Pacific Theatre

Football. Oh football. This week has reminded me what is so great about football. Last weekend, in football terms, was awful as Charlton got battered. I stormed around the flat, grumbling and compiling a list of available managers in my head. Yesterday we played Carlisle away. Carlisle are playing well and at home are very good, only conceding two goals all season, I was not hopeful. Well imagine my surprise after 55 minutes when we were 3-0 up. I was happy, all was right in the world and I felt bad for doubting Phil. When Carlisle scored I got worried but berated myself for my paranoia, its nothing more than a consoliation I said. Well 12 minutes later I had descended into a deep chasm of despair, I don't think thats exaggerating, after Carlisle made it 3-3. I can't really explain how I felt but it was something like this:

But then in the 92nd minute, despite being under huge pressure, we bundled one over the line and snatched a 4-3 win, again I can't really explain but it felt something like this

Sure throwing a three goal lead is incredibly amateur but who cares now? If you can't enjoy a win like that then I wonder why you would watch football in the first place. A degree of incompotence does make for more exciting matches.

My football debut was solid. I managed to score one a half goals. The first was greatly helped by the goalkeeper so I feel I can't claim it as a full goal. The second was Andy Hunt-esque, don't look just hit it and hope for the best, and fortunately it went in. There were elements that more typical, falling over my own feet, blazing an easy chance wide and a complete inability to tackle. But oh well. Some Venezuelan guys came over and asked to join in. With the general fitness, great touch and spatial awareness they soon were giving me the run around. They really were good, in the end a guy from Liverpool clattered one of them, well to British football, if you can't beat them, kick them. Football, football, football.

I successfully negotiated some official work drinks without embarrassing myself. One of my director of studies came over to me in the staff room to tell me about them, with the words IH are paying for the drinks! That's great, let's get trashed! They then clarifed, for the first drink. We formed an orderly line to collect a drink coupon like something from Oliver. I was briefly scoulded by a Dutch girl who thought I had been stood in the same place for too long, but the person I was speaking to was standing there! Work is good, my perfect timetable has taken a bit of a hit but it could never have lasted. The guy knew what he was doing and felt a little bad so he gave me a ruler to try and placate me. It worked. Now it's just waiting for pay day, which really can't come soon enough, much like my passport, which still hasn't arrived! For the money I paid for it I want David Cameron to deliver it by hand. Sorry I'm complaining.

I'm drinking a cup of tea, and I've just read what is on the cup, it's a woman on a mechanical bull and underneath in English it says "You should see the stud that bucked me on Saturday night", no point to this, I'm just shocked!

love love love x

Solid Gold Telephone

Zidane, Figo, Beckham, the fat Ronaldo, Kaka, the pouting Ronaldo, in a mere few hours the next in the long line of big name, Galactico, Madrid debuts will occur. Yeah, that's right I'm lacing up the boots and promptly putting the boot in. Mind you saying "lacing up" and "boots" is a little misleading. I managed after a search that was more difficult than it should have been to get some pretty rubbish white trainers with some less than charming velcro bits. It seems that Spanish man have the tiny feet of dancers. I however do not, and you know what they say about people with big feet, thats right... big shoes. Old ones are the best and all that. Watching from the sideline is my natural position and dabbles into actually playing are rare. Theres been some trash talking this week, getting into footballs natural mental state, despite not having teams decided. Got to get it in early just in case. A lot of the guys playing are Irish and I have said if I get the chance I will try to Henry the ball past one of them which was met with the threat that I will be De Jonged. If anyone is unfamiliar with these two latest verb additions to the English language, to Henry is to commit a shameless and brazen handball and to De Jong someone is to kick them squarely in the chest, see above. Neil has already informed me that he has an elbow first policy, it could get out of hand. At least whatever happens it can't be worse than whats happening at Charlton, though based on the last few years I wouldn't bet that it will stay that bad at Charlton for long, theres always the possibility it will get much worse.

In the real world, school has been good. I like my groups more and more, especially my teenagers. They seem to be the only group of teenagers, certinanly at our school, and possibly in the world that don't seem to mind being in class on Saturday mornings. At least they can keep their contempt to themselves. The main thing I've been doing with them is watching part of TV programme. The text book has an article about the show 7-up, the one when they come back every 7 years to the same group of people to talk about the life lessons they have learnt. The books talks about Neil so I thought we could watch some, I realised that his life wasn't completely happy but I wasn't ready and neither were the students for the turn it took half way through into homelessness, mental instability and even a few thoughts of suicide. It just got dark in here. Though the thing the students were disturbed by was the sight of a local pantomine, "does that actually happen?". Unfortunately yes it does. I just looked up what happened to Neil next, fortunately it gets better, he's healthy and just ran to be the Lib Dem MP for Carlisle, so there you go. I'll leave any political jokes to your good selves, with the exception of Phil Parkinson, I try not to kick someone when they are down.

