Now tell me what you really think...

Katie and I were standing in a queue yesterday, waiting to pay for something. The machine wasn't working, so we had time for a little chat. In front of us was a woman, maybe 35, who was starring and smiling at Katie's pancita. This conversation is absolutely typical of the type forced upon Katie has maybe once or twice a day.

Staring woman.
Six months, I said to her, pre-empting her question.
It's going to be a girl, the woman replied, with mystical confidence, rather trumping my forward thinking.
Interesting! Why do you think that? Katie replied, amazed at this woman's facility for gender prediction.
Oh, she said, continuing her charming tone, because you arms and your face are fat.
What? Obviously this was an incredulous What?, but our new friend interpreted this as a signal to define exactly What? she mean.
Fat. They're not thin (pointing at her own arms, just in case anything was lost in translation). They are fat. Chubby. Big smile, Good luck with everything, and off she went.

These people are hilarious.

Flaming

Has anyone seen the end of the movie: The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford? If you have, please let us know. The ending for us was kinda ruined.

I have long stopped going to Odeon type cinemas: people answering their mobiles, idiots confirming plot points (is it that the one that's James Bond?), other idiots not getting a babysitter... I can't abide it, and Katie can't abide me not abiding it.

Essentially you get a lifetime's worth of not abiding things in less than two hours. Rather like eating an orange, it's just not worth the hassle.

Well, this is a new reason. I do mean only the end. We sat through the initial, beautifully crafted 2 hours and 40 minutes of admittedly agonisingly slow paced filmmaking, and as the film approached its climactic, pivotal final scene, it burst into flames.

No, not metaphorically. It actually literally burst into flames in the projection room, in the projection reel. (See image)

After I ran to get help, the cinema manager arrived with some ceremony (no one had moved, which was quite weird too) and said (in Spanish obviously): Do not worry, Ladies and Gentlemen. We are searching for a solution which we will have for you in five minutes. Please remain in your seats

Five minutes later, following five minutes of What-Are-They-Going-To-Do? type glances and muttering from the audience, he reappeared.

Ladies and Gentlemen. There is no solution. Good night.

My woman

Walked past Big Mariano at work yesterday. Big Mariano is a beefcake of a PE teacher. We'd been talking about how Katie was pregnant and all the day before. He saw me in the corridor and came out with this little beauty:

Mariano: Hey Doug. When your woman gonna make family?
My reply: Hey. My woman make family when my woman ready.

Toaster

Our friends, a Scottish guy and his American wife, are leaving this country next week after 3 years, and are selling up pretty much everything they own. He's fie Glasgie, and is not accepting any nonsense when selling their stuff, and had every intention of selling everything quickly and efficiently.

It's not going too well, although this may be in part because of his slightly aggressive sales style. The highlights:

1. Advert: Shelving unit. 180 x 60 x 30. 6 shelves.

Buyer: (Who'd driven half an hour to get there, looking at shelves) Hmm. Actually I'm not going to take them.
Glasgow: Fine. Em, can I ask why?
Buyer: I was expecting them to be taller.
Glasgow: (Dryly) OK, no problem. Sorry ma advert was so misleading.

2. Advert: Babies' cot

These guys did want to buy the item. They looked at the cot and said, Yup, we'll take it. And then stood there waiting, evidently, for the item to be given to them.

Glasgow: Wit? Well you can't have it now.
Buyers: Oh. Why not?
Glasgow: You'll no have noticed ma wee boy's sleepin' in it then.

3. Advert: Toaster.

Caller: Hi. Am I right in thinking that you are selling your toaster?
Glasgow: Yup. 25 pesos. (About 4 pounds)
Caller: OK. When can I come over and have a look at it?
Glasgow: You are joking. You do know what a toaster is? Toaster. 25 pesos.
Caller hangs up.

Embarazada en Argentina

Whilst this blog has the address: dougsandkatie in Argentina, it is clearly heavy on the Dougs, light on the Katie. Katie of course features in wonderful cameos, notably in Dwindling Community; the time she shut her head in the door, and when she asked the big fat chocolate shop lady how come she got so big and fat... but in truth, it's kind heavy on the Dougs part.

So this entry is on her behalf, as it is about being embarazada, which of course here means pregnant. Which she is, and I'm not.

The stereotype would have it that the pregnant woman is something to be feared: eating for two, sleeping for none, full of cravings for bizarre things, like for you to be in equal pain and discomfort. Well, Katie is none of these things. If she was, this would be understandable - the whole business is monumentally and hilariously unfair.

On this subject, I told her that I wanted to write an entry about her being pregnant here, listing some of the pros and cons.

I was told, in short, that there are no pros.

Now, before you Mothers of the World join in in some kind of Pamper waving solidarity... I agreed. I have no doubt she was right: it is clearly rubbish. You're huge, it's hot, clothes don't fit, can't drink, can't play sport; all of that.

Thing is, she didn't really understand the question. I was talking about pros for me.

And they are endless. Life is stacked so far into the manzone it's ridiculous. If we were to make a list, we'd be like the Aussie cricket team - even our second eleven would be beat everyone else. To illustrate. Below are the ways in which my life is imporoved by her pregnancy.

1. I also get to skip the queue in the check out.
2. Such is the adoration of the mother figure, I no longer have to 'protect' her from getting chatted up by Latino types.
(Actually, one guy did. Passing her in a cafe, he did a double take, turned around, ola chica's her, only to notice her pancita and start backing away, apologising and begging Santa Maria for forgiveness. Tool.)
3. We both get seats on the train. I am the helper.
4. I too am eating for two.
5. People are much nicer to us, and we won't need to cook for a year so many invites for dinner do we have.
6. I get twice as many presents as all the other people at school (how this has anything much to do with the little dude, I don´t know, but am questioning nothing).
7. We have an excuse not to go to any social/school occasion. And I fully intend to use this line for the rest of my life.
- Are you coming on Saturday?
- Sorry, can't make it. (Awkward pause. Need a reason) Kids. (Apologetic shrug. Awkward pause ends and I'm out of the woods. I don't know why people accept this, especially with babysitters going for a pound an hour).
8. I win all our walks now (and even some swims).
9. I am no longer the clumsy, forgetful one. Ha!
10. And finally, if I show even the slighest, tiniest bit of interest in anything to do with the pregnancy, becoming a dad, the kid, whatever, I get treated like I just saved humanity. Oh, you're gonna be such a great father...

Pregnancy? It's awesome.

Pigeons learn quicker

Which is worse? For everyone to be asking if your pants are in the tree, or for nobody to be asking?

Katie assures me it is the latter. Well, I think you should decide. They don't cover this one in school, not even in General Studies, and I have been faced with this dilemma since Monday evening.

On Friday afternoon, I received the following text.

Hiya. People arriving at 5pm for swim and drink by the pool. What time you home? PS Your pants are in the tree again. Pigeons learn quicker...

To explain: About a week ago I had, after going for a swim, very sensibly, put my swimming trunks (not 'pants', which I think casts me in a less favourable light) on the balcony to dry. And, as I had been assured would happen, they had blown off. Another victim of climate change.

This lead to a cute and amusing game amongst the approximately 300 residents of Torres Jockey of 'Who's Pants Are In The Tree?' Well, as I confessed to the smallish crowd looking heavenwards from the front of the building that they were mine.
'Ah, si. Sois de Escocia, no? 8 piso?'

After 3 days, they fell down, and were returned to me by the portero/security man, Fernando, with a huge smile, who said they'd been handed in.

As such, when I repeated this same 'idiotic performance' just three days later, as once again my 'pants' were caught in the tree, again in front of the building, I also saved the residents from either straining their neck nor playing the hitherto amusing little game. They knew exactly what to do; wait for them to fall, hand in to Piso 8.

