/plastic cup full of corn. For two+ years I have avoided this delicacy because...because what? It's a cup of fucking corn! I mean, how good could it be?

Very.

On Friday, due to reasons I won't go into (because they are boring rather than interesting), I bought my first cup of corn. I smothered it in parmesan cheese, added a dollop of mayonnaise, and ate my way through that cup of corn. It was luvverly.

Now, before you go off and microwave some sweetcorn, chuck it in a cup and add parmesan and mayo can I just say - sometimes microwaving is not the way to cook. I'm pretty sure that they boil it in butter and stuff (some secret ingredient). So, if you really, really want a taste of Mexico it is not necessarily in tequila and tacos. You need to get yourself to Mexico - only a cup of corn tastes like a cup of corn should do in Mexico!

we three kings of orient are

There is an old joke - and because it is old it is un-PC.

Why wasn't Jesus born in [insert the name of a country you dislike]?
Because they couldn't find a virgin.

or

Why wasn't Jesus born in [insert the name of a country you dislike]?
Because they couldn't find three wise men.

But I have a new joke - that isn't funny.

Why wasn't Jesus born in Mexico?
Because they couldn't find an elephant.

Nearly forty years ago [after my roles as sheep, shepherd, sixth angel on the right] I finally got my big break as Melchior, the Wise Man who gave Frankenstein frankincense to the baby Jesus. My mother still has a picture of me, dressed in a purple cloak with a crown balanced on my head. As a method actor I got into the role totally and completely. I wore the crown for several weeks before my performance (I was a king), I managed to get straight As in my school work (I was wise) and I let my younger brother be my slave (although, in reality, this was more of an every day activity than just the need to know what it was like to be a king). Because there was no t'internet my research for the role was limited to the Children's Big Picture Bible. Thanks to this source book I knew I had to follow a star, I knew how to enter the stable and I knew I rode a camel! Yes, I've said it - I rode a camel!! Now, before you take down all your Christmas decorations, before you try to replant your tree and before you throw away all those Christmas cards that you received - go look at the pictures on the front of the cards. Ignore the ones with snowmen on them and look for the religious ones from your aunt. Got it? Look carefully. Does it have three wise men on it, following a star? Are those three people riding camels? I rest my case! The Three Wise Men were riding camels.

In England the sixth of January has a name - it's Twelfth Night. Traditionally this is the day that you take down your decorations because it is bad luck. The reason this tradition exists is because Twelfth Night is the day that the three wise men turned up and told Joseph, Mary and the flea to get the hell out of Dodge Bethlehem. [the flea? It is in the bible - something about Joseph putting Mary, Jesus and a flea on a donkey]. In England we celebrate the arrival of the three wise men by packing up and preparing for Easter. It isn't the same in Mexico.

In Mexico they celebrate Christmas because it is the birth of Jesus - not because some fat guy wearing coca-cola colours decides to sneak down your chimney. The big day (historically - and I have to put this rider in because, as the world gets smaller, so tradition moves the way of multi-conglomerates who want us to spend our money) is January 6th - the day the three wise men visited Jesus. This is the day that presents are given because the three wise men (Tres Reyes) gave presents and if it is good enough for Jesus it is good enough for Mexicans. Except the three wise men didn't ride camels!

The three wise men are seen as slightly different here. For starters their colour is very specific. There was a white one, a brown one and a black one. And their mode of transport goes with their colour. The white king rode a horse, the brown king a camel and the black king an elephant - yep, an elephant. Every nativity scene in Mexico (and I am supposed to learn that they are called a crèche - which always makes me think of a place to put your children when you got to work) has an elephant. So, now you know.

Of course, this still doesn't explain why Maria's grandmother had a penguin in her nativity scene crèche.

it's not a suggestion

My knowledge of the Highway Code (which might be a bit rusty 'cos it is nearly 30 years since I took my test but only ten since I taught my daughter) includes the fact that: when you approach a Stop sign you should apply the handbrake. I'm pretty sure that is what is says because I remember having to do it in my test. In reality, this is not something that you do when driving in England - but the main reason you don't do it is because there just aren't that many Stop signs in England. On of the (loveable) things about the English is their ability to queue and their apologetic nature. This works perfectly on the road with a Give Way sign. We are all happy to stop at a Give Way and let everyone else go.

