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REMEMBER ME??
Cleansed of guilt I enter 2010 full of resolve. No longer filled with remorse for past misdemeanours I begin the New Year with …. the knowledge that guilt is insidious. My editor is deeply disappointed with me. BUT it seems only yesterday I was on the beach and now it´s suddenly 2010 and I´ve got a pile of scribbled notes from which to make a column that make no sense at all. Some of these notes are illegible. Why do I scribble overheard conversations, ideas and quotes from my students onto scraps of paper found in a pocket, in the kitchen or in the car? What can I possibly make of these supposed aide memoires?
Choclit ….. (ah well, I need no reminder)
Defoe, defight …. eh?
Four mad animals in a car …
Loose cannon …..
Chickens don´t care …. (actually, I think some do)
Chair covers …. (this sounds riveting)
Railings …. (likewise, as above)
So, take chocolate.
Yes, please. That’s dealt with, then. I long ago removed this vital substance from my list of ´give-it-ups´. There’s simply no point.
Defoe, defight
– this is anyone’s guess …
The animal reference has suddenly risen to the surface. Whilst returning from the airport after dropping off a friend, I entered the slip road to join the main carriageway. The purpose of slip roads is to keep traffic flowing, let one car pass and then slip seamlessly in behind. It’s also good manners. Ignored by the first three cars I reach the point of no return and nudge my way in. Perfectly reasonable, unless you pull in front of a psychopath. This driver and his three passengers have gone so ‘ape’ my mouth falls open. They scream abuse from the windows, they shake furious fists and generally lose control. The driver tries to overtake but oncoming traffic won’t permit it so he decides to see if he can make me panic. What madness is this? When oncoming traffic allows he moves out to try and force me onto the barrier and into the ditch that runs before it, horn blaring. There’s something about bullying that brings out the worst in me. I cannot, in honesty, defend tactics that could be considered dangerous driving but, suffice it to say, that by the time we came to the Manises slip road I had managed not only to hold him off from overtaking in dangerous circumstances but forced him into Manises when he really didn’t want to go. Did I feel good? No. Did they learn a lesson? No. In fact, they’re probably still looking for me. A sobering thought. Would I do it again? I’d like to think not …..
CHICKENS DON’T CARE
This, I recall, is to do with a conversation I had with our builder, Hector, about putting an extractor fan in the bathroom. Hector always tells me I can’t have what I want solely because, I strongly suspect, I’m a woman. Every job completed in our apartment has ‘contention’ written all over it.
‘Can you please put an extractor fan here in this wall, please?’
‘No, not there’
'Why not?’
‘Because ….’
Because ….?’
‘Because people can walk past the outlet and if you make a smell it will embarrass you.’
‘No it won’t’, I say, followed by, ‘What people, there’s only me and my husband?’ and, finally, ‘English people don’t make smells.’
Figuring I’ve covered all bases, we glare at each other for several moments until he says: ‘The chickens’.
My neighbour keeps chickens. Our bathroom, separated by a footpath and dividing wall, backs onto his hen house. The outlet, naturally, will extract air straight at them.
‘They don’t care’, I say.
‘Chickens are sensitive, they might stop laying and then your neighbour will denounce you and then you’ll have to defend the denouncement and that means a lawyer and-‘
‘STOP! I’ve interviewed the chickens and they say they don’t mind, OK? They like to know someone’s next door. They also like to hear me sing in the shower, particularly songs from the 80’s, although they’re quite happy if I hum something classical. They particularly like-‘
‘OK! I’ll do it!’
‘Thank you’.
‘You’re welcome’.
STUDENT CHRONICLES.
In which, as a profesora de inglés, I report my favourite quotes of the week.