They fell down this morning, and were returned to me once again by the smiling Fernando. At least he gets it...

Christmas Every Day

The end of term, and the approach to Christmas, is usually a fraught affair, drawn out affair. Certainly you Londerers who will have been going to Xmas parties for nearly three months straight now, which means the photocopier must be nearly out of toner. Many Marketing Scientists are now saying that Xmas music will be the only music played in shopping centers by 2011.

At the end of term, it's important not to do anything to draw attentions to yourself: keep your head down, maintain a low profile, get through till the holidays.

This is harder to do when people give you awesome and often massive presents on an embarrassingly regular basis. This is worsened when you colleagues get next to nothing.

In the last few weeks, I have been given:
- a Diesel watch
- a couple of shirts from Zara (excellent , well chosen)
- a set of carving knives (although this was given on the day of the daughter's resit exam. It was therefore somewhere between a present, a bribe and a threat. Either way, I failed her, which I'm hoping means that I've raised the bar for forthcoming gifts, but more than likely guarantees that this one will be used on me.)
- a pair of sandals (I know, but it's alright, there was a gift receipt)
- a cochecita (pram): one of those 4x4 posh parents ones (best displayed by those Dulwich Village parents who drive in smug convoy, except when they're talking so in depth about organic red cabbage and stray into Peckham or Brixton, whereupon they quickly circle the wagons and retreat... Anyway, one of them.
- and an Electrolux fan (big, metal, and shiny - cause it's hot)

I must be the only person who doesn't not dread the words: 'Er, there's a parent waiting for you at the office.'

More please.

Minted

It's always hard to 'chat' to teenagers who you teach at school. It's difficult to find a common ground or area that you can talk about, without them being precocious and trying to interested in insurance, or you being a tool and talking about hip hop. It's especially hard when you students are absolutely minted. Recent conversation being a case in point:

- Ah, Sir, you've moved house. Where to?
- San Isidro.
- Really. I live in San Isidro! Where is your house?
- Um, you know the road Cosme Beccar?
- No.
- OK, you know the train station?
- No.
- Er, you know the main road, Centenario?
- No.
- Just opposite the McDonald's?
- No.
- Er... (I gave up, and lied.) Right. You know the yacht club?
- Yes! We go there all the time!
- Fine. It's near there.

The Asador

A New Dwindling Community

On 11th August, I wrote the sister entry to this one. As our community dwindled further and further, it seemed that moving was inevitable.

Well, it's dwindling again.

Now we have moved, and it's very lovely, and we have a whole new community to get to know and Saturday mornings can once again become a cross between Amelie and a modern day version of 'Postman Pat'. But with a twist.

Good morning, Mr Security Man, said Dougal, as he left the tower block he lived in.
Good morning, Diego, he replied.
Good morning, Mrs Flower Stall owner, Dougal chimed. Good morning Scottish white chap, she replied.
Good morning Mr Paint Shop man, Dougal said, smiling.
Good morning Scottish chap, Paint Shop man replied.
Then Dougal bumped into his friend Jacqui.
Good morning, Jacqui, said Dougal.
Er, said Jacqui, slowly. Do you realise you've got a cotton bud sticking out of your ear?

I did not.

Estancia was awesome

Like, properly awesome.



Early start Saturday after late Fright night monster steaks in Palermo with Jon and Georgie (Katie's bro and his girlfriend).

Three hour drive, two car convoy to Luli's farm, the parilla lit the minute we arrived, like smoke signals in better days. We'd barely settled by the pool when the bell was rung for lunch, and the chorizo suasage, morcilla (black pudding, but better) and vacio (steak) started arriving.

Marvellous.

The gorgeous sunny day couldn't be wasted, so back we headed to the poolside for a snooze before the riders headed off to ride.

Not being the best in the saddle, I decided to sit this one out and stayed with my lovely wife. My one and only previous experience of being on an animal went something like: India, camel, itch, cactus, blood, gallop, itch, cactus, strop, refusal, tantrum, dismount, limp, long walk, limp, desert, rubbish....

(Incidentally, I think it is more amusing to not explain who Luli is, why we were there etc, thereby allowing you to speculate).

I woke up as the riders returned in the sunset, had a quick swim, before an evening of pasta, poker, wine and song (well, the TV tuned in to 'Best of the 80s'. Terence Trent D'Arby: remember?). Got cleaned out in the poker by a bunch of novices. Who goes all in on a high card? Come on.

Sunday morning, perfect blue skies, swim, breakfast, entertainment for all as Dougal attempted to bond with a living animal and was carried off across the pampas for an hour clinging to the reins with white knuckles while trying to look like he'd done it all his life, swim, steak sandwich, swim, bell rung for lunch, sausage and steak, swim, 'sunbathe'... before eventually dragging ourselves back to reality and convoy home to the smoke...

Some weekends they do truly and properly rock.

Life as a Posh Argentine

Katie couldn't make it to the polo this weekend, and I've had to miss a weekend of cricket at Hurlingham, as we're off to a friend's estancia this weekend.

Our wonderful hostess phoned to say that we could take the horses out if we wanted. I did intimate that I wasn't exactly the riding type, at which she reflected that that would be fine, I could just hang out by the pool and jacuzzi and have drink cocktails.

I accepted her offer.

What we do best

Reading the previews for Scotland - Italy tomorrow reminded me of what we do best. No, not win, nor even qualify for major tournaments. Only Scotland could have beaten the Ukraine, France home and away, played brilliantly for 12 months, only to then lose to a bunch of radiation ridden teenagers in Georgia and watch the dreams go up in smoke. We'll run Italy ridiculously close tomorrow, miss a couple of golden chances, fail to score, draw 0-0 and go out.

No, what we do best is make people laugh, drink whisky and wear 'skirts'. And such, and as I'm a wee bit homesick, some favourite lines that I find myself using to explain to people here how fabulous we really are:

Billy Connolly. "On a Scottish persons birth certificate they fill in: cause of death, alcohol."

From Rab C Nesbitt:
Doctor: Mr Nesbitt, you have cirrhosis.
Rab: Cirrhosis!
Doctor (astounded): You know what that means?"
Rab: Aye. That's the only three syllable words anyone in Glasgow knows...

Legendary heckle at a stand up gig at Edinburgh Festival:
Commedian: The Bible story could never have been told in Glasgow. You´d be lucky to ever find three wise men.
Heckler: Aye, and they'd've needed Sherlock Holmes ti' find a virgin.

Adage: "You´ll hae mere fun at a Glasgie stabbin' than at an Edinburgh weddin'"

Jock and a Englishman were flying from Edinburgh when the stewardess approached. "May I get you something?" she asked.
"Aye, a whusky" Jock replied.
She poured him a drink then asked the Englishman if he'd like one. "Never!" he said sternly. "I'd rather be raped and ravished by whores all the way to America than drink whisky!"
Jock hurriedly passed the drink back, saying "Och, ah didna ken there wuz a choice!"

Line from a caddie in St Andrew, caddying for an American who was having a horror of a round.
US Golfer: You must be the worst golfer in the world!
Caddie: Now that would be too much of a coincidence, Sir.

And my favourite: Glasgow. City of Culture. 1990.

The Golden Age

to walk (verb. 3: term used in cricket) as in, "The cheating batsman clearly hit the ball and he didn't even walk."

'Walking' is an ancient custom in cricket where one is honest enough to save the umpire the need to decide whether you have 'snicked' the ball or not by leaving the playing field, or 'walking'. A snick is when the ball skiffs off the side or 'edge' of the bat. The batsman is obviously in the best position to determine whether they have 'snicked it' or not. Ergo, an honest batsman walks.