Before I came to Mexico I had driven in the States and noticed a lack of Give Way signs. The Stop sign was a lot more prevalent. Also, the freaky thing about driving is turning right at traffic lights - you can go when the light is red. This was scary, every time I did it I expected to be arrested and locked up. The first time we drove in Mexico Maria said to me:
You know, the ALTO sign is more of a suggestion than an actual command.
She was wrong. One of the joys of driving in Mexico (and the joys are few and far between) is everyone's understanding of the ALTO sign and the dance that ensues as you arrive at it. There is an ALTO sign at every junction and, as you approach, you take careful note of who else is waiting at the other four junctions. Everyone knows exactly at what time they arrived and at what time they will cross the junction, heaven help you if you get it wrong. In my two years of driving here I can categorically state that ALTO is not a suggestion - true, no-one applies their handbrakes and many cars don't actually come to a complete standstill - it is the one road sign that everyone follows. The same cannot be said for traffic lights and roundabouts.

Roundabouts are a lottery. There are two types of driver on a roundabout. The first is the person who is using the roundabout to pick up speed. He (it is inevitably a he) will enter, at speed, use the centrifugal force to pick up speed and will exit wherever (and whenever) he fucking wants to - no matter what lane his car is at the time. The second type of person thinks that the roundabout is actually a four-way ALTO with a lumpy bit in the middle. She (because it is invariable a she) will therefore stop at random points on the roundabout to let other people get on and enjoy the ride. This makes driving round a roundabout a lottery. Will the person if front accelerate or brake suddenly? Who knows. But, as far as I can understand the rules, this is why god invented the horn. As you enter a roundabout, the best survival tactic is to hit your horn. This warns everyone that you are there. Also it gets the adrenaline running so that you are prepared for any eventuality.

Traffic lights are another lottery. In England the lights follow a set pattern: red, red and amber, green, amber, red. In Mexico they work a little differently: red, green, flashing green, flashing amber, red. In theory flashing green is there to inform you that the lights will change - in practice it means accelerate! Amber informs you that it is about to go red, which means accelerate. The appearance of the red light should mean stop but in actuality means accelerate!! The only reason that a car actually stops is because, at the other junction 90 degrees to you, the lights have gone green which means "pedal to the metal - floor that accelerator", and all the other cars are now crossing the junction. Of course, there are times when there are no cars, in which case the general trend seems to be - ignore the red and proceed, with caution, across the junction. If you make it across unscathed "yeah you", if you get hit it is your fault. Those are the rules for most of the year except, from the end of November throughout December and the beginning of January. In this select period of time traffic lights are a suggestion - and just the merest one at that. It is possible to sit at a red light, cars crossing in front of you and the person behind is livid. S/he (it can be either sex) will be banging the horn, mouthing swear words, gesturing frenetically. Basically they are asking the question - why the fuck are you stopped at a red light?? Move out the way mofo!!!!

So - now you know.

may the fork be with you

I was born and raised in the city of Sheffield - that's Sheffield, Yorkshire, England. There are always historical reasons why cities are founded - that's old cities not new towns - there had to be a reason why so many people chose to live in one area rather than another. In many cases cities were originally ports or market towns. Sheffield exists because of steel. Due to geological phenomena, the area around Sheffield provided coal that could be strip-mined (that means it was very near the surface and didn't need a lot of digging deeply) and iron ore. It was very easy to lay hands on coal, that could be used to gain a high temperature, thus heating the iron to a suitable temperature to make steel. Sheffield is "the steel city".

Like most cities Sheffield has a mayor, a city council, important people but for many years the most important person in Sheffield was a position that doesn't exist in any other town - The Master Cutler. Although Sheffield came into its own during the war years - when the steel was used for armaments and it was (fortunately) too far north for German bombers to  reach [it was actually only bombed three times] - Sheffield is/was known worldwide for its cutlery. As I grew up there was a sense of pride, visiting other towns, cities, countries, when I would sit at a table and look at the cutlery and see that stamped on it was the legend "Made in Sheffield". The football team I support (Sheffield United) has a nickname - The Blades - that is due to the incorporation of two swords into their emblem. I remember the hatred I felt when I discovered that Japan had renamed a city "Sheffield" because they could then stamp "Made in Sheffield" on their cutlery - whether this story is true or  apocryphal I don't know, the city existing that is, not my hatred. I love my city and take great pride in the fact that it is The Steel City and that there is a Master Cutler. Because of the circles my parents moved in, I was fortunate enough to meet several Master Cutlers. Because of the way I was brought up, the cutlery always had "Made in Sheffield" stamped upon it. As I child, on of my jobs was to lay the table and I would look at that stamp every time I put out knives, forks, spoons.

