How far can you run on a full stomach?

Guadalajara - a large town and provincial capital - is not the most attractive or indeed compelling place, but it served as my base for a small weekend away and yielded some surprisingly interesting little chicken McOoh-that's-interesting-Nuggets.

I had signed up for a 5-6km charity run in the town. It was my first race. It was only 5-6km, which is what I usually run for fitness anyway, but it was my first 'race'. I would have a number and a finish line, competitors and a time! That was on the Sunday though. We still had Saturday.

After work finished at 14:00 I went with Ditas - our resident weekend teacher/marathon runner - to her home in Guadalajara. The plan was to stay overnight at her flat then go for our run the following morning. We caught our bus from Avenida America and 45minutes later we disembarked at the small and rather ugly bus station in the town. Might I just add here how charming the price for a ticket to Guadalajara was: 4.01 euros. I reckon I could have paid 4 euros and just told the driver to stop 50 yards from the terminus. We wandered to her flat through the drizzle and dumped our stuff.

After having the small tour of her frankly absurdly nice apartment we decided to go and get some food. The plan was to have a Guadalajara speciality - arroz con bogavante, or 'rice with lobster'. This was to be our meal. However the whole endeavour escalated into a full flung feast quite accidentally. We showed up a little late for lunch, at 4 o'clock, so the kitchen wasn't really prepared for us. In the meantime we were given a free little shrimp caldo (broth) in a mug and some perpetually topped-up bread rolls. We also had some crayfish croquetas while we waited. To accompany us on this food journey was a delicious and crisp bottle of Galician Albarino white wine. Then the arroz con bogavante came. Then the funny bibs came. To protect our clothing during the destructive and splattery process of eating the crustacean we were adorned with polythene bibs with a jolly little lobster on it. He seemed happy that we were about to tuck into what could have been his cousin Jerry. We cracked, crunched, stabbed, sucked and scraped the shells clean of meat and in the process coated both our hands and the surrounding finery in sauce and juice. After this we were stuffed to bursting point. Tea and a shot of pacharran liquor - essentially a tasty, red sloe-gin - ended it all off and we decided a walk was necessary.

We ballooned our way around the drab, rain-bashed town centre. We did find some nice churches with some differing innards: one glittery, golden and ostentatious; one dark, austere and angry; and another brick, stoic, quite British and containing a group of quietly wailing parishioners. We also glimpsed the small, weather-beaten bull ring, complete with tiled artwork and anti-bullfight graffiti.

Back at the flat I had a 2.5 hour siesta until Matt arrived at around 10:45. We watched some football on tele. Well, he watched it and I nodded in agreement saying 'he's OFFSIDE!' and 'the referee's a wanker!' and all that...just to fit in... Not really of course, I read a book. Ditas then made us a little tapas dinner. Bits of tender solomillo (fillet of steak) cooked in butter and seasoned, then set atop some bread with a little knob of foie gras that slowly melted into the meat.

SLEEP

The morning of the run, we woke up leisurely and had some cereal. It wasn't to start until 12, and according to one of the people who were involved it wouldn't actually start until 12:15-12:30. It was a Spanish-organised event after all.

We trotted up for about 12:10. Quite quiet. Ditas looked at once puzzled and a bit anxious.

She asked a marshal.

"Where do we go for the adults race"

"What adults race?"

"The one that starts at 12:00"

"The 12:00 race?"

"Yeah"

"Well, they've gone"

"Shit!"

We ran into the running circuit (the beginning of the race) and found another man who informed us "If you want to run, go now!" So much for my gentle and measured début in race-running. We shoved our clothes into a bag and pegged it. We were already 15 minutes behind the group. I spent the first 5 minutes running and attempting to unravel my headphones. GOD I HATE CABLES! That in place I focussed on what was ahead of me. It is quite a strange feeling running along with my number (917) down a very long road with everyone else running the opposite way. They either thought 'they were late...idiots' or 'christ, they are really bad at running'.

Apart from one stitch near the end that had me walking for 2 minutes I managed to catch up with Ditas - Matt had pulled away. We pulled into the stadium while the organisers had started to pack up. We crossed the line. Water and free t-shirts were thrust upon us. A group photo. Our times. Matt = 26 minutes, Me and Ditas = 28 minutes. The slowest time of the day was 42 minutes. Had we been with the main group, we would have done quite admirably. Instead we all came 'last'.

Oh well, it was fun. Now it hurts it when I move.

Good times.

We went back to ditas for a spot of lunch. Cheese-stuffed bacon-wrapped turkey breasts, filet Mignon in peppercorn sauce, peppers, mustard mash and some nice wine.

Goodbyes.

At 16:00 Matt and I took our return bus to Madrid and went to meet his girlfriend in the South of the city.

In the evening four of us: Matt, Raquel (his girlfriend), Anna and myself went to see Shutter Island in Kinepolis - an enormous 25-screen cinema megaplex. Anna had to leave halfway through out of fear. After the film we ate some oriental food and went home.

Adjectives to describe this weekend: full, tasty, painful, necessary.

The next run is 10km in April...we'll see about that. I might be washing my hair or something...

Classic Drinks #17: Wet Russian Loneliness

Well well well.

Wells and wellies.

I feel I should write something, because that is what I do...what I like to do.

At this moment I am listening to a Spanish band called Supersubmarina and their album Electroviral - it's rare to hear good Spanish music.

The rains have finally left. Yesterday the weather people predicted the 'tormenta perfecta' for Madrid. It was a bit blowy and wet. In fact the whole week has been crap if we're talking about the weather. Everyday my cheap little street-bought three euro umbrella took an absolute beating from the 80km per hour winds that smashed their way across plaza de Espana. Today however there are wispy clouds flittering through the blueness of the sky and everything feels decidedly more Spanish.

In front of me is the corpse of a pear that I have just finished obliterating with my teeth and ten fingers tip-tapping away wondering if they are going to stop wasting time on the computer and go outside. Which I might. Mother Nature is a fickle cow sometimes, hot and sunny one moment, then a week of rain and wind and broken brollies.

In fact I'm going to stick two chubby fingers up to the coming week's weather and go for a walk right now.

INTERMISSION

Going out in Madrid:

Madrid has a fat and bulging social scene that I am still only in the process of chipping away at. The nights usually seem to evolve in one of four ways.

1. The one-target-wonder: This starts with the usual pre-drinking in order to save on money. Sitting in your living room, in your small group, topping up rum and colas or wine glasses waiting for the 'right! Shall we off?' from whoever deigns it their moment to take charge of the proceedings. You then head off, either by public transport of by foot, to your selected home for the next few hours. You go and enter with your complimentary 'copa' (a drink) after spending 6-10 euros to get in in the first place. You stay, you dance, you have maybe one or two more drinks, you yawn, you stop dancing, you stand around, you smile blinkedly at your discomates and you go home. A variation on this plan is if you have one or more extra scheduled locations.

2. The failed cluster bomb: You go to one place, have your drinks, dance, etc - see above - but then you think 'new place?' Great idea right? You leave, maybe stumble a bit, avoid a drunk, and start to wander the streets. You try the doors of various places. But you're picky. 8 euros with a drink at 3 in the morning? No thanks chumley! A queue? Bugger off! It then becomes clear to the boys that sleep will be more entertaining, and to the girls that they shall be going to no more balls this night. You head to the Papizza joint, smirk at beautiful, intoxicated American girls in the hope they'll 'notice your accent' and jump on you. They don't. You then walk/taxi/night bus home sucking the pizza grease from your lonely fingers.

