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.