WHERE TO DRAW THE LINE
The other day, whilst engaged in conversation with some officers at The Base Militar, I introduced the subject of British Naval expressions still in common use today. Take ´loose cannon’, I said. ‘We use this term to mean someone who is unpredictable and, often, dangerous - as in the character of John McCain in the film ‘Die Hard’. It´s a literal term from when the cannons on old sailing ships could, during violent weather or when recoiling, break free of their runners and roll around the gun deck, causing damage or even death to those in their path.’ Whilst speaking I drew a quick study on my portable whiteboard of a cannon on runners, embellishing it with a couple of cannonballs. As I held it up I noticed a change in my students; raised eyebrows followed swiftly by a desperate attempt not to laugh. What? I replaced the board beside me and, on giving it a second glance, realized I had inadvertently drawn what appeared to be a penis and testicles. Instead of casually erasing it and moving on I stared at it in horrified fascination, my cheeks burning as I considered the best course of action. ‘Another naval expression still used today´, I said firmly, ‘is “to bear up”. This means to keep in good spirits, despite difficulties’. They let me get away with it, gentlemen that they are, pretending not to notice as I carelessly rubbed my sleeve across the board.
WHAT DID YOU SAY YOUR NAME WAS .... ?
The other day, whilst out watering my 'garden' most of which, it has to be said, seems to have developed a) exhaustion from either over or under-watering, b) earwig infestation, c) ant attack or d) what IS eating my geraniums? I heard a shriek of alarm from over the wall. My neighbour, Carmen, who works at The Arnau, leaves her mother, who has Alzheimer's, alone at home. I do my best to pass the time of day. Our exchanges, however, are limited. I say: 'Hello, Maria, how are you today?' 'Who are you?' 'I'm Barbara, I live next door'. 'Oh yes, I'm well, how are you?' 'Very well, thank you. Your garden is looking lovely'. 'Yes, I like to be out in the garden.' 'It's another beautiful day.' And here is where it usually goes to rats because Maria invariably comes back with. 'Who are you?' and I say: 'I'm Barbara .... etc'. BUT back to the shriek of alarm. Over the wall I see Maria has fallen into the shrubbery. Is she hurt? Shall I call Carmen? 'Are you all right?' I ask. 'Who are you?'. 'It's Barbara, I live next door ....'. Oh good grief .... I decide I must call Carmen. I don't feel confident speaking Spanish over the telephone. Person-to-person one can pull faces and make gestures when at a loss, the phone, however, is something I have learned to fear. I dial the number, hastily reviewing what I will say. I don't want to cause unnecessary alarm but worry that something might be broken ... I know perfectly well how to say what I want but suddenly the words leave me and when Carmen answers, knowing that the Spanish are extremely well-versed grammatically, I hear myself speaking in tenses. ' .... come, er, conditional ... fall ... preterite ... no puedo ... um what the hell's 'climb' el pared, er, broken something, er is that subjunctive, no, it can''t be, no, it's conditional, or is it? The Spanish, of course, are nothing if not pragmatic. 'Give the phone to mama', Carmen says calmly. I comply. I can hear Carmen yelling from two metres away. Maria gets up, brushes down her skirt and smiles at me. Relieved, I ask for my phone. 'Who are you?', she says, slipping my phone into her pocket .....
WHAT WOULD ANGELA DO ....?
Teaching English is sometimes very rewarding and sometimes ... not. Many of my students are military men - tough, young, handsome, masculine, fit, vital ... and... oh, um, I digress .... but some are not sure they care for being told how to speak English by a woman. They sometimes stare at me intransigently, which is not helpful. At times like these I think: 'What would Angela do?' On Friday, while waxing lyrical about phrasal verbs which are, by the way, almost totally incomprehensible to the Spanish, I found myself banging on (phrasal verb) with ' We can fall over, we can fall down, we can fall about laughing, we can fall in love, we can fall at the last fence we can fall up.' Pardon me? 'Yes, yes,' I say blithely, 'we can say: 'I fell up the stairs'. Six pairs of eyes focus sternly on my mine. I feel my temperature rising. What would Angela do? 'Right, we're now going to do some conversation. If you were given the choice of a) a life with money but no love or b) love but no money, what would you choose? The Spanish love these philosophical questions and think deeply and seriously about them. It's amazing how quickly they get me off the hook. But the question remains: can we really fall up the stairs? If we're going up the stairs and we fall forwards, surely ........ Angela will know. Although, Angela, it has to be said, wouldn't have got herself into such a muddle in the first place.