3. The Where-did-that-come-from?: You only went out for a pint or two. Then you've gone and ended up throwing some crazy shapes and drinking gin y tonics until 4 in the morning. You said you were tired. Someone mentioned something about 'not letting our timetables get us down!' or 'carpe diem!' and you ended up in a bar being goaded by already not-single male teachers to 'just go and talk to her'. You usually don't. You get home fuzzily and smile at the gem of an evening you just had.

4. The What is happening...seriously?: This can lead on from either of the above variations. You get to a point in the night when, either by the potency of the drinks or the fact that there's just something in the air, the world goes a bit...funny. You start saying hello to pretty girls as you walk past them, you start accepting offers to things or talking to people that you normally wouldn't, and then you start having 'great ideas'. Two weeks ago a few of us ended up in Chueca - the lively gay district - and found ourselves in the slowest queue imaginable. We were five in total: Ray, Niall, Euan, Niall's girlfriend Elena and myself. In this queue a severely drunk Ray bumbled over to a door on a different site. One minute later Euan's hissing at me 'go with Ray'. 'Eh?' I retort. 'Bloody go with Ray!' Our friendly neighbourhood American had been covertly offered two places in a small, surreptitious bar called 'Local'. Galumphing over to it I accidentally stood on a guy's foot.

Translation:

Spaniard: 'Hey, you stood on my foot!'

Me: 'Sorry about that, I didn't see it...'

Spaniard:'You're not from Spain'

Me: 'No...no I'm not'

Spaniard:'Are you Italian?'

Me: 'No'

Spaniard's Friend: 'You idiot, he's clearly English'

Spaniard: 'I'm from Catalonia'

Me: 'Barcelona?'

Spaniard: 'Yes' 'And in Barcelona we give two kisses on the cheeks'

Me: 'In England we just sort of shake hands'

Spaniard: 'Give me two kisses then'

Me: 'Err'

At this point Ray drunkenly and lightly took my hand and pulled me over to the bar area unaware I was conversing with a friendly Barcelonian.

Spaniard: 'Uh! He's already got a boyfriend!'

I half span with my finger in the air to correct him, but said 'meh' and decided it wasn't worth it.

We managed to get the other members of our troupe into the bar in the end. It was strange and small. There were bulbous orange/red sofas almost looking on to doorless toilets, slightly guarded by a semi-translucent glass wall, and strawberry heart-shaped lollipops stuck to the walls and windows. Standard. It was somehow made even stranger by the sparsity of the clientèle. Some scattered homosexual couples and a group of tired, drunk and a little bit confused 'guiris' (foreigners)

You never really know how a night out in Madrid will go. It's always exciting and often disappointing, but always different.

INTERMISSION OVER

That was a nice walk. I was alone, in the sun, with my music. I like to walk around, to learn the city. Yes it would be nicer to do the same walks hand-in-hand with a special someone. But lacking that special someone I am quite content to go alone. Saying that, the lacking someone is a bit of a pain. Spain is a country full of beautiful people, if only I had the time to meet them...

Next weekend I'm hopefully taking place in a charity run 'Gotas para Nigeria' (Drops for Nigeria). It's only 5km, but that's enough for me! You gotta start somewhere.

If you don't hear from me again, I've not made it.

I also spoke to a student at our school who is Russian. I was walking past her in reception with Simon, her teacher, who then poked her saying 'he speaks Russian'. I then got into a makeshift, rusty chat with her for a few minutes in the language of the Motherland. We discussed why Moscow is crapper than St. Pete, what she's doing in Madrid, and why I can speak the lingo. Hopefully I'll meet Svetlana again for a conversation in the future. Keep my hand in.

So, do svidanya for now!

An Ode To A Dolphin

Dolphin School. It is a strange name isn’t it? Dolphins are marine mammals closely related to whales and porpoises and there are about forty different species. My little old school then would be the forty-first.

My memories are rather fractural but nowhere in my memory banks do I find any logical link between my wonderful scholarly arena and a friendly wet beastie. Having said this, the first image that tiptoes its way to the forefront of my consciousness when I think of the place is that big, square, white sign with the bent over, blue member of the Delphinidae Family that stands proudly at the little entrance on Waltham Road. I suppose I was a member of that family too and I’ll never forget its name.

I attended the school from 1993 up until 2000. I should have a fat, swelling bank of memories into which I can dip and share. I do. But they’re memories that wouldn’t mean much to anyone except for my friends from the time.

What memories can I share then?

Well, shared memories.

The wonderful school plays. The heady mix of teacher-led makeup, parent-aided costumes, Judy-led plays and Mr. Cooper-led music. I remember the light-hearted miming of Pinocchio one year and the demented darkness of Dream Beasts the next. And of course everyone remembers the quintessentially Dolphin-esque Pied Piper of Hamlin. I was a rat, of course.

The lack of a uniform. By golly gosh of goshington that was fantastic. As Pinkey’s Green school kids laboured home, chafing in the ‘heat’ of the English Summer [he remembers through rose-tinted glasses], I meandered gaily back in shorts and a t-shirt. Logical, liberal and loose fitting seemed to be the school’s motto. Why try and make children drool over the genius of Shakespeare if all they can think of is removing their tie. I swear if every school followed that same maxim, kids would genuinely enjoy learning more than they currently do. Yes I would have preferred not to be at school, but I didn’t hate it. From a 6-13 year old, that’s quite some achievement.

2, 4, 6, 8, who do we appreciate, PLANTAGENET! Yellow and the best. That’s enough said about that.

Lastly I think my start in life, and my outlook on it, was greatly aided by the frankly outstanding school trips we had: Brecon Beacons, Ireland, Snowdonia, Caen, Boulogne, Iron Bridge just to name a few. The mere act of showing a child the world in which he or she lives is enough to spark an interest in it. It sparked one in me. Maybe that’s why I always opted for languages and science.

More than lastly a quick thank you to the teachers. I shan’t name names, you know who you are. Each one was inspiring, unique and did what they do best. The human resources department at the school didn’t miss a trick.

Dolphin School. Others think of a sleek, fish-hunting, pregnancy locating, clicking animal. I think of a school. My school: the very best of schools. 13.8 billion years before my life there was nothing. When I go wherever I go at the end of my life there will be nothing of me for the next billion billion years after. How lucky I was to be, how lucky I was to have met the people I’ve met and how lucky I was to have been to that little school that lurks just behind the coral, over there by the kelp.

I don't know what it is, but it says it's Spanish!

I'm not going to keep you for too long. I don't want your tea to go cold.

A couple of weeks ago I had some visitors again - I am lucky - in the form of Hollie and Rob. I went to university with them and had seriously hoped I was rid of them, but clearly not.

I was in the final stages of my illness so I didn't do a lot with them on the Thursday.

We did go for a short walk though. Nearing the end of my road Rob bashed into the full shopping bags of a lady who wasn't really looking what she was doing. One bag broke sending newly purchased items tumbling to the ground. She hissed 'gilipollas' (arsehole) and gave him eyes full of malice. Rob wasn't best pleased. We didn't help. In retrospect I feel a little guilty. But I suppose the reasoning was: 1. It was mostly her fault and 2. she just called Rob an arsehole.

Friday I returned to the school after my hiatus and painfully taught 6 hours.