Walking is a remnant of the percieved 'golden age' of sport, when sport was a vehicle through which the bizarre values of the Victorians could be imposed on the proletariat without them really realising. Hence kicking someone when they were nowhere near the ball in football, hitherto the entire focus, fun and aim of the game, became a 'foul'. (Incidentally the Scots, never adherents to change, and most certainly not when it originates from South of the border, still play the game as it was meant to be.)

Cricket, of course, was the darling sport of the age, alongside fox hunting. But cricket was both more dangerous and violent, and offered many more opportunities to impose moral and ethical values on the poors.

The batting order itself remains the rank order of these values. The openers will keep a straight bat. They are rewarded for being oppressive. The first thing an opening bat learns is to defend. Only a psychopath or a deviant (or indeed a dark skinned chap) would look to attack first. These rogue individuals must be protected from their natural instincts by the openers... and so on. Anyone showing flamboyance, or individualism, should be kept in 'the hut' for as long as possible.

Honorable draw. Clapping the opposition batsman in. Helping people. It's not a wonder that the game never caught on in Scotland, and even less of a wonder that when it was exported to Australia - rather like a mate going off on a GAP year - what came back was a poor imitation of the original.

Cricket was returned bastardised by our prisoner colony cousins: walking was replaced by sledging, sportsmanship by gamesmanship, public school ties were no longer used as belts. Winning became all important, in fact these felons would stoop to unfathomable depths to win: rolling the ball along the ground, aluminium bats, running fast, intimidation of the umpire, regular training sessions; no price was too much to pay.

And, grudgingly, we have to thank them for evolving the game, for it is somehow more fun the dirtier the game becomes.

But a final word fo good news for the purists. I can tell you that miles from its origins, the gentleman's game still exists in its purists form. 2nd XI cricket at Hurlingham, deep in Latin America, where English is spoken properly, tea served at tea (by the staff), and people still clap in the opposition captain.

Sport Hurts...

Cricket based email, glossary below.

First glimpse of 1st XI cricket in Argentina and I like it. After two warm up games for the Second XI which involved a whole number of incidents that I would rather not discuss in much depth - clapping the batsman in, bowling more slowly at their weaker players, saying 'Well done' and other unseemly histrionics of that nature - the gentleman's game began this Sunday.

Aided by the fastest, bounciest wicket I've ever played on (artifical strip, with 'golf ball bounce'), things kicked into action in the 2nd over when I apparently very clearly hit a ball and didn't walk. After being called some names by the bowler, each of which were simultaneously translated by the wicket keeper, I was peppered by short stuff and verbals for the next 20 minutes.

Batting in a floppy sunhat wasn't a great idea, and I couldn´t call for a helmet either, because my fellow batsmen each came in wearing it, and I didn't have the heart to ask them to give it back. Fortunately I got out before I experienced anything painful, a fate that the following batsman could not avoid, kopping a bouncer on the head, requiring medical attention, the removal of much blood from the playing surface, an ambulance, several calls to ensure he had medical insurance before the ambulancemen would put him on a stretcher, and, eventualy, 7 stitches.

Game resumed... arguments broke out, players had to seperated, I lost the plot after being called for a no-ball and a free hit (I tried to explain a rule I cannot explain in English to the umpire, with unsurprising lack of success; subsequent 'free hit' delivery hit the batsman on the helmet), one father then chased his son most of the way to and then along the boundary after said son had dropped a catch off his old man's bowling, and we lost by 1 wicket. Two players refused to shake hands, calling each other the most intimate parts if a parrot, which is how you use the c word in Spanish.

Two words. Sport. Brilliant.

Glossary of terms for the ignorant.
- cricket = obsure fetish of an English sport involving several sticks, pristine white clothing and some leather
- 2nd over = an over is 6 balls, a ball is a delivery, a delivery is when the bowler throws the leather at the sticks. This was the 2nd of those.
- no ball = if a ball bowled reaches the batsman above stump height it is a no ball. But not a free hit, which everyone knows is only for a 'front foot' no ball.
- 'walking' = a fool's game. The dying art of 'admitting' to the opposition that you have hit the ball, saving the umpire the necessity of making the decision. (In fact, it's very interesting, see next entry)

Dragons

I have just spent nearly two hours in a meeting where we put each of my 48 Year 6 students into categories which best fitted their personality as a dragon.

I really, really don't know why.

Argentina, Adverts

The youngster who wrote the now famous 'reading makes you thin' article is simply part of a wider truth. The Argies kick ass when it comes to advertising. It's got to be a lot to do with one of the most adored qualities of the Argentine; their gift of the gab, the accolade afforded to the particularly talented blag artists is that of a 'chanta'.

And I've been meaning to put these on paper for a while, so here are my Top 5 Argie Adverts. Without sounding too Chris Tarrant on you.

1. For some sort of pill. I don't know what type exactly, but something good.

Opening shot:
- Door opens, guy stands their holding flowers, girl throws them in his face. He looks confused, and a little scared.
Cut to:
- Queue of people at the water machine at work. Woman turns around and throws boiling water in the face of the man behind her. He screams in agony.
Cut to:
- Her in her office, opening a packet of pills. She takes one, and everything become sunny and pretty and rosy and lovely again. Kittens are fluffy, pink is pretty and cushions are soft again.

Katie mentioned that it may have been a negative representation of women. After commenting on what a long word that was for a pretty little lady, I took her point. After all, everyone knows that when a woman has PMT, she likes to sing and go rollerblading.

2. For 'Fargo' bread.
Opening shot:
- Girl in kitchen making sandwich for her fella.
Cut to:
- Cheesy looking guy, jeans and white polo, sits on couch. Look up, sees girl arriving with his sandwich. He looks really happy. Smile with gleaming teeth.
Cut to:
- White background, guy leaning towards camera, girl hugging his shoulders. He says: 'Pan? Me encanta pan!' - 'Bread? I love bread!' - and they look at each other and laugh.

3. Doritos Ad.
Fit rubia (blonde) is jabbering on the couch, holding court, while we see the fantasies of the two guys (obvious), and two girls (violently throttling her). Click the link or youtube 'Doritos, Rubia'. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Xp-eDHQMV8

4. Big fat girl is sitting on the couch, eating but otherwise doing nothing. Her parents come downstairs, and shoot her a look of concern. Father syas: 'Miranda, we've bought you something that will help.' Mother produces... a fiction book!

5. For Mate (ma-tey: national drink, much like tea).
Two lads get into a car. Passenger sits on something, holds up a belt, and looks accusingly at his friend:
- What's this, Fernando?
- What do you mean? It's a seatbelt.
- A 'seatbelt'?
- Yeah. They're a la mode in Europe. Everyone is wearing them.
- Huh. (He looks suspiciously at it, as if it is a snake of some sort.) OK. Well, what do they do?
- They stop you flying through the windscreen if we crash.
- (Still suspicious) But don't they look a bit silly and uncomfortable.
- Good point. Let's not wear them and drink mate.
Turn to camera and smile.
- Voiceover: 'Mate: a taste of heaven.'

OK I made the last two up.

6. Literally just saw this one... Lollypop advert, yes, as in the sucky sweet, featuring schoolgirls dressed as schoolgirls: pole dancing. Not at all inappropriate...

Now in Argentina, read yourself thin!

Ah, the end of term, the druggery of marking exams, the monotony broken only by these little masterpieces of exam howlers.

Question on mentors, someone you would ask for advice:
"My Daddy always gave me good advice. Always. Like if you have to kill someone, kill them."