I had a very privileged upbringing. Part of that upbringing was I know "which knife to use". Often, when laying the table for Sunday lunch there would be three knives on the right, two forks on the left, a fork and spoon at the top. There were special fish knives (and forks) and there were special knives used for the different courses that were served. Most courses required two pieces of cutlery - it was a rare occasion that we were ever allowed to eat with a fork in our right hand. Part of my upbringing included how to eat food "properly", how to sit at a table properly, how to partake in a meal - a meal was an event not just an opportunity to refuel. Whilst eating, when food was in your mouth, your cutlery was placed in a certain way on your plate - you never held your cutlery in your hands all the time. And when you had finished there is a set way to place your cutlery, as a sign that, even if there was food left on your plate, that you had eaten enough.

All of this training has stood me in good stead. The way I eat, the way I present myself at a table, has never caused me any concern. I don't have to worry about which is a soup spoon and which is a dessert spoon. I can tell the difference between a butter knife and knife for your first course. I don't chew with my mouth open, I don't put my elbows on the table, I don't wave my knife about when I am talking and I can feel morally superior whenever I watch Americans eat - for goodness sake, the knife is always in the right hand!! [Which also leads to the fact that you should always escort a lady with your left hand - as eny fule nose, your right hand should be free to reach for your sword, you never know when you will have to defend your lady's honour!]

Welcome to Mexico! One of the most dramatic changes in my life has been eating out. In England I ate out rarely - whether this was a cultural thing or a personal thing, I'm not so sure. I think it is cultural. I am pretty sure that back in England breakfast is always eaten at home, we just don't work on the principle of eating out at breakfast. This leads me to pre-suppose that English people just don't eat out as often as Mexicans do. True. Mexicans sometimes remind me of hobbits - oooo, time for second breakfast/third breakfast...it's been two hours since I last ate, let's eat! - because they eat often. Rather than going home (because Mexicans work a longer day than English people) they eat out. Often at a stand in the street (my mother would never let me eat in the street) or a quick dive into an eatery [yesterday we went round a mall, over 50% of the shops were in fact restaurants]. Part of my learning curve has been how to eat out in Mexico. Many foods are eaten by hand (ok, tacos!) but if you eat in a restaurant that uses cutlery, you will be provided with a knife, fork and spoon.

What I like about eating in Mexico is that, for Mexicans, a meal is not just one course - you can't just order what you want, you also are expected to eat a "starter". This means that after you have perused the menu, made your choice, explained to the waiter what you want, you also have to choose between a salad or soup starter (oh, don't get me started on a Mexican definition of soup by the way). And, herein, lies the major difference. The set of cutlery in front of you is the only set of cutlery you are going to get. There seems to be a national shortage of cutlery! You eat your salad and heaven help you if you leave your knife and fork on your plate! The waiter will take the plate away, return with your main course and you are cutlery-less. Then try to get another knife and fork - damn near impossible! So, I have learned, once I have finished my  "amuse-bouche" to place my knife and fork to the side - ready for re-using!

We have a favourite restaurant. There are many reasons you have a fave restaurant. The first should be: the food is excellent. But, think about this, how many restaurants do you eat in where the food isn't that good? Sometimes you eat in a restaurant where the food ain't that good but it is comfortable - the restaurant, not the food. Well, Mandolinos is a wonderful place to eat. I can spend hours trying to tell you how nice, how wonderful, how totally at home Mexicans make me feel. At Mandolinos they are really welcoming, even more so than our favourite taco place - and this is a place where they apologise each time I eat there because they don't speak enough English and promise (every time) that they will learn more English so that they can make me feel more welcome. However, at Mandolinos not only are the waiters wonderful but also the chef comes out of the kitchen to talk to us. We have even been admonished for not coming regularly - they love us there. We turned up on Valentines Day, no reservation ('cos we are a bit crap at planning stuff) and they found us a table on their busiest night. They love us there. And the food - well the food is wonderful. Often we are presented with food that is not on the menu - the chef has heard we are in the restaurant and he likes to prepare something that we will enjoy. All in all, everything adds up to they love us, we love them - it is our favourite restaurant.