Saturday we went to El Escorial, a small town about 1.5 hours away on the cercanias train. To be frank there's nothing there particularly noteworthy except for an enormously grand monastery, which used to house the royal family before they decided to set up shop in the new central capital of Madrid. Inside, after paying 8 euros, we went round what was essentially a lame art gallery (and a bonus architecture museum). I don't want to lie, it wasn't worth the money going in. From the outside though it was breathtaking. After the monastery we went round the town trying to find somewhere to eat. First restaurant 'menu del dia - 17 euros', no. Second restaurant 'menu del dia - 13 euros', still no. Third restaurant 'menu del dia - 11 euros', for God's sake! Fourth restaurant 'menu del dia - 7.5 euros', bosh!

The food was strange. Starters included 'potatoes and ribs', a bowl of broth with boiled potatoes and ribs from some long dead mammal. Tasty though. Mains included two versions of a patty/burger thing. The 'russian fillet' which was an odd tasting mince burger and my 'squid burger' (peddled in English as octopus), which was a white mulchy paste that vaguely tasted marine. Dessert was nice though. 'Crema Inglesa'...vanilla custard.

In the evening we went out for a teacher's birthday. He's gay. We went to a gay club. The club itself was really nice, chique, cool but expensive. The toilets were unsettling. Queues of butch, modelled, smooth shaven men waiting to use the toilets. Chatting away. I'm ashamed to say it but I was a little wary when I had to use the urinals instead of the closet. Obviously it was fine, and I walked away in a normal fashion. On leaving I did see two earringed gym freaks shuffle into the same closet. I'm sure it was just a silly misunderstanding...

Right now it is snowing outside and on Tele 1, the main channel in Spain, is the main morning program. It consists of weather, news, cooking, chat etc etc. 'This Morning' basically. Or...Esta Manana. Right now they are teaching some ridiculous 'carnaval' dance moves. The main lady is explaining the instructions as she does it - more and more out of breath with every thrust and arm fling. I fear she is about to collapse. That would spice up the program a little. Oh! She's done, now back to 'MADRID IS TURNING TO AN ICE WORLD!'

Oh yes, my friends. On the Sunday we took the 'teleferico' (an 11 minute cable car) to Casa De Campo, which is a very large park area where Spanish people like to run, walk and go cycling at the weekends. We went for an hour long walk or so and came back. Sadly it was then time for my chums to leave. It was a short stay, but necessary for me. You need little things like that to break up the monotony of the working week. I think they enjoyed themselves too.

Now on Esta Manana we are watching a man dramatically put a chain on his car tyre as a reporter shoves a Television Espanola microphone in his face. Oh how they are laughing about it all. They won't be laughing when he slides into a bridge though will they? No, they won't be laughing then. But it's ok, he's got his chain.

Another positive is that I've finally got to know all my new student groups. By and large they are very nice. A couple of boring students, but that's common.

Apart from the near perpetual state of sleepiness, I find that my creativity is overwhelmed by the desire to watch tv, sleep, or at a stretch, read a book. I used to write poetry and I have written a lot.

In the five months I've been here I've only produced one. I'm going to write it here for you now, just for posterity. It was written on the train journey to El Escorial. You can decide for yourselves if it is any good.

Guitarrista:

And the man strums,

How he strums:

'Siempre sera' (It will always be)

The train heaves on,

Spanish lands wipes past the window,

How it wipes past:

'Lagrimas claras' (Pale tears)

Vibrations tickle the air,

The strings warble,

How they warble:

'Muchas gracias' (Many thanks)

And on to the next carriage.

And on to the next carriage I go.

Illness: Part 2

I went back to the doctor today.

Once again feels like I'm trying to swallow a pineapple.

So I'm sat there outside Doctor Asuncion Alonso's office. She's quite popular, especially with old people. I was there in a cocoon of old, surrounded by grey hair. I had to wait for over an hour before I was seen, occasionally swapping some banter with the oldies who were quite sprightly.

"You and I've bin ere an age" he said (I imagine that would be his accent were he English)

"Yes, we have, I should've brought a book" I added

"Haha, yeah. S'a load of bollocks" I believe he responded.

Finally it was my turn. I relayed my infectious story to the doctor and she nodded and looked all doctorlike and medical. She then took me over to a seat, shone a light at my face and asked me to 'ahh' again.

"Mmm, that is very red...very red indeed"

Smashing I thought....

"You have a nasty virus in your throat"

Double smashing I thought...

She gave me a couple of prescriptions and a 'baja' form - this means that I must take at least a day of work and can't go back to work if I don't get an 'alta' date. The I'm better date. I'm supposed to go back in and see her on Friday, but I think I'll pop in sooner if I feel better. She expressed a logical concern about the combination of a bad throat virus and working until 10 everyday in a conversation school. She said that I had better not go to work today and to just see how the drugs work. I thanked her, smacked her on the back and left.

I didn't smack her on the back.

And now what?

A day indoors.

I got some fresh air and went to a market, but that's about it.

I'm going to go and read some Shakespeare to quell my stirring boredom.

In fact most of you could have done without this blog. It's part of my medication. Helping me to get better. The more I use my brain, the less I think about being ill and painful, the better I feel. Though it is starting to give me a headache.

I'll stop now.

Un hombre entra en un bar de pinchos, 'Ay ay ay!'

It's a new day,

It's a new dawn,

It's a new life,

For me,

And I'm feeling...pretty rough.

Last week I was rather ill. On Friday 22nd of January I started to feel funny. And I'm not talking jokes and witticisms. My neck started to ache, my throat was like knives when I swallowed, my body felt weak and feeble and my head felt like I had a clamp tightening round it in pulses. With these symptoms and my inability to focus I was sent home early. Bumbling through the metro system, nearly succumbing to the malaise and tumbling to the floor, I managed to reach my flat. Elena, my housemate, was there, wide-eyed and ready with the pity. She handed me a thermometer. BEEP. 38.4. degrees. Not normal and very high for me.

I don't usually get sick.

What followed was a weekend (and a Monday) of bad periods. I would feel good for a couple of hours but then stumble to my bed for another few as a migraine decided to try and eat its way out of my cranium. On Tuesday it all but left, with the help of amoxycilin - attained after going to the doctor on the Saturday. I also had a crash course in Spanish healthcare on the Monday when I went to ask for my 'justificante' - a.k.a. my 'look I'm sick and here's my proof' paper. It was most fun trying to go through the process whilst my head was pounding more viciously than Phil Collins at a gig. Highlight? Being told by the doctor 'That's a good laryngitis'.

I mention all this because, at the time of writing, it feels once again like I have collected a cornucopia of glass shards and needles in my neck and they have set themselves up in a kind of 'Ker Plunk' formation, thus making swallowing hard and painful.

This is even more annoying as this week we have been given our new timetables - so, new classes and students. This is the time when you make a positive image and try and get a table of Spaniards to love you in 1.5 hours. This could be difficult for me. Every time I swallow my facial expression could be construed as disgust for some badly implemented language from a student. I'll have to time my oesophageal activity perfectly.

Finally, I have my uni friend Anna over at the moment. She got herself a one-way ticket to Madrid in the hope of finding lodging and work. I generously gave her an ultimatum of one week or so in my flat to spur her on. As of today she has a nice, one-person studio flat and moves in Tuesday. Bosh. No job though, not yet...

You may say,

'What, that was the blog? But you didn't do anything!' Should you say that you would be both rude and correct. I haven't really done much recently. I will try and do more things. Go to more places. Notice more 'Spanish' traits. I will try. But for now you have the 'I-was-ill' segment.

I sometimes wonder, is anybody reading this? (other than my parents)

Anybody there?