Analysis of Literature:
"Dracula was the Prince of Darkness, the master of evil. Like Osama bin Laden."

Write a letter to parents encourage them to make their children read fiction:
"Hi YOU! We know you have child! Do you want that they read again?"

But my favourite, on the persuasive writing question. This is genius:
"... But don't take my word for the benefits of reading, listening to Miranda. Miranda, 16, wrote to us from Cordoba. She said, 'Before I started reading, I was 95kg... but now, after reading fiction for only 6 months, I'm a much healthier 83kg!´

A bright future in advertising awaits that little chanta.

Polo and Cricket, dahling

If you tried to call yesterday I'm afraid we weren't in. Katie was off to the Polo at Hurlingham and I was playing a spot of cricket.

We are so Argentina.

The Lighting Boys

When Danielle isn't delivering Milk Tray and being a complete tool, he is part one of The Lighting Boys.

School assemblies at the school are ‘improved’ by a dazzling lights display from The Lighting Boys. Led brilliantly by Milk Tray Danielle, and ably supported by the matching black –shirted Facundo and Gonzalo, you’ll find them at the back of the Hall, day in day out, not working so much as creating. Whether it’s information regarding a trip to Palermo Zoo or a reading of some sport results, you want it lit, they’ll light it. And then some.

Now, I do not understand the complexity of exactly what it is that they are doing, who has asked them to do it: I don’t even understand why. I know I don’t understand it because when I asked Daniel he told me, looking into the mid distance, nonchalantly spinning his Limited Edition Jedi keyring, that it was muy complicado, with clear inference that it was beyond my layman’s comprehension.

I was actually glad, because otherwise I would have guessed that it was some of the most unnecessary, over the top, and ridiculous lighting every, er, created. But, as he said, it’s muy complicado.

Again, it’s good that it’s such a complex business, because otherwise you have three grown men doing something like the following during announcements:

Inter House Maths Competition results. Read by a Sports Jacketed teacher in an otherwise totally darkened Hall in the perfunctory and emotionless way, as frankly befits the occasion. But one band of brothers will not be dragged into the apathy of this event. For they are The Lighting Boys, and no event cannot be saved by... well... lighting.

- (Voice of Daniel) OK guys 15 seconds till show time. No need to remind you guys that it’s the Inter House Maths results this morning. That’s right. The. Big. One.
- 5 seconds. 4… Gonzalo, cue red spotligh. Nice.
- Right, Facundo, ready with the subtle green backdrop… And fade in… Beautiful.
- OK, here we go, the results. Hold your nerve boys. OK, First place. Spotlight prize-winning envelope in red… Nice. Now, follow prize-winner from middle of hall with brilliant white spotlight. Keep it steady… No, that’s the ceiling. Get the light
- OK, it’s ok, she’s up again. We’re back on track. Spotlight her to stage. Spotlight her. OK, she’s up there.
- Love it. Now, transfer white spotlight focus to Headmaster… Transferring.
- NO! You’re blinding him! He can’t see! … Cut spotlight. We’re dark out there people, get it together! Fade in and increase green backdrop! Yes, just do it!!
- OK, good save Facundo. Green is good. OK, they’re on to second place…
- Change of plan, we’re going with green. Yeah you heard me. Green is good. I’m feeling green for second today. Nice. Nice movement Gonzalo. Green is second.
- And yellow for third. Yes, I’m loving that. I am loving that. Follow to edge of stage and… cut!
- House lights and… we’re done here.
- That’s a rap boys. Nice work. Very nice work.
- What’s that?
- Thank you, Gonzalo. No, I dunno where it came from. Green just was second today, you know?

Wipes stress induced sweat from brow, another story for the pub on Friday. Chest stretching black jumper to the max, Daniel disappears, with magnificence. And you thought he was just the IT guy.

Tour de los Padres

Diplomat

As promised, a little summary of the visit of mis padres, my folks. Incident packed, as you'd expect. Dad, aka Big Yun, almost didn't even make it into the country. He foolishly said, quite loudly, that he was 'off the red meat and red wine' this trip, in order to prevent a debilitating bout of gout. As immigration officials descended to oust him from the country (it's the cultural equivalent of arriving in Israel and asking for a bacon sarnie), I hailed a cab to ensure a getaway.

Death by River

We found ourselves entering the city at the same time as the River supporters, as the superclassico Boca - River kickoff had been moved to 2pm to accomodate the Pumas - Scotland rugby, and we had hit hooligan hour. Truckloads of drinking, chanting red and white 'hinchas' sang their way happily towards the stadium. Happily, that is, until our cabbie started 'saluting them' and waving his Boca colours. Like stamping on a bee hive. So we were forced to take more visually appealling route home. Mum, aka Moochie, was watching all of this with a calm detachment, saying it was all 'mighty exciting'. Which it certainly was.



Almost Famous

Next attempt at our own lives: marching into 'Bar Kick Off' as the only Scottish supporters for the Pumas game, Saltires waving and all of that. Using inside sources and no doubt phone tapping, at least three TV channels had heard we were going to be there, so I spent half the match giving interviews for various network. You've probably seen the coverage, in which I was excellent, eloquent and hilarious. Although they edited all of that out, and I ended up looking like a berk, crying into my half pint (camera tricks) at full time. Emmy nomination stuff. But seriously, sometimes you just want a holiday and to get away from it all, you know?

Iguazu



To escape the media attention, we flew to Iguazu, where there was an enormous waterfall. Best told in pictures, and nothing very funny happened. Except that Big Yun experienced his first Argentine steak, then ordered a bottle of wine, and declared that only death would stop him consuming as much of each as he possibly could during the trip. Wise choice.

Then to Mendoza

... to test the theory. Wine tour. Our guide, Javier, what a champion, started with the basics. 'I don't want to patronise you guys, but I'll start from the basics, ok? Right. You have two types of wine: red and white.' Everyone sighed, knowledgably. Which made feel a little silly as I had just drawn a line down my note pad, dividing it into 'red' and 'white' sections.
'So, what colour grapes are they from?' Javier continued.
'What the hell have grapes got to do with anything?' I asked.
A lot, as it turns out.

Big Yun had by now moved from 'not drinking' to 'drinking for three': para explicar, Moochie was off the booze, Katie is pregnant and I wasn't quick enough to 'bagsy' her glass.

Halfway through the detailed explanation of the 'French oak aged, fruitly rich' Malbec we were 'trying', a slurping noise distracted our attention and we all turned to see some kind of red wine dyed bearded philistine smacking his lips and asking for 'un poco mas', with eyes as wide as Hagar.

Three vineyards, much knowledge and mucho vino later we sat down for a four course, eight glass meal in a restaurant with Mendoza vineyards in the foreground and snowy mountains in the background. So the photos proved: I was plastered.

Buenos Aires

Back to BsAs for the long weekend: we took Moochie for a big tour of San Telmo. Big Yun bedridden with gout. Not that's a wine tour. But he was good to go the next day, for more downtown exploring, which is where Moochie found that tree (previous entry), demonstrated in the taxi that her Spanish is better than mine, checked out Recoleta Cemetary (which was 'a bit morbid' apparently), enjoyed the sun, squeezed in a couple more steaks, and then sent them back to Blightly.

Que vacaciones!

(Please note. Legal waver: all comments made regarding the character referred to in the entry as Big Yun are entirely ficticious and any similarities with any relative of mine, or actual persons, are entirely coincidental.)

I was thinking, Miss...