AND WHO IS ANGELA, WHAT IS SHE?
Angela, I should explain, is a very gifted university lecturer. Angela teaches marketing and communication. Angela is clever, beautiful and talented. I sometimes wonder why Angela tolerates me .... Mother always told me to choose my friends carefully. 'Your dearest friend should be unattractive but not ugly, clever but not intelligent (men don't like clever women), smart but not stylish and malleable, as in ... 'We've been invited out in a foursome, remember, yours is the ugly one'. All my friends are more accomplished than me, more attractive and, in some cases, more intelligent. How could I have gone so badly wrong?
AND FINALLY ...
This week I learned something so utterly charming about the Spanish army that I thought I'd share it with you. As I was walking back to my car through The Base the other day I was passed by a line of soldiers marching with the curious trotting gait so beloved of the Americans, the one where they repeat a chant shouted by the leader. In this case, the leader was a woman and her chant was more of a song. The next day I asked one of my students about it. This style of marching is called 'pasa lijera' (to pass lightly). He said that permission to sing must be requested from the Commander and that the songs were all love songs. Not so tough, then ......?
AND FINALLY, FINALLY ... BELLINIS
The Nisperos are in season and, Tim Birch tells me, they make fantastic Bellinis. Harry's Bar in Venice would probably sneer at the substitute for peach juice but as long as you remember to pour the champagne in after the juice, you will have a drink that is very nice indeed. Cheers Tim!
ANOTHER CULINARY DISASTER
Never mix kiwi, orange and banana in a smoothie. It is disgusting – and the colour has to be seen to be believed. Particularly, do not produce said concoction (with a proud flourish) at the breakfast table, to horrified guests, before you have properly regained control of your faculties (eyesight in particular) after a very late night involving champagne and rich food. Worse, do not make them drink it on the promise that, whilst it may look nauseating, it tastes heavenly. It doesn't.
CAN YOU REPEAT THE QUESTION, PLEASE?
The other day, whilst perusing one of my investment accounts, I noticed some particularly nasty charges. As most of my investments have been in the lavatory for some time I was incensed with righteous indignation. I picked up the phone and called the customer service line.
'Good morning, my name is Brian, how may I help you today?' Brian sounds 12 years old, further proof of my approaching middle-age.
'Good morning-'
'Before we begin, madam, may I first ask for your details?'
I gave them.
'Thank you very much and now I'll just ask you a couple of security questions. What is your password on this account?'
I hate these questions. What have I said? Did I make a note of it, etc? 'I have no idea. Can you ask me something else?'
'There are two passwords, what is the second one?'
'If I can't remember the first what hope have I of the second? Can you give me a clue?'
'It's an animal.'
'Horse' I said. I always say horse to the question 'animal'.
'And the second one?'
Oh for pity's sake! 'Surely one's enough?'
'I'm afraid I must have them both, madam'. Brian has clearly memorised the company credo, part of which is the art of not letting the customer get the upper hand.
'Can I have another clue?'
'Very well, it's a genre' (pronounced jen-rer). Very pleased with himself here.
'Science fiction'
'No'
'Romance'
'No'
'Comedy'
'No'
'Thriller'
'No'
'Murder mystery' Now I'm scraping the barrel.
'No'
'OK, I need help here. Are you allowed to give me another clue?
'I'll ask my supervisor'
Thirty seconds elapsed. 'Very well' he whispered, as though we might be overheard 'you were very clever here, it relates to 'horse'.
A genre that relates to 'horse'? 'Western?' I said uncertainly.
Correct, madam. Now, how can I help you today?'
My first password was 'weston' my mother-in-law's maiden name. I despair. But now, of course, I've had to change all my passwords again ... and remember where I've written them down, which we are told not to do. Life was simpler back then ... before technology ... whenever that was.