Or am I wasting valuable time that could be better spent talking to myself?

Have a video:

I don't trust beggars with better phones than me!

"Where are you?"

"Just driving with some friends along Gran Via"

"Just remember to wrap up warm ok?"

BEEEEEEEEP BEEEEEP

"Ok mum, see you soon"

"Bye darling"

And with a click she hung up the handsfree phone and continued driving, not paying any attention to the taxi driver that almost hugged the side of our car.

"Are we safe?", I slurred - the soporific effects of wine making the ordeal less terrifying than it could have been.

"If you don't drive like this, you can't drive in Madrid", she flattenend the accelerator with her foot and leapt through an amber to red change, "we don't drive like grandmas here!" My nails sank into the surrounding soft car furnishings. I laughed a little.

But, truth be told, Marta had a point, and I did survive. She's not crashed in all her 5 years on the road. Maybe the little Spanish belle had changed my mind about how the Spaniards drive. I mean they can certainly handle their cars. A student said to me, "we drive the car well, we just don't drive well". True.

I nearly got hit by a car last Friday. The green man had just appeared and I started walking. Behind me, and through the fizz of my mp3 player, I heard two older Spanish men say 'aaaaiiiii' or something, and I glanced left to see that a grey car had decided to take his chances rather than stop. He had to break very hard. Very hard indeed. I shot him a filthy cocktail of hatred and disappointment and carried on, aloof, and thinking myself king of the world, secretly glad I hadn't been turned into a red Picasso painting.

This driving malarky took place on Saturday. Marta doesn't drink (but she likes Baileys) so she was happy to drive us out. We then spent an age trying to find a space to park the car. At one point we saw a space, on our side of the road, but suddenly were faced with a vast boat-sized SUV screaming down our lane towards us and proceeding to squish his fat arse into our place. Not only was this dangerous and illegal, it was bloody annoying. Safe to say the ensuing language was both multi-lingual and colourful. His smug smile and shoulder shrug didn't help either. Euan later kicked his wheel when we walked

past his four-wheeled behemoth. Petty, but it made us feel better.

Sunday was spent in Cercedilla, a village in the North of Madrid in

the hills. It was also this time when snow was a common daily sight in the beating heart of Spain (as you can see from the photo at the top). We took the C-8 cercanias train to Segovia and alighted at our designated stop, inhaling the frosty air. No map, no idea where to go or what to do, we headed up. Up was good. Up would take us to hills.

We walked for maybe 25 minutes. We, by the way, were me, Heather, Philomena and Matt (Anna joined us a short while later). We perchanced upon a charming looking restaurant called 'Los Frutales'. We entered. Log cabin-esque inside and quite clearly a family affair and labour of love.

'This'll probably be expensive'

It was reasonable. And I had the best, biggest, most glistening and sumptuous leg of lamb I have ever had. Only 16 euros. Anna joined us at the restaurant in time to eat with us.

Full of dead animals we headed further up the hill. Eventually (having asked vague directions from the owner of the restaurant) we reached the tourist office. We were given a map and information about the different routes around the valleys and mountains. They varied from 1.5km to 15km. We chose 'El Camino de los Aguas' ('The Route of the Waters'), at 4.1 km. Starting our trek we entered a forest. A winter wonderland, all virgin snow and ice. It started to snow slowly, lending a magical, serene air to the woods.

We climbed.

The snow came down heavier. We made snow angels, threw stones into a far away frozen reservoir, we fell over, we found abandoned buildings quilted with white, we shivered, we had wet feet, and we followed our map. About one and a half hours later we arrived back in the town. The ghostly peaks and cloud dandruff world we had just been in seemed unreal somehow. Far off. Mother Nature showing us just what she could do.

"Pretty isn't it?"

"Yes, yes it is"

"How about if I just started snowing now, lightly, like a dream, would that be even better?"

"Possibly"

"There you go..."

"I think I love you"

"At least someone does..."

At 18:36 we hopped onto the last train of the day. Our feet were frozen and wetter than the sea, but at least we were cosy. We spent our trip back playing guess who - the game where you all give each other names on a piece of paper and slap it on your forehead. I was both Hannah Montana AND William Shakespeare. And that ladies and gentlemen, is a talent.

As far as work is concerned, it's the week of the Trinity examinations so we are all finishing up our preparations so that none of our students fail spectacularly, complain, and get us all fired.

I am sure more things will happen that I can tell you about.

I'm sure of it.

How dare you do that to my roscon!

Right. A blog. Yes, that's it. I was supposed to write a blog.

It's been a while.

Well I've been on holiday so shut up your face holes.

I could dribble out a long essay on what I did over the holidays in England, buuuut that would be pointless.

1. Some of the (few) people who read this are also those that I met during my holidays.

2. It's probably not that interesting. Why would you want to hear me, or read me, saying

how perfect my week was in England.

It was perfect.

Days with friends and days with family and days with the tele and no time to stop no don't stop don't stop the fun don't make me think about going back to work keep giving me mince pies and fat juicy turkey let me continue to wallow under my parents auspices. And snow.

There.

Oh you greedy buggers, fine here's some snow.

What do you mean what did I do for New Years?

I went to Puerta del Sol to watch the archetypal firework ceremony and do the Spanish tradition of eating 12 grapes during a 25-30 second countdown. The idea is to eat them all before the bells chime out the fact that Spain has just blundered into another year. Gypsies, Chinese shops and supermarkets sell little occasion cans filled with 12 seedless, chemically skinned dwarf grapes for easy, and more importantly, rapid consumption. Gay little tins? NAY! We thought. We're better than that. We bought a big bag of red, seeded, slightly grubby fresh grapes. By grapes 7, 8 and 9 - that seemed to be fighting it out to be the first grape to heroically clog my throat - I thought to myself 'yeah, should have bought a gay little tin'. Having let the flakes of fruity flesh settle at the base of my lungs I swallowed the rest of my beer and spluttered 'happy new year! back to the flat?'. We then had a quaint little house party and watched the superior London fireworks on youtube.

Oh and Three Kings Day?

Roscon, tea, my mate Euan and Top Gear in the morning.

Lunch and Goldeneye in Plaza de Castilla with Esther and Fran in the afternoon.

Self-cooked dinner, Trivial Pursuit and Guess Who game with Euan, his girlfriend Mahal and her friend Marta in the evening.

The Spanish hate colour. I think that's a fact. Maybe not hate. No, not hate. They don't 'get' colour. I mean, if they did they would function better.

I have a Maintenance student (the highest level in the school, only three students, basically fluent) called Henrik Claus Brandt. He's German, yes. He said in a moment of brilliantly enunciated remembrance: 'my father once said that you can judge the progression of a civilisation by the way the people drive'.

True.

Germany, England, Scandinavia. Good drivers.

I'm not going to say that the Spanish are less of a civilisation, but they really fail spectacularly when you put them behind a wheel.

Green = Go

Amber (if present - on some Spanish roads it's just Red/Green) = slow/get ready to stop

Red = Stop

Not in Spain. If they abided by these rules cars/taxis/buses wouldn't flash straight through red lights, people wouldn't become red stripes on the road, there wouldn't be massive traffic jams, people wouldn't be leaning on their horns for hours on end and everything would be less stressed. Also, a criss-cross no stopping marking here and there wouldn't go amiss. It's not just the cars. The pedestrians, and you know my thoughts about them, also have some form of psychological and physiological block when it comes to colours.