Marking: the burden of the teacher, particularly the English teacher. We hate it, all of us, and there's no way around that fact. The guilt you feel is fortunately the only thing that can motivate you to sit down and get through the books. And there is nothing that makes you feel so low as failing to mark work, knowing that day after day the little things will look at you, imploringly, wondering if you've bothered to scrawl 'Well done, 8/10' on their efforts.

Dealing with that guilt, and still making your kids feel valued when your actions so clearly suggest they are not, is an art that simply must be prefected. You can't mark their books every day, but you can't let them feel you won't.

My colleague and mate, Jacqui, was asked yesterday by her Year 8 chicos if she'd marked their books. She replied no, for the third time, and they started to complain, widened their eyes like dogs wanting a biscuit. So, guiltridden, she decided to explain in detail why. I'd mentioned that one tactic I used was to explain exactly how long marking took, 'Doing The Maths', in order to get the kids to empathise. So Jacqui 'Did the Maths'.

'Sorry guys, but I have both my Year 12 Literature and Language papers to mark this weekend, and Year 12 have exams next week. I'll do the ame for you when you're in Year 12. But let's do the Maths. I have 15 kids in each class, two classes, so that's 30, two exams each, so that's 60 papers. They take about 30 minutes each, so that's around 20 hours. So, today's Friday, that would mean I need to do about 10 hours on Saturday and 10 hours on Sunday...'

Jac's then factored in things like eating and sleeping, maybe going for a walk, having to buy some food. Possibly even some time for herself, before concluding: 'So, little ones, that's why I won't have marked your books by Monday. OK?'

The kid were silenced, and looked at the complex sums on the board, no doubt empathising with the workload of the modern day teacher.

Eventually, a brave hand was raised at the back. 'Yes, Francisco?'

'I was thinking Miss. Why don't you start tonight?'

Chores are for poors

You have to think about your audience. This is of course true of any 'presenter': from loftly politicans to lowly teachers. Bush, for example, should know that most people know in the audience would know that Mandela is not actually dead, as he hilarious stated last week.

In my own humble way, I should think more about who I am teaching before launching into various tasks. This morning was a case in point.

The book we are reading includes an island where the inhabitants have invented many ingenious devices which save time: very a la Wallace and Gromit. So I asked for suggestions about which household chore they found the most annoying and time consuming.

Having explained what the word 'chore' meant in English, I then had to explain what a chore was.

I then offered a series of prompts. Cleaning your room, ironing your clothes, making food, cleaning and drying your clothes...

Then I went a bit more upmarket, to meet my audience: Cleaning the pool, mowing the lawn, er, chopping the sushi, mixing the cocktails?

I then went into a deep description of my normal day: getting up, ironing a shirt, catching the bus etc etc getting home, going to the market, cooking some dinner.

Eventually one brave hand goes up in the back. I leap on the enthusiasm with scarcily hidden relief.

"Yes, Florencia?"

"Sir, a question. Are you a poor?"

Mis padres

My folks arrived last Sunday and since then we have had an absolute ball. Many lovely things to share and cracking stories to tell, but without doubt the highlight for Moochie was seeing this tree.

She went absolutely mental.

Eye problem

Another rebel falls foul of Fergusson's watchful gaze. Not a note shalt go unread.

Maybe that's why this evil child thought they could get away with it. Nothing wrong with these peepers, thank you.

Moving House

Three most stressful things: 1 Moving house 2 Getting a divorce 3 Losing your job

How are these possibly, as people often trot out, and as several people have said to me this week, the three most stressful things that you can experience in life? Off the top of my head I can think of the following, and most of these take less time:

1. Booking a flight on the internet. (Worst possible way to save a pound by avoiding the phone call, which is usually charming.)
2. Shopping with a girl.
3. Learning to drive.
4. Being taught by your Dad to drive.
5. Filling out a UCAS form.
6. In fact, filling out forms in general.
7. Airport security when flying to the States (and I´m white non Muslim, which on a flight is practically an upgrade in itself).
8. Waiting to receive anything between 8 and 1pm, or 1 and 6pm. Other times exists, people.
9. Trying to explain the rules of cricket to a foreigner.
10. That last Lord of the Rings movie, that I walked out well after the end but before it had ´finished´, and is quite possibly still finishing.

So, that´s 10. Feel free to contribute others. My point is: we have moved house and it´s wonderful. It´s a cracking place, made for visits from our far flung friends who want to experience a spot of Latino Americana. We are excellent hosts, and I have references to prove it, who can now offer drinks on the balcony, somewhere to sit (in fact, we have options), all the mod cons: toilets that flush, doors that shut. Can´t ask for much more than that, can you?

PS For the record, MarineBoy, from previous blog entry, suggested under stressful situations:
11. Trying to find Dougs in a crowd when he turns side on.
Which is neither funny nor factually accurate as I have beefed up into some sort of Lamont Brother in the last few weeks. Been hitting the weights pretty hard so that each previously sticklike leg now resembles, well, a twig.

RWC fever

(Collective noun for Welsh Women?)

Ah, have been much amused by the RWC banter flying around the emails. But though I would have to post these two beauties, regarding the clash of New Zealand v France, which is of course being held in the Stag and Hen Do Haven that is Cardiff.

There was much speculation as to what would happen when half of New Zealand will descend upon Cardiff. Words in brackets have been censored by this editor.

SuddenlySkinny predicted:
... if this game was in France, France would have gone through, but NZ trot home comfortably as it´s in Cardiff and it will be full of Kiwi's... and this means there will be no chance of getting served a beer in London. Rough justice.

The 'other' World Cup will be in full effect as the Kiwi's and Welsh meet in the bars of Cardiff on Saturday night, this produces a population explosion in Wales and they in 24 years time will have an awesome rugby team, the Welsh team in 2031 will be fired up and emotionally needy as non of them will have known their fathers but with the mysterious genetic ability to catch, run and pass they become world beaters and thrash NZ in the final. Real justice.

Email one. Marineboy30 replied:
However you forget one thing... the combination of male Kiwi and female Valley (mixing) may be a potent mix but as always, the female gene will be dominant! Thus, in 20 years time those young men may well have more natural talent than Carlos Spencer and Dan Carter combined, but they will feel compelled to spend more time on the sunbed with steroid needles hanging out of their arms, whilst concurrently stroking their mullets and making court appearances on time than turn up to Welsh trials.

(Got it! A vat...)

Scotland v New Zealand: the inside story

My Old Man pulled rank (I don't know over whom) and got himself box seats for the Scotland - New Zealand game. Sitting right behind Graham Henry and the coaching staff, these are a few of the choice lines he overheard. Great stuff.

In all seriousness, I was proud of the boys and they fronted up well. All about Italy anyway, and I'm not sleeping at night over that one. Vamos Escocia!

Graham Henry, on Paterson's 'injury' after 20 minutes.
GH, to Steven Hansen, defensive coach: "Ah, what's this? Right boys, heads up... Looks like Paterson's coming off. And they're putting on... Parks at 10. All right, Steveo, you can have the rest of the day off."

Paterson, speaking to Taylor, regarding his 'injury', showing his experience:
"Didny fancy this lark, Si, y'know? These boys are muckle, and I'm slower than their hooker. So I look up and see Parks wi a smug grin on his puss, and I think, Right, Parks, you think yer gonna start against the muppets and the minnows, see how you like this? Next tackle. Brought the big yun doon nae bother. Och, ahh, ma leg - he he - I'm off after 20 minutes. How do you like those apples, Aussie boy?"

Hadden, to big Jason.
FH: Why do I not recognise that winger, Jas? That Number 11...?
BJW: Er, our winger, Frank?
FH: Ay, he looks familiar...
BJW: Ah, that's Nikki Walker, Frank.
FH: Christ! Walker? Wit's he doin' here?
BJW: Ah, well, that's what a lot of us were wonderin, to be honest, but we were too embarrassed to say anything...
FH: Och, wit have I dun?