BIN HERE .. BIN THERE ...
I'm talking about contenadores: those ubiquitous green bins where we deposit our household waste. Ours is at the end of the street. Yesterday, I heard a rumbling, trundling noise and, on glancing out of the window, saw my neighbour to the right park said bin outside the window of my neighbour to the left. An hour later my doorbell rings. My neighbour to the left did not, understandably, want a smelly, fly-ridden contenador outside her window. Did I know who had perpetrated this act? Absolutely not, I said stoutly. So back up the street she pushed it. Later in the day, the first neighbour, on discovering the perfidy of the second neighbour (Spanish women have extraordinary radar in this area and know everything) wheeled it back into position. The bin has now moved a total of eight times. Part of me wants to mediate in what is, essentially, a move of convenience. However, I feel quite strongly that my neighbour to the right should have placed the bin outside her own window, which complicates matters and would, I am sure, only contribute to the argument, culminating in both parties turning on me and somehow making the whole thing my fault. So, I'm keeping quiet, waiting to see who breaks first.
THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN 'Oooh!' and 'Oh!'
This happens when someone makes the rash decision to prepare cheese straws and homous (someone forgot the shops were closed for 'La Crema' ) and takes them to a party. 'Ooooh!' occurs when someone says 'I've made some cheese straws and homous'. 'Oh!' comes when they are placed on the table. Spanish electric ovens, as everyone knows, are not reliable. One has to be vigilant or the worst happens – as with said cheese straws, which were slightly darker than good taste demands. There was also the problem with the 'barleytwist' effect. Someone has never made cheese straws and actually achieving this professional finish was clearly beyond them. The result were twenty-five dark brown sticks bearing indentations that looked remarkably like someone had clamped bare gums from one end to the other. The only good thing was that no-one could accuse the cook of passing-off shop-bought ones as their own. The homous, on the other hand, was a rather strange colour with the consistency of wet cement. So that was all right.
A PLAGUE OF LOCUSTS – OR LOBSTERS
Spring is here and what better way to celebrate than to upgrade the courtyard garden. My idea is this – a modest lawn to set off the Jacaranda. H kindly removed the requisite number of paving stones and I carefully prepared the soil beneath. Last time I tried to grow things from seed the ants removed them all one-by-one overnight so I asked the advice of a friend's gardener. A simple solution: add ant deterrent to the grass seed; the aptly named 'Malefin', in fact. Not that I've got anything against ants but a product called 'bad end' is somehow appealing. I read the instructions. Nowhere could I find a mention of ants BUT, if I was inundated with locusts, this product was for me. Or lobsters. Eh? NB: If anyone knows someone with a plague of lobsters could you please email me. Question: how does one attract a 'pestilence' of lobsters to one's garden? And is it reasonable to expect them to bring their own mayonnaise?
THAT REALLY ISN'T WHAT I MEANT AT ALL ...
In my other role as a teacher of English, I most fortunately picked-up a rather important business executive called Perfecto. He is a charming man and once a week we do 'conversation'. Last week he introduced the topic of 'young men in today's society'. As the father of a 17 year-old he was concerned about his education, his own role as a parent and the influence of modern technology on relationships. We were getting along rather well when I asked if he thought young men had become emasculated by their female counterparts? He looked at me thoughtfully and promptly moved the conversation on. Thinking I had not made myself clear I deftly brought the conversation back to this important issue. Did he think, I asked, that men were confused by the increasing power young women had over their own lives, thereby blurring the traditional role of men in a close relationship? Did they perhaps feel emasculated by this? Was this a good thing? Again, that thoughtful look, followed by a sudden change of subject. It was only when I got home and looked up the word 'emasculate' that I realised it's the same as for 'castrate'. I'm now worried that he thinks I'm in favour of castrating all young males so that women can get on with the business of running everything. Only time will tell.
LA CRISIS
Why, when everyone knows it is men who have created this economic nightmare, have the Spanish given it feminine stature? I most strongly object.
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