When there's a red man people start to cross as long as that immediate strip of road, in the straight line of sight, is clear. Then they kick up a fuss when they are nearly turned into dust by a vehicle. Similarly when you're waiting to cross, you often find yourself marooned behind a crowd of eejits who are primitively deciding, each in their individual minds, if this green man means 'cross' or, more simply 'look at me I'm green'.

Idiots aside, it's good to be back. I love this country. Though I shan't lie, I have heard faint and distant whispers calling me back to the Motherland...

I do like snow.

I just coughed up some Spain!

It's been a rather hectic couple of weeks I must say. I shan't keep you long as you are probably all preparing for Christmas and whatnot.

1. Boys Night-In

This was last Saturday night, but it had been in the pipeline for a good couple of months. It consisted of maybe 14 men in Simon's (a teacher) living room. Manly men. Not unmanly ones. We played poker and Trivial Pursuit while peering through smoke that dribbled out of cigarettes and cigars. Rum was there, and his friend gin. They weren't there for too long though as they had a prior arrangement at various other belly parties.

Our American teacher-friend Ray cooked some of the best chilli con carne I have ever had the pleasure of eating. We had crisps too, and beer. Football was on at the start, but was later replaced - on the same channel mind - by some distressing 1970s pornography.

More Trivial. This time a bird's eye chilli for the losing team. I had a 'great' team-mate for the game. I can report that you cry for about 30minutes, then the tears subside and just a firey, burny heat remains.

The night waddling to its end, many of us getting sleepy or bored of watching the longest poker game ever. Long because the pot had climbed to 100 euros. Real, monetary currency euros. Too rich for my blood. I had enough time before I left to cook one of Simon's steaks and see another teacher (good old sensible Derek) stumble into the kitchen, look at the waterlogged citrus fruits he had brought for cocktails drowning in the sink and blurt out 'my f**king, my f**king, what are those called? LEMONS! He then went to relax outside the flat by the lift. A priceless night.

2. Collecting the N.I.E (Numero de Identidad de Extranjero)

This means I'm on the civil registry. They know I'm here. I'm going to have to stop the bevy of drug and prostitution rackets I've set up. Oh well. We had to meet at 10 at a random metro station in the North of the city. I was translator for the three of us - Euan, Anna, and myself. We had a simple task: go in, hand them papers, get stamps, and leave for work. Three hours of waiting in a hot, angry room waiting for the computer systems to restart later, we got our crappy piece of paper that was, from now on, our 'identity'. As foreigners we don't even get a card! All of that bureaucratic tolerance from us and we get nothing but a print out. But it was a laugh and we missed our first classes, which had to be covered by the other profs.

But couldn't you have just done it the following day?

Well no, stupids, I couldn't. If you miss your cita (appointment), you can't do it again for 6 months. Makes a lot of sense don't you think.

3. Snow

The morning of the N.I.E there was snow!!! Not a lot, but enough to create a small, dirty snowball and piss off a Scottish person.

4. Company dinner

Last night we had the company dinner (and combined secret Santa - I got a nice bottle of olive oil :)) at Mano a Mano. It was a confused but gloriously tasty mix of different foods. Starters: oven cooked goats cheese, sushi, and mussels! The main was one of the best steaks I have ever eaten and the pudding...well I actually don't know what it was...

Wine.

Strange digestif liquor.

Presents.

Bar.

Dancing.

Home.

Bit messy this one, but I'm leaving for England on Saturday so I don't have much time to remember things. There are cobwebs already. Tendrils of teaching tactics tenderly tussling with my personal affairs.

I went Christmas shopping. Let's hope the blighters like what I got!

See you in 2010.

Article: Christmas in Spain

I am currently living in Madrid, improving Spaniards lives as an English teacher. In the run up to Christmas it has become glaringly apparent that there exists a bit of a gulf between the way they celebrate it and the way we celebrate ours. First and foremost this stems from the difference in religion. In our charming, green, little blob of a country we have generally had the tea and cake, nice hugs and smiles version of Christianity – Protestantism. In Spain they have traditionally had the Hail Mary, God is not fun, let’s have a silent procession with chanting version – Catholicism.

In England we have a comfy collaboration between Jesus’ big day and Coca Cola

’s favourite fat man in a red coat. They don’t get in the way of each other. In fact it has also been noted that that pan-global fizzy corporation have provided an alternative for families that don’t wish to celebrate a religious day. In my family we have a bit of a mix. Mother and brother – you may know them by their alter egos Ann and Ben – pootle off to church to do their bit for Christianity and father - Brian – and I stay at home, warming our cockles on an imaginary fire awaiting their return. On the 25^th we then celebrate the day like most families. I say most. Multiculturalism has opened a door to a vast variety of different celebrations, but I think you can imagine what I’m getting at – turkey, presents, tree, crackers, silly hats, Christmas pudding etc.

In Spain however, it is as if in the metaphorical workshop for creating festive holidays the instructions have got a bit confused. A messy mash-up of Papa Noel (Father Christmas if you couldn’t guess) and the Nativity fight it out to be centre stage every year. The bias is still towards the Holy Bunch, but jolly Mr. HoHoHo is still trying to get more and more attention. As a result, the 24^th and 25^th are a heady mixture of both. Traditionally the major festive day in Spain is on the 6^th of January, when they celebrate the Reyes Magos (The Three Kings/Three Wise Men). Historically these are the chaps that bring gifts to the children. This makes sense really, as it’s basically they’re only job in the Bible. With the inclusion of Santa, the gift giving is being split. Despite Father Christmas trying to usurp their place, they still come every year, on the 5^th, and carry out a large gift-donating procession up one of the main streets in the city.

Another difference is the food. Whereas Great Britain is an essentially a meat-based country, Spain loves its fish. It’s not uncommon to have roast lamb followed by ‘marisco’ (seafood) at Christmas. Instead of Christmas pudding they have ‘roscon de Reyes’ (the big bagel of the kings), which is a circular cake with a hole in the middle. Inside the cake are gifts. If you are unlucky enough to choose the wrong gift, you must pay for the cake. They also have many Spanish flavoured sweets and delights for pudding, but I shan’t go into them now.

Decorations include: small to massive representations of the Nativity called ‘Belenes’; an outrageous, oversized, partly mechanical Christmas display called Cortylandia, which is plastered to the side of the mega-department store El Corte Ingles; and the usual glittering and

glowing lights and trees that we would usually associate with the period.

Ultimately, although differences are apparent between our two nations, the sentiment remains the same. For me, the day is nothing to do with Jesus or Santa’s reindeer-centric activities. For me, England and Spain, the day, let’s be honest, is really about friends and family and the relationships you have with them. Everything else is just the brandy on the pudding, or the star on the top of a tree – you don’t need it, but it makes it a bit more special.

- Luke Darracott

Well Holmes, I think it's a mixed paella...

These last two weeks everything has been pootling along quite nicely really.

I'm getting on fine with my job, I'm contentedly surrounded by fine people and I've also got my Christmas holidays booked. Life is being a good chap at the moment.

Sure there are improvements that could happen. I could have a nicer timetable that bestowed more semblance of an evening on me. I could have a beautiful girlfriend who was unaffected by my aforementioned timetable. I could have any amount of holiday I wanted, whenever I wanted. I could sculpt myself into the figure of Adonis at the click of my fingers. But not everything can happen.

1. Enjoy the little things in life

2. I bought a new coat. That made me happy.

It's starting to get cold here. Well, comparatively. Last night the heavenly horde decided to evacuate the clouds onto Madrid. As a result of this celestial supersoaker fight, everything's a tad sodden today and I ashamedly admit that I've not left the arid confines of my flat.