Hadden, to physio Stephen Mutch, re Marcus Di Rollo (pictured above, middle, crouching, trying to keep his head on his shoulders):
FH: Should we take Marcus off?
SM: Scotland physio: Ah. If you like? Why, he's having a stormer.
FH: He's got a hell of a swellin' ti his heed!
SM: Er, I think that's just Marcus' heed, Frankie.
FH: Jeez, Lord, poor lad, poor lad. Best leave him on then. Jeez...

Hadden (on Southwell's heroic effort to stop a human battering ram with 10 yards of steam in the shape of Tony Woodcock from scoring from point blank range:
FH: Ow.

On the clash of strips (which was ridiculous).
Girl: How can you tell which team has the ball? They're wearing the same colour.
Boy: Can you see the ball?
Girl: Yes.
Boy: That's New Zealand.
Girl: And if Scotland has the ball.
Boy: It means New Zealand have just scored.

Where do you think you are, Norway?

Trying to be a good father to be, I innocently asked in the Primary how many days Paternity Leave you got in Argentina.

Ninety days, I was told.
But, are you sure...
Yes.
For Paternity leave...
Aah!! (Pause while whole staff room collapses into laughter). None! Paternity leave! Where do you think you, Norway?

Turns out I actually get 2 days. So there.

I got almost this exact reaction again the other day. We´ve just moved house (another entry to follow, but man it´s nice), and I was concerned that two days before I moved in there were no light fittings yet in the unfurnished flat. So I asked at school.

Er, should I expect light fittings in an unfurnished flat in Argentina?
(Pause to allow for Where do you think you are, Norway? types of laughter to die down). Fortunately, someone nice ´explained´.
Some landlords are now including them as an incentive to tenants.

So we went to buy some lights fittings.

New world order

I have four days before the notional World Cup Final on Sunday, Scotland v New Zealand at Murrayfield. This gives me only four days to bask in the glory of back to back Scottish victories (not to mention the football), making two mighty rugby nations looks like minnows.

With New Zealand on Sunday I can only say the following. Carter is a poor man's Parks, McCaw is like an old Hogg, Webster a quicker Rokocoko, Lamont brothers? A pair of Jonah´s... Ah, it´s going to be marvellous.

Good morning

"Good morning school. You will see that a small nest has appeared. (Points to nearby tree.) It is there. Let's all do our best to make sure it remains alone. Thank you. Any other notices? No? Then have a good day."

Deputy Headteacher's address to the school this morning at our daily 'Flag Ceremony'.

Parenthood

Women say:
"Ahhhhh! Oh my God, that's AMAZING. How long? Boy or girl? How long have you known..." and so on. As a gender study, it's a pretty revealing one. This reaction is pretty similar whether it's a colleaguette who had never previously spoken to me before, or a Primary 6 class.

Men say one of the following:
Argentine men, standard joke: "Do you know who the father is? Six week, eh - I remember meeting a Scottish girl around then..."
British guys: Radio silence,
And Pricey sent the above sketch.

Palermo Parques

The difference in life here when the sun is out is incredible. For example, we've had three days of grey drizzle that would have your hardened Glaswegian wondering why the sky was so low. Why is that when all you see is grey you find it impossible to think of anything to do other than throw yourself out of the window.

So here's a reminder, to myself really, of how lovely it is here in the sun. Pictures from a couple of weekends ago, easy cycle to Belgrano and picnic in the parque. Que lindo!

Choripan v Hotdog

Argie's version of the Hotdog is in my opinion a far superior beast to its North America cousin. The boiled mush, the greyish meat; overcompensated by mustard. I could never stomach them.

The choripan is for me a far better beast: beefier, fattier, and saltier; best cooked on the fires of hell. A good guideline: the dirtier the chori stand, the better the chori.

You hear the chori vendors, like the Sirens, calling you from across the parque: Chori chori chori chori... Hmm, sweeter music hath no sound.

France 0 Scotland 1

Oh Lordy, did that just happen?

Ageing

So, I have noticed a few changes recently. These may be because I am married now, they may be because I have turned thirty, they may have been there all along. You tell me, but recently I have started noticing that I do, or have done, following things:

I said ‘Well done’ to a complete stranger, a youngster, after watching him hold open a door for an old lady.

At work, the phrases 'Sonny Jim', 'Young Man' and 'Settle down' are essential parts of my armoury.

I look at weather before deciding what to wear. (A practical decision. Where is my vanity of youth?)

I hardly ever check if my flies are undone. Not because I think it’s a good look, I just don’t think it’s that important.

On Friday night, preparing for what I would have previously described as ‘a big night out’, I made sure both laces were of equal length before tying my shoes. (Katie hates that I wrote that. Me, I think it’s just good sense.)

Also on Friday night, whilst preparing to go out, I turned the volume button to the left.

I actually listened to someone before offering my opinion something.

I 'offered my opinion'. Previously this would have been known as ‘telling them the answer’.

If offered the option of a Happy Hour or a Nap I would momentarily fail to remember the difference.

Ask yourself, when you get home from work, what comes off first: jacket or trousers? Thought so, You too are old.

Fortunately, Latin American culture means that ‘early night’ means 130am and a ‘nap’ is called a ‘siesta’, which is keeping me cooler than frankly I have any right to be.

Oh, and you know that noise you make when you get out of a chair? Well I do.

A corner of Argentina that is forever Scotland

So, disappointed at the lack of interest in the Rugby World Cup at school I decided to abuse my position. I say 'lack of interest': there is a huge amount of interest in Los Pumas, Pichot, Contempomi and 'el sexyman' Hernandez (that really is his nickname) and all of that. But 'interest' in this case is a little more specific. Namely: Scottish.

The catalyst was the horrific sentence offered by one of my Year 6s: ´Sir, who is Chris Paterson?'

So, as we are studying Research Skills at the moment it seemed only right that they should find out as much as they could about ´The Best 22 Rugby players in the World´.

Each student was given a name, starting with Blair and ending with Southwell, and asked to come up with a poster profile of each player. Bless them, we had reached player 16, Scott Macleod, before one of them pointed out that they were all Scottish.

And now I have two Year 6 classes who in their weekly test will be asked: how many tackles Alistair Hogg make during the Six Nations, what is Simon Taylor's height, who is the all time leading scorer in the RWC, and, of course, who is Chris Paterson (the only acceptable answer to that is: Scotland First Choice Fly Half)?

Posters up on the wall. Not a Puma in sight. There is now a corner of some foreign field that is forever Scotland.

I am old because they are young

It doesn't seem that long ago, to quote a famous man's words, that the toughest decision you had to make was 'shirt or t-shirt' on a night out. Now all sorts of grown up things are happening. I find myself in a philosophical frame of mind. Where did that time go?

It’s exacerbated by my job, and particularly by my timetable. In London I taught almost exclusively A level. Those people were 18. A mere 11 years younger than me. My wee bro is 21. By my Maths that makes me 3. But now I teach Primary. Those little things are TWENTY YEARS YOUNGER than me. Do you know how weird that is? I asked them today what age you become 'old'. They agreed, pretty quickly, on 'thirty'. I pushed them for an reason, and they said: 'Cause you can't really do stuff like run anymore.'

So, I thought I would try to compile my own list of things that get better and worse as you get older, and some signs to look out for. Watch this space.

Black Tuesday. Rant.

Dark morning, overcast, humid as hell suddenly and sleepy from too many car alarms. Bus muggy, arrived late.