And now the point of this post [at last]. We watched Grilled last Wednesday - not a great film and one I wouldn't recommend to anyone. However, the film is about two meat salesmen who spend the whole film recommending steak. We went to bed hungry. Thursday we did our thing and, late Thursday evening, ended up at Mandolinos ordering steak. They do three wonderful steaks - one in a balsamic sauce, one in a cream/brandy sauce, one in a cheese sauce (which is a lot nicer than it sounds). I ordered the cream sauce steak (don Corleone), Maria the cheese one. We had a discussion with a waiter (and the chef) over one of the other items on the menu - they needed a translation for a shellfish they serve, it was a mussel. We ate our salads - we were offered a new option, not one on the menu, a spinach salad which Maria had. I had a Caesar salad - sometimes I can be a bit traditional! I placed my knife and fork at the side when I had finished. My knife was used to butter my bread, my fork to eat my salad. My plate was taken away.

And then the waiter took away my cutlery!

I was given fresh cutlery to eat my next course!!

A clean knife! A clean fork!!

It was a momentous occasion!!!!

Of course, to complete this story perfectly, the cutlery should have had "Made in Sheffield" stamped on it. It didn't. But sometimes life can't be totally perfect!

same word different meaning

I can't remember if I said this or not, but as there is a chance that you don't remember me saying it or not, it could bear repeating...I'm teaching English to the 6th Grade. The 6th grade teacher is off on pregnancy leave, she was replaced by a relative, the relative was sacked and suddenly everyone had to cover the 6th Grade lessons. Because I'm English (and I don't have Blue Witch as a reference to comment on my spelling ability) I was selected from a field of (checks the list again) one to teach the English.

The 6th Grade are a teacher's nightmare class. You always get that bunch of kids who just don't gel as a unit and really don't gel as a class to teach. Oh, in some classes there is always the kid that is the pain in the arse but the 6th Grade have managed to perfect that worst nightmare of a class where over 50% are pains in the arse. And, to make matters worse, they have that ability to be pains without you actually being able to pull them up on it. All this means that I should hate the 6th Grade but I don't. They keep me honest. I have to be prepared for a lesson, I have to be able to control the class, I have to make sure that each and every lesson objective is achieved. They keep me honest.

And so I took on the English teaching, knowing full well that it would be hard work but, what the hell, I like a challenge - and I am competitive. One of the things that the school does is that every week each year group has a new list of 20 (ten for the lower grades) of new words. At the end of the week they sit a spelling test on those new words and a class average is calculated. At the end of a four week cycle the group with the highest average score wins the grand prize of not having to come into school in uniform! It was my target to win this competition - my target!

And the class have worked well with me, they have been learning their spellings. Their actual written English is awful, their spoken English leaves a lot to be desired and their use of punctuation is abysmal. But they have worked their little cotton socks off over the spellings! 9.7, 9.65, 9.4 and 9.8 have been their class averages for the the last four weeks. This is a group that hadn't scored over 8.8 as a class average before. Did we win the end of the four week cycle prize? Nope. But we have had good fun getting into third place and the challenge is on...with only three weeks to go before the next announcement of the winners, the 6th Grade are ready and primed for action.

So, we sit down this morning to bang through the new list of 20 words (muttering over the fact that the 2nd Grade [who won] probably have to deal with cat, hat, sat and fat). We kick of with exquisite, move on to anxious, stumble over fulfill [sic] and then Mr. Kay (that's me humble reader) hits the wall with apologize. Yep, apologize not apologise but apologize!!! Five minutes of faffing about gets me out of that problem and I breathe a deep sigh of relief as I announce the next word: sherbet.

I know what sherbet is. I was bought up on sherbet dib-dabs, sherbet fountains, sherbet lemons and (the food of gods) flying saucers - I know what sherbet is!!! Except it isn't. It appears sherbet is what I would call sorbet. This makes no sense to me.