In order to 'get in shape' I've started walking to work every morning and walking home every evening. It's almost 6km a day overall. It means I have to leave a touch earlier and get back a touch later, but it's good for the old Corpus Darracottus. After all, I don't want to be laughed away from the mistletoe now do I?

Let's be honest to ourselves, no one worth the title Homo sapiens (and I know many who aren't) diets at Christmas, or thinks 'hmm, should I have another spoon of brandy butter?'. If they do, they don't deserve Christmas. Jesus didn't die on the cross for people to be shy of second helpings. The Three Wise Men didn't traipse half way across the world so that people would decline another mince pie. Eat. If you can, eat. Eat a lot, and enjoy it. That's the point. Well, one of the points. There's also family, friends, etc etc. What I was getting at was that I want to prepare myself somewhat for the culinary onslaught that is Yuletime. Hence the walking.

Sushi. Sushi's good. Expensive, but good. On Saturday we (four teachers) took a metro to the South of the city - about 45minutes away - to a big shopping centre called La Gavia. We went to a restaurant called 'Asian Kaiten', which is Japanese for 'Asian Conveyor Belt'. I was told of this place by a former student of mine. It's a sushi buffet for £12.50. A sushi buffet. For £12.50! This is why we went. My student was telling me how he had been there with his friend and managed 11 plates off the conveyor belt, while his friend had annihilated 35. Well, I like a challenge. We sat and revelled in the ability to keep taking things of the belt. It was like a bunch of kids in a sweet shop having been told they could take as much as they liked. Albeit this was mostly marine and ricey in nature. My results were: 22 plates (could have been more but I hampered my progress by having a separate plate of normal buffet food), a stomach ache and painful internal organs. After the buffet we went round a very busy IKEA where a combination of highly irritating Spanish shoppers and a fuzzy sushi head bequeathed me with a migraine. The highlight of the day? Without a doubt the small Japanese waitress coming to our table over and over again to clear away our plates with an exasperated, and I think slightly impressed, 'es mucho', leaving her lips.

We also celebrated one of our Talking Point teacher's birthdays with a large, drunken, groove-infested house party. I firmly refused to dance until dem crazy Beach Boys leapt out of the speakers. It's nice to let your hair down sometimes. Just beware of cameras.

This hasn't been linear. But then if it was you'd no doubt be bored. If you complain, I'll throw the empty can of Kolsyrad Parondryck Swedish pear cider at you. And you won't like that. You won't like that one bit!

What a load of bullspain!

It as been a while hasn't it. This, I reckon, can only be a good thing. It means I'm not angry at things and that everything is running smoothly.

And it is.

I just had one of my best friends James - a.k.a Jimmy, a.k.a Nemo - over for a long weekend. Spain, and more importantly for me Madrid, has lots of public holidays. I have already had two and I've only been here one month and a half. This means a day-off, which is always welcome.

The young British lad arrived Friday morning, got off at the wrong stop on the way to my flat and consequently made me exactly 9minutes late for work that day. Nobody noticed. Smooth. He spent his own day in Madrid being a tourist doing touristical things. In the evening, after I jetted back on the metro from my home class in the south of the city, we met up at the pub 'La Solera'. It's a pub where, every Thursday/Friday, the teachers I work with go for drinkies. We had some drinkies. We then left for 'Cafe San Gines' - a historic cafe that famously serves churros (deep fried sweet pastry tubes) with chocolate.

After a fine night of sleeping we offed to La Latina, my favourite place for tapas. We plunged our faces into big plates of lomo al ajo (slow cooked pork in a garlic oil sauce) and huevos rotos (fried egg with pieces of Iberian ham) both served on a bed of home-made roast potato-crisps. Then we bumbled up the road to madrono where, even though the food isn't such a mind-melter, they serve a fruity 'digestif' liquor in an edible shot glass. Kind of a strawberry-ry flavoured (an adjective coined confusedly by my Scottish co-worker Euan). We then went to a pub/bar recently opened by the cousin of Talking Point's administrator Rocio in order to meet every teacher that works for the company whilst simultaneously drinking a 'double with lemon' and not knowing what the 'double' part was.

Siesta.

I then cooked us, and another teacher - Irish Anna, a frankly superb pasta dinner. Frankly...superb.

Then we walked to a rock bar called, with a side-swipe of whimsy, 'Honky Tonk'. A great name, no doubt thought up without even a whiff of kookiness. We were met by a subterranean concert hall and a stylish, modern bar upstairs. However with entry and drinks at 9 euros it's a pricey night for any Honky Tonker.

Sunday. El Rastro market again - a cocktail of irate thoughts and judicial shoving and gritting of teeth. A mighty siesta in the afternoon. Mighty...siesta. In the evening we went to the glittering, delicatesseny prominence that is the San Miguel Market. Firstly we took a nice, cold, walk down the main streets in Madrid. We passed Plaza de Espana, Ventura Rodriguez, the Royal Palace and burst into the glitzy world of consumption. Marbled fishy treats on pieces of bread; fine, mature sheep cheeses with lingering flavours; heaving plates of gloriously juicy olives; glasses of the finest crimson wines; pates with glistening caramelised onion marmalades and heaving, steaming bowls of lemony, fresh mussels all plummeted into our yearning tummies that evening. We finished the evening off with an ice cream in the cold. Perfection.

Monday. We spent the whole day walking around, journeying, photographing, laughing, and getting purposefully lost in Toledo. Only 30minutes away on the bullet train. K'bosh! The weather was understanding and the sun joined us for most of the day, causing the UNESCO World Heritage City to glow knowingly at its own marvelousness.

That's more or less all of interest that's happened to me recently.

Oh, though I did see a bunch of feral children - all overly large clothes, 'bling' chains and gangsta hand signals - ruining the metro last Friday. One was pissing in a corner. Another one threw a halogen ceiling light down onto the platform, where it half smashed. The abuse of genetics then thought it was a superlative idea to pick up the remaining half and throw it at my train as it arrived into the station, whereupon it exploded into a billion sparkling pieces of supercooled silicon. Perfectly logical behaviour, for an ABSOLUTE MORON.

It's nice to be angry about something. Let's me feel good about myself.

I shall leave that there. There it has been left. Not right. Correct yes, but not right, left. If it wasn't correct maybe it could be right, but then perhaps not left. It is left. It has been left. I have left it there and here I shall leave it.

Could it be a tortilla crumb?

You know what I hate?

People.

I hate people.

I hate it when they get in my way at lunchtime, meandering around the place as if spatial awareness is a trick left by the ancestors only to chimps, gibbons, tarsiers, frogs, sharks, ants and rocks. I hate the way they walk around stupidly, sometimes locking on to your route from metres away and honing in blindly. I hate the way they fund vacuous religions that we're better off without. I hate the way they block the escalator. Everybody knows you stand on the right and keep the left free. Some people, usually complete idiots, or occasionally dumb-tards, stand with their cerebrally challenged friend and block the route. This would be understandable if it weren't busy. But is it really the right course

of action during the busy hours at one of the busiest stations in the city? No. No is the answer. No, because they're 100% stupid.

Sometimes, usually twice a day, I really, really dislike the human race.

You know what I love?

People.

I love people.