Assembly on 'Community Service'. Two minutes in the room was collectively entering hypnosis. I could only concentrate by sweepstake betting with the person next to me on which kid would fall asleep/lose consciousness first. Turns out it was a dead heat between the girl in Year 9 and EVERYONE ELSE IN THE ROOM.

I swear I could feel my heart rate slowing.

So, man wth microphone rambles on for TWENTY FIVE MINUTES, ruining the chance that ANYONE would ever want to do ANYTHING for the community again. Spanish collegue leans over: 'Are you understanding this?' I shake my head. She looks jealous, 'Enjoy that.'

It takes a certain arrogance to be THAT DULL for that long. And I'm free Lesson 1. Or I was. 15 minutes left, barely enough time to do anything useful. Curse Community Idiot.

Lesson 2 in Library, destroyed by loud irritating class whose teacher wouldn't even tell her students to be shut up.

Lesson 3 and 4, dull, though mostly my fault. Lesson 3 I had a teacher observing. She taught them last year. There are 24 of them, and clearly it would be impossible not to greet and kiss EVERYBODY before you enter the room; that would be just rude. Glad I planned for an hour and wrote a tightly timed lesson. Lesson 4 taught in dark, dank room with brown curtains like an old woman's hair.

Lunch. First 30 mins, stopped in to Admin. Found out our flat has 'fallen through'. Wonderful. Landlord has apparently sniffed that some English speakers are renting and uped the rent by 20%. Boludo!

Arrive late for lunch: food cold, maximum possible noise in the canteen. One empty table, thank the Lord: I can sit on my own like a loser and relax without having to talk and silently fume about the flat. About to enjoy my food, I look up and the originator of this disasterous day - the Community Service guy - takes a place. And he speaks English. So I get the ENTIRE torturous assembly for a second time, and, though I would have thought this impossible to believe this morning, it is even more dull in English.

Lesson 5: Primary. The little monkeys are trying on their outfits for the school play today. So obviously their Mummies have all come to look at them. Every time I look up during the lesson there's another Mummy at the window asking if they can just borrow little Manuelito for a momentito. Rolling subs of a lesson. Only the town orphan makes it through the lesson uninterrupted.

Spanish meeting. One hour: at no point are their less than two people speaking, at no point is anyone speaking English. Which is fine, but made my response to the question, 'Doug, what do you think?' slightly monosyllabic.

Toys out the pram, I phone for a remise (taxi) to bring the day to a close.

End of Black Tuesday, end of rant.

Bees

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I spent the whole of lunch talking to a fellow teacher about bees.

No, it wasn't, it was fascinating. It turns out that bees are amazing, and here's why, in 5 easy to remember facts.

1. Your average honey bees lives for about 2 months.
2. A queen bee, genetically identical to its honey bee brothers and sisters, lives for 6 YEARS, simply due to it's uber-organic royal jelly diet.
3. Honey bees become alcoholics (but they never smoke).
4. Hive politics: on occasion, a hive will rebel against the queen bee, and breed and feed up a rival queen bee II. When queen bee II is big and strong, there is a mutiny, and the most dominant set of bees forces the other out. (And you can bet your ass there is then one hell of a hive party.)
5. Bees are not allowed to travel to the United States as stipulated in the Patriot Act.

Good, eh? And you're still dining out on your 'bees-can-only-sting-you-once-cause-they-die-when-they-sting-you-oo-but-they-can't-tell-anyone-cause-they're=already-dead' knowledge. Shame on you.

So the next time somebody snooty tries to get one up on you in the workplace based on their superior bee knowledge, that's apis florea, by the way, hit them with some of these learnings.

And yes, no 3 is almost completely true. Google it.

Being this, and a disponsable condition to board.

Whilst in Colonia ferry terminal, awaiting carriage back across the water home, a very strict man announced the following. He announced it every 5 minutes, and we were there for a while, so I wrote it down.

We are home safely now, so it can't have been that important. Still, any suggestions as to what the meaning might have been would be welcome:

"Ladies and Gentlemen. Please be advise-ed that passengers travelling without teeple (?) for safety they must dispatch all baggages at the terminal hall access. Being this, and a disponsable condition to board."

Essential Training

Last night I read several pages of the Al Queda training manual.

It is rather mean about people like me.

Work avoidance

Late night, too much Malbec, too much beef, flat was too hot, too many car alarms, couldn't sleep, up since 5 etc

So day of pottering and work avoidance in order: bless the internet for making that so much easier. Today I have:

Been hooked to cricinfo for most of this avo hoping England can scrap for what is now an unlikely victory in the 4th one dayer. 'Watched' the whole Murray-Bjorkman in US Open on the bbc textupdate site, sent dozens of emails, updated blog, perused facebook, caught up on the world news (China's big, isn't it?) and wrote a poem (it was rubbish, but better than trying to think).

Que bueno!

Colonia del Sacramento

Colonia, just across the river from here into Uruguay, where we were for the weekend. Gorgeous little UNESCO World Heritage town, best described through the photos methinks. (Click photos to enlarge)

Snapshot and sunset

TwentyFourHoursInBuenosAires. This is what's going on:

River have taken only 2 points from 9 at the start of the new championshio, but Boca have started stronger than expected without talismanic genius Riquelme (who they couldn't keep as, like Beckham, he would cost more than the whole squad combined. Unlike Beckham, he's worth it).

It rained for 40 hours Saturday - Sunday, when will the winter end? Didn't spoil our weekend getaway to Colonia del Sacramento, cute little town 50 minutes by ferry across the Rio Plate in Uruguay. Muy lindo. Woke up to Evita on the TV: realise why the Argie's don't really like the way Santa Evita is portrayed in the movie.

An ex-Cabinet minister, Daniel Varizat, was swamped by irate protestors in Rio Gallegos last night. Saying he feared for his life, as his car was surrounded, he hit the gas and ran over 19 people, 3 of whom are now in critical condition. Horrific.

The Kirchners have decided which one of them will run for President: Nestor will stand down, his wife's going to run. No need to re-print the posters or anything, they still just read: KIRCHNER.

Crisis de energia continues: signs are all over the school urging people to join the country and save energy, switch lights off etc. Better than before though (when my remise/taxi could only drive me half way home, and I had to walk the second half in the cold: about an hour.)

On the bright side I have no idea if the UK still has Big Brother.

And I just bought a half-litre tub of ice-cream for £2 (chocolate suizo, vanilla, limon), have a large glass of fine Tempranillo (another £2) in front of me, I'm listening to the uber-camp upbeatiness that is Mika and outside is the most beautiful sunset I have ever seen.

And what is that?

And 'that'? That is my brother, Iain.

What is that?

'That' is my brother, Chris.

The question all teens are asking.

Passing notes is an age old practice, helping thousands of bored, naughty or flirtatious school kids get through the last lesson of the afternoon. History was our lesson of choice. And I remember a friend being caught with a round of consequences by our History teacher, who was the star of that particular round.

'Passing notes, are we? Right, read that out, Gardner', he bellow, face reddening.
'Um. You sure, Sir?'
'Read it!'
'Yes, Sir...' His stammering voice betraying the fact that 'Gardner', usually quick witted, was somehow unable to improvise something else as he stared at the hideousness ahead,
'Er, right. Er. Fat Sack (the teacher's affectionate nickname - we all looked up, so if said teacher didn't already know that was his alterego, he did now) meets Brodie (this the name of his colleagues' labrador). 'He says to it, You look lovely tonight...' and so the teeth were drawn. Passing notes was fun. Being caught red handed? Agony.