Last week was Thanksgiving and I spent a lot of time explaining to people that I don't celebrate Thanksgiving - I mean, apart from giving thanks that the pilgrims left because they were a bunch of uptight bastards...look how the US of A turned out. Me, I celebrate Bonfire Night - much more fun, burning effigies of failed Catholic assassins, than remembering a group of people who attempted genocide on a bunch of Indians (that's Native Americans to those keeping track)  who helped them through their foodless times [wow! do I sound bitter or what!!!]. But if I was to give thanks it would be to the inventor of flying saucers!! When I was a kid I listened to the stories of god supplying manna to the Moses and the Jews as they wandered through the desert and I wondered if it was flying saucers!

I've spent a week (or so) ranting over the differences between English and American. I can live with no 'u' in colour, neighbour and no 'o,g and h' in through. Hell, I can probably live with the use of 'z' in anything that is supposed to end with 'ise' but messing with sherbet makes no sense to me!!!

And breathe.....

done anything stupid recently?

There is nothing worse than a casualty department in an English hospital; except a casualty department in an English hospital on a Friday night; except a casualty department in an English hospital on a Friday night with a sporting injury (and yes, I know all about standing on an upturned plug or trapping your pubes in your zip but believe me, these events are joyful compared to casualty on a Friday night!). These are facts I know from experience. Not total experience - I have been to casualty, I have been to casualty on a Friday night, I have been to casualty with a sporting injury - just never done all three when it involves me! The one time I went with a sporting injury I was made to wait five hours - to learn the error of my ways! As if I hadn't realised that doctors and nurses had enough to deal with without people running around, basically begging to get injured!! I have been to casualty on a Friday night for someone else and they were seen on Saturday...well into Saturday.

I don't like doctors! It's not their fault, I'm pretty sure that as a bunch of people they are wonderful human beings. It is just that whenever I go see a doctor they tell me I'm ill. Actually, to be more accurate, they normally ask me what is wrong with me and then tell me that either I am (1) iller [sic] than I thought I was or (b) not as ill as I thought I was but give it a couple of days and I will be! The only "good time" I have ever had with a doctor is when I went to see about the mysterious third testicle that had appeared in my scrotum - that turned out a lot better than I expected (and that was not because it was a female doctor and I got a quick feel on the National Health Service).

So, when I managed to kick-the-floor-instead-of-the-ball on Friday I knew that not going to the hospital to see a doctor was going to make more sense than hopping down to casualty on a Friday afternoon with a sport related injury. I mean, how different could it be in Mexico? Mexico that third/seventh world country. I am that stupid man!

Saturday I hopped around the flat, occasionally putting my weight on my foot. Sunday my foot still hurt, still hurt like a mofo (which, of course, raises the question - how much do mother-fuckers hurt?). Sat on the balcony,. in the early morning, I started to think of work the next day. How was I going to get upstairs to my lessons? How was I going to teach? How was I going to cope with the rest of my life? Would I walk like Inspector Morse for the rest of it? (Oh come on - tell me that you have never noticed the way John Thaw kicks his leg out...you haven't? Well, I've just ruined the next time you watch him!) I went back to bed. I snuggled up to Maria. I kissed the back of her head. I whispered: Do you think I should go to hospital, you know, get them to look at my foot? I whispered! To the back of her head!!

2.7534 seconds later. 2.7534 seconds later she stood in front of me, fully dressed, make-up applied, hair perfect, car keys in hand saying: Let's go! One would think I had mentioned a 90% off sale at Jimmy Choo's.

Mexico runs a private health care system. There is a National Health Service, a free service, but mainly there is private care that exists thanks to the fact that the majority of companies pay for your health insurance. Can I just say, as a yoghurt-eating-sandal-wearing-tree-hugging-grauniad-reading-liberal - private health care ROCKS! AS I limped/hopped into the hospital I was offered a wheelchair (twice) and then directed to a (very) comfortable leather chair. As I sat there (for a whole seven minutes) three different people apologised for the wait and told me that the doctor would see me soon. And he did! Seven minutes!!

There are two promises that I have made in the last couple of days. I promise that I will never play football again. True, I should have learnt my lesson six months ago when I twisted my knee and promised never to play footy again. Now, I have learnt my lesson and I promise I won't play football!! The second promise? If I am ill/not well/in pain I will see a doctor. I love Mexican hospitals. I love Mexican doctors. Different world, different circumstances. Not going to hospital straight away was stupid.