I love the way they can find interest or enjoyment in even the dullest or irrelevant things. I love the way they're ready to give up comfort for those in need of it. I love the way people, even in the biggest cities, find time to create and maintain beautiful parks and allow me to run around them, along gurgling, sparkly streams and past green, fuzzy hedgerows. I love the way they manage to consistently surprise me with science. I love the way they evolved. I love the way people are up for going for a curry, even in the dodgy part of town, just to have a chat and share a beer. I love the way people have different laughs. I love the way that they're 100%

fascinatingly crap and wonderful at the same.

Sometimes, usually more than twice a day, I really, really love the human race.

I also went to an international beer festival last weekend. That was...beery and comforting.

Offing now.

If Franco Could See Me Now!

My week has fallen into place and I'm now more or less accustomed to the outrageous nature of my daily timetable, although somedays I'd rather splay out asleep on the sofa than pretend to be interested in the stilted mutterances of whichever Diego or Clara is in front of me.

Maybe that was overly harsh. They're mostly lovely, with only a couple of boredom-preachers.

The weather is starting to carry a chill in the mornings and at night. During the day however the sun is still strangling the air and the metro is still a holiday destination for inhabitants of the Inferno. Indeed whatever the weather is outside, the Madrid Metro maintains its Hadean climate all year round...probably to make the most of tourists and their precious sweat. Whatever the weather decides to do or be, I went and bought some new clothing at the weekend just to be prepared.

NOTE: El Corte Ingles is the John Lewis of Spain, on steroids, much bigger and with a view to enveloping you into its wonderful labyrinthine bosom. I went to buy a shirt. Bought the shirt. I went to the basement level where the supermarket is housed to buy a bottle of wine. Bought the bottle of wine. I then went upstairs and was promptly spat out on some random street that I didn't know.

El Corte Ingles is one of those to-big-for-its-own-good shops.

"Hey! Hey you! Hey, Customer!"

"What?"

"Come in"

"No, no it's ok, I only need a notepad"

"I've got notepads"

"Well, ok then"

"Have you packed your suitcase?"

"What?...no, no I haven't...what are you talking about?"

"SUCKS TO BE YOU!"

(Sucking noise - think space vacuum/space shuttle door opening - then silence)

Cut to black -

"What the hell just happened?!"

"Enjoy your shopping? Get your notepad?"

"Yes..."

"You spent a long time in me didn't you?"

"That sounds weird"

"But you did..."

"I hate you"

"Come now, I'm full of treasures...you can't have been bored"

"I didn't have mobile reception"

"..."

"My family think I'm dead, I've lost my job, I've been wearing the same clothes for three months and I've contracted a stress related illness!"

"..."

"..."

"But, but look at your shiny notepad"

Stupid shop, but nonetheless impressive. And to its merit, it does have everything.

Another quick thing about the Spanish people I'd like to point out are their paradoxical manners. They are at once the most blindly rude people and inspiringly altruistic people. It's not normal.

Since starting my time in Madrid I've noticed those cheeky Spaniards up to their old tricks - you may, if you did read it, remember this from my last blog - of standing in the way, walking slowly, not being conscientious of where they are both biologically and physically in the world, and generally being the largest arse-based pain imaginable. However the other day on the metro I saw a glimpse of their Jekyllien side - I'm coining that word by the way.

I was standing by the door at one end of the carriage. At the other end, on reaching the station, the doors opened and a blind man entered. A woman then instantly shot to her feet and, without even a flicker of 'look at me I'm such a saint', guided him to the seat she was nestled in just moments ago. Another woman then got out of her seat to give it to the lady who previously just offered her seat to the blind man. Outstanding good manners! I've also noticed this time and time again with people of a certain silver-topped aged. People practically fight each other to be the first to give up their seat.

It filled me with a warm glow, like a single candle offering an iota of warmth in a frosty Victorian room. However the candle was soon extinguished as the mass of tanned-bodies once again clustered around me, seemingly hell-bent on not allowing me to move at a productive pace. The paradoxical buggers. They are like inverse Marmite - you love them and you hate them.

I am also about to embark on a tapas restaurant mission: to go to and document/review as many different tapas restaurants/bars as I can. Not in one night of course. I have already been given a list of as many as 20, 25 different places by one of my students as a kind of starter pack. Must remember to keep exercising as well though...

Not really much left to report. Got in at 7:30 this morning from a house party, still hoping people will come to visit me, and am still waiting to find out if I am permitted to come home for Christmas.

Pips and toodles to all!

Swedish Operatics and a Bottle of Nudity

So i've just had my first full week of teaching.

Tired?

Yeah, just a little. Everyday I'm there, smiling, chatting, and being 'dynamic' until 10 at night. On leaving work, satchel lolling at my side, chatting with fellow teachers about that last student who was (fascinatingly) stumbling on about the merits of pasta, I notice that everyone else on the streets is glammed up and going out to party. I still haven't worked out whether it's really depressing or slightly novel...

Thinking perhaps i'll go to work in my gladrags and try and combine the two activities. Downing tequila slammers whilst draped drunk round the shoulders of some Spanish bloke, trying to explain to him that prepositions are a bitch because there's no rule and he just has to learn them, pawing his face apologetically - and slighty too hard - saying 'poor spanish man...porrr ploorrr spinash men...', before getting a grammar book to the face and kicked out of the bar for over-friendly use of pronunciation.

That aside, the working week has treated me well. My students are by and large really nice and, let's be honest, it's not the hardest job in the world to teach what I already speak. On Friday night some of the teachers went to the 'local' and got a bit happy. We are known there, so free tapas - mainly nuts, olives and crisps, but sometimes ham and cheese - oft graces our wet tables, sitting fittingly next to our formidable tankards of beery gold. I then left the teachers and met up with some of my Spanish chums, and made some new ones, at the 'Caves of Cesamo', where sangria was both imbibed and spilt onto the floor.

Saturday morning...late Saturday morning, it was decided...dictated by my housemate Elena that we were to go to IKEA and buy an extra chair for the living room. I don't know if you've been to an IKEA before, if you haven't I shan't give an explanation on how it's set up, but here in Spain it is basically what amounts to a colony within a country. Spaniards flock to IKEA every weekend - it's cheaper than flying to Sweden. After spending three days in the carpark we joined the general population and entered the superstore. We bought pillow covers, a bottle, some plug adapters, cushions and a lamp.
But Luke...you wanted a chair?
Oh yes...the chair. Called 'Grankulla', the chair/bed combo was on sale for 49 euros, reduced from 99.
Bargain.
So we - me, Elena, Esther and Carlos - took our little product code to the warehouse area to find our chair. We found the wooden bit...but the cushion bit they housed in a separate box, which was not present. Elena was not best pleased by the apparent lack of Swedish ingenuity. She asked someone, apparently a mongoloid turnip who basically answered 'say what?' and 'erm' to everything she asked. She then asked more 'passionately' at customer relations, which basically said 'well...erm...don't really know...you could try another store...'. Livid now, she went to the top and pinned down the floor manager.
By this point Carlos and I went to get ham baguettes - at the 'museo de jamon' - leaving the girls to slug it out with the Larrs and Johanssons of IKEA Madrid. Tucking into our two baguettes we got a call from Elena 'LO TENEMOS, LO TENEMOS' - 'WE HAVE IT, WE HAVE IT'. We prompty inhaled the remaining bready hamness and rushed back to the car.
Standing victoriously by the car, we rewarded the girls' hard work with sandwiches and proceeded to cram our new sitting apparatus into the boot.

The Spaniards went to the Opera on Saturday night, so I made part...only part - because I didn't want to hammer nails in at that time of night - of the chair. (Later finished by Elena, Esther and Carlos on Sunday morning whilst I visited the Rastro market).