Even the Sutton hoodies would rather remove their fake tan than read the intimacies being passed around rhe room. In Sutton all sort of venemous filth could be found on the floor before, during or after lessons. Whilst often indecipherable, txtpsk Souf Landan slang, it usually revolved around who was meeting whom in the park.

u goin up t prk l8r?
yeah, u goin?
yeah
wiv Ryan?
yeah
ee iz buff
yeah

And so on until you died of boredom.

But two such notes have found their way into my possession of late.

The context: two tweenager girls who had obviously being neglecting each other and the 'make up note' culminated in the following line. It also signals the moment where two fine languages die. It read: 't-kro 4eva'

t-kro as in txtspk for 'te quiero' meaning, love you. love you 4-e-va.

I know what you're thinking. There isn't enough vomit in the world.

So I opened the second, today's entry, with a feeling of dread. What hideous teenage subculture would this reveal? I confiscated this as a pesky young sprog was surrepticiously passing it to her evil, evil friend. Ha! I've been on to you, young lady, I thought. Now, what devilish mind is at work here? What is the question these teens are asking?

'Now pass that here, thank you,' I said in my finest smug teacher voice. 'Now what exactly is so important, so pressing that you just had to pass it to you little friend at this exact moment, hmm? Hmm?'

Grabing the note, I read: 'Podemos hacer que el sol de la energia?'

'Does this say what I think it says?' I replied.
'Um. I don't know, Sir.'
'Well, what does it say?'
'Um. I was asking: What can we do with the sun's energy? Sir.'

Damn it, I thought.

That would never have backfired in Sutton.

My typical day 0611 - 0815

0611 (Exactly) Neighbors' car alarm goes off. Four bars of bleeping and it stops.

0630 Alarm goes off. Get up. Curse neighbor for costing me 19 minutes of sleep. (That's 115 mins each week, so roughly 34 hours since I arrived And yet if I were to have him killed, they'd send ME to jail.)

0631 Put on espresso maker. Check weather. The weather is: dark.

0632 Shower, shave, resolve to go to bed earlier tonight. British early as in 10pm, not Argie early as in 2am.

0645 Leave shower. Check coffee isn't burning. Get dressed.

0650 Cereal and morning paper. We get the Buenos Aires Herald, which generously and accurately describes itself as 'the best and only English language paper in BsAs'. Generously because it is appalling written, like reading homework or the news on teletext. Accurately because it is the only English language paper.

0700 Finish coffee, feel artificially awake, grab bag, head off to meet the coletivo, the minibus that drags eleven of the teachers from this area to work.

0710 Coletivo arrives: all the Argentines are sound asleep. Put headphones on to distract conversation, sleep behind my eyes.
Preferably listen to Kermode rant about the world as we know it.

0745 Drive past Cerberus through the gates and into the seventh circle.

0800 Flag ceremony. Where the entire school, 300 or so, turn to pay their respects to the national flag. The prefects raise the flag until it stands against the blue sky. Except that the pulley mechanism doesn't really work, so this increasingly tattered rag of a 'bandera' get dragged up the side of the wall.

On Tuesdays, assemblies. These are marvelous things: more on those later, no doubt.

0815 Tutor time. Don't have a tutor group, so photocopy resources etc ready for the day.

Bell rings.

Dwindling Community

Katie and I agree that one of the best things about living here is that you have a genuine little community. Without trying to sound twee, you have your little bakers, butchers and grocers and you spend ages doing your shopping and it's all lovely and hello and how are you. This community extends far and wide - essentially anyone you've ever bought anything from (flower shop, barbers etc) remembers who you are and says hello.

We had this little community until a couple of weeks ago. Key word is 'had'. It's dwindling, for a number of apparantly unconnected reasons. So this, essentially, is the toll of places we can no longer show our faces. Person responsible in brackets. See if you can work out the pattern:

1. The doctor's. (Katie)
We can't go there anymore (which is a freakin tragedy if only becaue they have a Dr Gambacorta, which translates to Dr Short Prawn). No, we can't, because Katie shut her own head in the door.

She was asked to 'come in' to the room, and then she was asked to 'close the door behind you', which she did, forgetting to remove her own head from the doorway first.

And I refuse to go there through association. What a mong.

2. The panaderia. (Katie)
No real fault of ours, but they think we're Mexican. Katie didn't contradict them at the time, and now it's too late and she discusses how life is different here (than en la ciudad de mejico) and how her breathren are mostly working in the States.

3. Bonafide: The Coffee and Chocolate Shop. (Katie)
This was hilarious. First and last visit. This shop is awesome, like something form a Roald Dahl novel. Katie wanders in, chatting away in Spanish as she comments on the wonderous array of chocolates available. 'Oh, this is wonderful... (Turning towards the woman at the till) How on earth do you work in a place like this without eating everyth...? Ah!'

The woman was a monster. And, staring back at Katie, replied:
'I do.'

Agonising pause.

'That is why I am so fat.' (Pictured above)

So, best shop in Argentina now also off the list, but I reckon it's almost worth it. It's the weekend now, so doubtless I can update you on another one soon.

Bread.

Back in Buenos Aires after two initially mental and eventually blissful weeks in Blighty. Ah, Blighty. The land of rain, floods, cider over ice, traffic, good curry, road rage, outrageously expensive petrol, drunkeness and dreadful R&B: my new definition of a 'chav' is one who rhymes the word 'umbrella' with the word 'together'.

Or, on the positive side: sense of humour, great village pubs, cricket, good newspapers, good coffee, Jelly Babies, festivals, Mark Kermode, Cornwall... not to mention family and friends.

But it is surprisingly nice to be back, with a bit of tennis yesterday in the sun, 18 degrees and blues skies in the middle of winter, and another week before we go back to work.

A bit sleepy with jetlag last night, we decided to hire a movie. At the checkout, we collected our movie and were given a little biscuit, and a loaf of bread. 'Promotional offer', the lady said, as if that explained something.

Freakin' bizarre country.

Rain

So, this was on Day 3 in Buenos Aires. Monsoon rains towards the end of summer.

I woke to insane rain but having packed only the essentials, I had no waterproofs.

Fortunately, the shower curtain hadn't been put up in the flat, so I wrapped myself in that and got on with it.

Three blocks to where the bus picks us up. Ridiculous looking, but dry...

"It's gonna be good, Buenos Aires."

Election time in Buenos Aires. I don't know a lot about politics and my experience of elections to date has been limited to the UK and the US: the ridiculous TV footage of flag and banner waving patriots at the US elections at one end of the scale; the more than slightly dull rhetoric of the UK parliamentary elections on the other.

Obviously the Scottish elections are totally different, thrill-a-minute affairs, enjoyed and loved by one and all.

The Argentine mayoral elections have just been and gone and I have only just stopped laughing. Macri v Filmus. I do not of course pretend to have ever heard of either of these fine chaps prior to a week or so ago, but even with my ignorance it was impossible not to pick the winner.

Macri is loaded and handsome, recently shaved his formerly hilarious moustache, is the owner of Boca Juniors, who just won the Copa Libertadores, and has box set of beautiful daughters.

Filmus has a beard. Yeah, I know. A beard.

Icing on the cake: the manager of rival team San Lorenzo (who just won the league title) spoke in praise of Macri as the right man to be mayor. It's hard to imagine the opinion of Kenny Dalgliesh being sought by the press regarding whether Gordon Brown had his approval as the next PM.

Final note, however, has to go to Macri's campaign slogan. You would think that the posters were a sequel to The Anchorman, with Macri's big Ron Burgundy-esque moustache adorning bilboards across the city, complete with the OUTSTANDING catchphrase: 'Va a estar bueno, Bunos Aires', complete with a wink and a gun.

'It's gonna be good, Buenos Aires.'