Done anything stupid recently?

me, I blame neil h.

Thread one:

So the job was going to be easier. I had less fewer kids to teach, I had a reduced timetable, I was going to get a laptop computer with wireless connection, everything was geared to me having an easier life. I had planned to spend time, during the day, blogging, surfing, basically doing all the stuff that I did at home for a couple of hours. Now, I would get those hours out of the way at work and spend more time with Maria. But it all went wrong.

The time disappeared.

You know how if you buy a new bin, somehow you still end up half way through the week with the bins full and a collection of plastic bags full of rubbish? You know how you get a pay rise and you start to plan savings yet you still end up with no money at the end of the month? You know how your new filing system always fails miserably because you still end up with even more crap on your desk? Well, that is what has happened with the job. All the extra time I was looking forward to has disappeared. Not just disappeared but started to eat into my non-free time! I seem to be working harder, doing even more. Added to this the laptop never turned up - well, it did turn up but, it has been decided, that all the staff can have one. So, they are buying four laptops a month and then "raffling" them off - need is not a criteria. 

All my plans are dashed.

Thread two:

Many years ago, when the ZX81 was cutting edge technology, I had an Acorn Electron. I would play "Elite" on it. On Friday nights a friend would come round and we would load it up, spending a good 45 minutes listening to the tape recorder make weird, alien noises as it loaded. We would play all weekend - mainly because we didn't want to have to load it up again! On my Amstrad 664 I would play "Gauntlet". I bought the kids a Nintendo and would play "Mario Brothers". I really wasn't into computer games though. I loved the feel of a pinball machine and would rather play that - cigarette in one hand, beer resting on the glass, "crazy flipper fingers" and a hip that knew how to nudge but not tilt. The whole PS2, X-Box, PSP world passed me by. I loved Tetris on the Gameboy and can still be found playing the odd game of Freecell on my desktop. I did own a copy of "Age of Empires" and enjoyed that. But, on the whole, I'm not really a gamer. I read neil h.'s reviews of games and sometimes I get excited and then think....nah, I'm too old/don't have enough time.

Tying the threads:

I have no free time. Honestly, no free time. Check your stats. Do you see me coming in to read? Nope, I would love to check out what is happening in your blogs but I just don't seem to have the time. Do you open your inbox expecting to see an email from me? Because I'd love to write to you but I don't have the time. Do you come back here every day expecting to see if I've posted? I really don't have the time.

And I'd like to say it is because my life is so busy. My life is so full that I just don't get to sit at the computer and read/write/post. But (and if there is one thing I try to be on here) if I was to be honest (I should, I should) there are moments that I am sat at the computer. There are times that I have five free minutes, time to check out blogs, write an email, post. And do I? YES!!! In my mind, I do all those things. In my mind. In reality I open Desktop Tower Defense and play. The luvverly neil h. mentioned the game in a post a couple of weeks ago and what started as a quick visit, turned into I just need to go back, and has become I've got to beat this game!

It has got worse though. Three days ago I introduced Maria to Desktop Tower Defense. I say introduced, she wandered out from the tele room and inquired, in that caring loving way that she has: What the fuck are you doing? For seconds I felt like I had been caught watching p0rn. Here I was, sat at the computer while my lover was sat in the other room - was I spending time with her? Nope I was trying to stop pixels getting across the screen. Hell, after a couple of seconds thought I'd rather she had caught me watching p0rn - at least I could have pretended I was "getting in the mood" [yeah, I know, it would have been a crap excuse but better than trying to explain what I was doing]. But Maria is wonderful, she is brilliant. She sat on my knee [my left knee - couldn't have her interfering with my mouse control] and followed the game. Within a couple of minutes she was shouting at the screen (along with me), she was giving advice, she was as involved as I was.

Three hours later we stop playing. Tried to get on with our lives.

Nikos has been with us all weekend. On Sunday he went back to his dad's. Maria drove him home and I prepared Nachos. The weekend had passed and we hadn't spent much time alone, together. Maria gets back and tells me she is going for a shower. She steps out of the shower, a towel around her body, a towel around her hair. She looks beautiful. She leans on the door frame and looks down at me as I am sat on the sofa:

You know, as I was in the shower I was thinking. I was thinking about...no hang on, it would be better if I drew you a diagram.