One other random thing to note: At maybe 3 in the morning on Sunday I watched some strange TV. After arriving home from the Opera, we had a little 'botellon' - drinking session - in our flat to celebrate. At 3 in the morning there was a programme about celebrities and gossip and suchlike. Even though the subject matter was juvenile and low-brow, the production value was high. There was a roundtable panel of maybe five or six quite smartly dressed people, and a live audience. Halfway through, and remember, in front of a live audience, there was a striptease. Not a coy one. A full on burlesque, one woman striptease. All major points of interest were displayed to the viewer. Then, as soon as the young frau had finished her set we cut to audience clapping and head back to the roundtable.
And while neither I, nor my Spanish (male) friends, complained, I was raaather confused as to what had just occurred.
Neither Carlos, Esther, Elena, Juan, Marta nor Javi could explain why it happened. But it did...that's Spain.

That's probably enough for now. Don't do anything inappropriate now...

In place with German air suppot

It's 10:11 in the morning, Tuesday. I'm sat, alone, in my boxers, watching a dubbed episode of the German 'dramatic' series 'Medicopter 117: Jedes Leben zählt. An empty bottle of last night's 'Ribera del Duero' red wine sits artfully by an empty glass whose bottom is kissed with grapey crimson. I am writing this on our new internet. I say ours. It's the neighbours'. At 10:30 last night, having just rubbed sleep forcefully from my eyes and told my mouth to smile in an innocent way, we negotiated rather easily to share (and pay our way for) the wireless internet with our Portuguese neighbours.
So I'm set up. Phone. Friends. Job. Internet.
All I need is a cat (subsititute in canine, porcine or vulpine animal as applicable) and I'll be a fully fledged adult human.

For some reason this German medical helicopter thinks it is in fact a Police helicopter and is 'dramatically' chasing an escaped mental patient in a truck. I can't help wondering what the German Police are up to. Maybe they are giving CPR to someone who decided to inhale an oversized Bratwurst!

German Mission Impossible aside, everything's going quite well here.
The job is really good but the evening classes get quite tough/tiresome. You've just finished a class at 8:27 and are taking your allotted 5 minute interval. You refill your water bottle. You share words and knowing smiles with your fellow teachers. You rub your eyes, slap your face, snort a smint and wipe that smile onto your face and go find your table for the next 1.5 hour chat. And you remember that everyone you know outside of this office is enjoying their evening, perhaps having a drink with some friends, or watching Medicopter. But, wait, before tiptoeing gracefully down into the dumps you also remember that almost everyone you know ISN'T here...so get over it. That's the process from Monday-Friday. I'll get used to it.

That's probably all I will say from now on about day-to-day things. I should stick to my previously mentioned maxim of not doing a 'then I did this, then I did that...Oh! and HAHAHA then THIS happened, it was really rather funny' kind of blog. We'll see though. Depende de que pasa aqui.

Medicopter's final exciting scene has ended, rather flatly. The truck nutter has been stopped thanks to the two daring 'medics' climbing up to the driver area and disarming him. However Sanitäter Ralf Staller - played poignantly by Wolfgang Krewe - was shot in the arm!!! I hope he's ok...he's like my favourite...
He should be. He's a bloody medic.
Apparently.

Ta ta for now and all that!

Life in concrete

I'll keep this quick and to the point as I wouldn't class it as of paramount interest to those of you searching for truths and eccentricities of Spain, but it's about my new life.
I got the job.
I started the job.
The school is called Talking Point Conversational School - http://www.talkingpoint.es/index.html - and is slap bing bang in the central part of Madrid, called Sol. It's near all the tourist sights; the palace, the squares, the shops, the theatre etc. So it's pretty sweet.
The school operates from 10 in the morning to 10 in the evening. However this doesn't necessarily mean that I work all these hours. Somedays I may start at 11:30am, but then end at 22:00. Or I start at 10:00am and finish at 7:00pm. At the moment i'm just having training - being told how the school works, where everything is, sitting in on teachers' lessons, which toilet is probably best that I do my businesses in etc, but I think i'll be starting teaching proper on Saturday or Monday.

NOTE - I just spent ages writing this blog, only to lose it because life and the internet can be more of a knob than Hitler. I don't even know if what I was writing would have even been interesting, but I think it was.

I've got a job. Today I signed a contract for a flat in Moncloa district - very studenty. I'll be living with a girl called Elena who is one of my chums from the CELTA teaching course I did. In fairness, she did all the work. It's small, modern and new. I just signed my name and smiled.

In short - writing little as the first draft took ages to type - the one main downside to my job is that I may miss Xmas, as Spanish people don't stop for what we call Xmas. Half of the teachers teach Xmas whilst the other half can go home. The Xmassers can then go home at New Year - the out of this world massive Madrid party night (NOTE - i've never really believed in the current use of that phrase given the vast number of satellites, beasties and people the Earth has coughed into the cosmos) that is apparently is not to be missed - and those Xmas holidayers must then cover entry into 2010.
Tough.
Long days.
Long week; finish at 22:00 tomorrow for example.
If nothing else my Spanish chums have said that we're going to have a Flat Inauguaration party on Saturday night at my new pad. Should be nice.
I'll leave it there, you probably want to get on with your lives. Or, if nothing else, continue searching for inappropriate material, or applying for your member enlargement, or responding to that Nigerian Prince offering you his fortunes.
All the best. Pips and toodles.

Breaking News!!

I JUST GOT OFFERED A JOB!
The school that I have been persistently bothering like a sex-pest for the last week has, in the last 10minutes, just offered me a job. I start training tomorrow at 11:00am.
In the Shakespearian words of Bad Boys 2:

'This shit just got real'

That which is happening.

For those of you that don't know me, and so have no concept of what I am doing in life, nice to meet you, I will inform you shortly. For those of you who know me and have no concept of what i'm doing in life, you call yourself friends! For those of you that have chanced upon this page and have had the computer system freeze up on you and therefore forbid you from not reading these words, hahahaha and stop looking at pornography for goodness sake, you have parents to think of...preferably not at the same time.

Having graduated from Bath University and having successfully completely my CELTA teaching qualification, I have decided to try my luck as an English teacher in Madrid. This weblog - and it is named 'slices' for a reason - will present snippets of Spanish life and memorable experiences that I have during my time here. What it (hopefully) won't be is a turgid detailed account of everything that happens to me ust for the sake of writing something. My return ticket is booked for the 22nd of December for xmas - although i've just been informed during an interview that some schools teach then too! - so if all goes tits up and arse in the air I can take comfort - hopefully - in pumping my stomach so brutally full of dead bird and crispy root vegetables that I will forget that my life is spiralling into the ground.

If all goes to plan - The plan being that one of the schools that I STILL haven't heard from whether or not I have a job might someday decide to employ me. Part two of the plan being to get myself a flat in Madrid, trying not to bankrupt myself too much in the process - If all goes to plan i'll have officially 'moved' to Spain and will have started a new life here, rich and dripping with cheap wine, sunshine, and Iberian language.
I still have interviews, I still don't have a job. It's all the air. Nothing is concrete.
It's a bit daunting but I suppose we'll just have to see how it all goes.
Anyway, must dash, got to sort my life out.

Buenas!

Thought i'd just say a little welcome to my new weblog.
This is a tester.
Testing whether it works.
If the test works, then it's tested well.
Well tested.
If it's testy about being tested.
Then it can screw off.
Bienvenidos and welcome.