She disappears round the corner to get a pen and some paper. I leap up from the sofa, make some quick adjustments to what I am wearing, fall back on the sofa, waiting expectantly. She enters, sits beside me and starts to draw me a diagram.

You see, if we build the maze like this - making sure that we put the towers that kill the flying things here and here - I reckon that we could get way past level 41. What do you think? And why are you naked???

Me, I blame neil h.!!!!!!!!!

how hot is it?

I'm sorry but I'm going to say something that might offend: teachers lurve days off! I know, I know, teachers are supposed to be caring, dedicated professionals who love their jobs, love going into work, just love stuff. But, I'm sorry to say, there is still the little kid inside that drives them. Every time, every single time, I go to the headmaster's/principal's office I get nervous - check my flies - and worry that I might be in trouble. However, much more than that, I lurve days off!!!!

When I worked in England there was a rumour, a rumour that went: if the classroom is less than [fill in a figure here] or more than [fill in a figure here] the classes had to be abandoned. I was never sure about what the figures actually were but as the days got hotter (or colder) I would envisage that my headmaster would suddenly announce that classes were over and everyone should go home. It never happened!

In nineteen years of teaching in England I had seven unscripted days off. Five were due to snow (yay snow!), one was due to the hurricane and one was due to a boiler failure! But I never, ever had the luxury of classes being cancelled due to heat/cold. I think that this is because English schools are built with insulation - it never gets that cold - and also English schools are in England - it never gets that hot.

There is a rumour that schools in Mexico close because of rain - I think I've posted about it before. Rain is scary to the average Mexican. Maria will tell the story about when she visited friends and it started raining and she refused to go out - because no-one goes out in the rain!! However, although we have had rain, I have never had a day when school is cancelled.

It is hot here at the moment. How hot? Well the thermometer hasn't dropped below 30 °C and that is at night!!! If you are interested - yes, eyelids sweat. Hell, eyelashes sweat!!!

This morning (Monday morning) I am following my usual timetable - I am observing a lesson from 8 - 9. The lesson is shit. It is one of those lessons where you want to run to the front of the classroom, grab the teacher by the neck and smack his head repeatedly against the board. As I squatted at the back of the classroom it wasn't just a case of looking forward across the heads of 27 children who had died (thanks to his enthusiasm), it was more a case of he had killed any love I had for Maths lessons. Thirty-three minutes into a one hour lesson and he had only done one [ONE] Maths question. I really couldn't let the lesson go on. I stood up, moved to the front of the class, took the chalk off him and started to teach. Within five minutes the class had done ten Maths questions (translating English sentences into subtraction/addition sentences) and the sweat had started to pour off me - unfortunately I am a very physical teacher.  By the end of the lesson I was a pool of sweat. In theory I was supposed to have thirty minutes of non-contact time but a teacher had failed to turn up, so I was back in the classroom for an hour and thirty minutes of division by decimals. Straight into another classroom to teach estimation in addition and subtraction.

By this point I had drunk two and a half litres of water and was still dehydrated. Until you have tried to work in this sort of heat it is impossible to explain. There are moments that you can feel your elbows and knees creak because your body has dried out. There are moments that you know that all every molecule of water that you possess is on the outside of your body rather than in the inside. There are moments when messages can't pass around your body because there is nothing to conduct electrical impulses through your body. The thermometer had hit 40 °C, there was no breeze, no relief and this Englishman was dying.

And then it happened.

School was cancelled.

It was too hot for school. Parents were phoned, kids were taken away, lessons were cancelled. Today (Monday), Tuesday and Wednesday all children will go home at 12 o'clock. There will be no afternoon school. It is too damn hot.

You know that at this moment I would be dancing with joy...except for the fact that I can't dance. I can't fucking move - it is too damn hot!!! Maria comes from Torreón which, so she tells me, is located next to the gates of hell because they can tell when the gates have been left open. Me, I wonder, can anything be hotter than this? And if it is then I sure as fuck don't want to experience it!!!!

School ends early for the next two days - because it is too damn hot!!!

The good news - I get to spend more time with my father-in-law?????????