Julia managed another class well, switching from future to past as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I think she has a new boyfriend otherwise I don't have any idea who the guy with green trousers in the front room has been for the last few days. Though maybe Julia looks at him and thinks he's my new boyfriend as she doesn't seem to be around most of the time. Coloured trousers are something I can neither forgive nor forget, but he's nice so even if he is just a stranger it could be a lot worse.

I really like Madrid but Madrid might not like me as some hilarious prankster threw an egg at me from a moving car. Strangely it broke but I got no egg on me which I couldn't work out. I wanted to be more annoyed but more annoyingly I found myself admiring the shot, it was a fair distance and right on the neck and from a moving car must have been tricky. Fair play you bastard.

love love love x

A More Perfect Union

Some questions come back to you again and again and some never really go away, why won't they give me a new passport? Why won't someone tell Formula 1 to stop, just stop. Or what's the point of Flo Rida?

The question we were posed this week was, what exactly is a "duotang"?

Can you eat it? Or wear it? Maybe, it's a small dog. We were posed this question by a Canadian, who was able to have some revenge. She has often been wrong footed by our delightful British patter while due to TV we were all aware of Americanisms/Canadianisms, until she said duotang. The problem is she don't spoke proper guvnor. It turns out that its a folder! A folder! In particular the thin ones with a see through plastic cover. This is what happens when you are from America's hat. We have agreed in the spirit of cultural awareness and friendship that she will speak more British/correctly and I will try to speak more Canadian. I need you to ensure that if I'm home and I say the word eraser, as I did yesterday, you will stamp it our roughly.

I was given a chance to formally evaluate how my Spanish is with a level test. A very jolly woman chatted to me and was very nice and then she whacks a mark on the paper and leaves. But I thought we were friends? Annoyingly another woman came over and without talking to me lowered my mark, what a bitch. I had a little grammar quiz which started well but got harder and ended with a tear stained paper. The final conclusion was A1+. A1+ sounds really good, its sounds like it might be the best, but it isnt, it's rubbish. I'm pretty sure the plus is a sympathy plus. Its still elementry and nearer beginner than intermediate. It was pretty disappointing but not because I feel I should be higher but because its where I belong and after a year I should be higher. It really motivated me for 10 to 15 minutes but then it stopped, but then that's the problem.

Someone who is motivated is my housemate Julia, who as part of her course needs to learn English. She asked for lessons and we just finished the first one. She treated the differences between will and going to with contemptous ease.

The first week was good, I don't even mind working on Saturdays. I'm getting to know people a little better. One girl went to the same school as my mum, which my grand mother throughly approves of. I'm beginning to like Madrid more and more, come and see!

love love love x

I Am Connecting Flight

Hello everyone! Its been a good and eventful week. The school is amazing. I knew Pamplona was far from well organised but this puts it to shame. IH Madrid is a huge school, six big centres, 20 public schools, hundreds of businesses (including big institutions like the Bank of Spain), thousands of students and hundred of teachers, and so far it has run like clock work. I've been given some training withg kids rather than given a group of kids and told to work it out, theres a support system and a management structure! It's nice to be back in a school that takes learning English seriously. I was very happy with anything, then I was given my timetable, which is exactly what I wanted, blocked hours in one centre! To make things better everyone is lovely. Remember last post when I said I would pay later for my good journey? This good start also added to my suspicions, my mother called me paranoid but lo and behold, I have had my set back.

Some thieving bastard took my bag. For one of the few times in my life I put down my bag and then thought that it wasn't safe so moved it next to my knees. I was surronded by other teachers and some still had it away. He must have been millimetres from me and four others and yet no one saw anything. Later in the afternoon I was told Madrid bag snatching and pickpocketing is sadly common. My flatmate used the example as one more demonstration of the superiority of the Northern Spainards. Fortunately there was only one valuable thing it, but it unfortunately it was very valuable, my passport.

Today I headed up to the embassy, which is very swanky, to apply for a new one. What can I say? British bureaucracy, best in the world. I was told (by a Spanish woman) that being born after 1982 means I'm not sufficently British enough to warrant automatic citizenship. Thatcher is to blame for that law, the bitch. I have to jump through hoops, fill in a lot of paperwork and get people to vouch for me that I truly am British. After that maybe I'll have to sing the other four verses of the anthem, kiss a picture of the queen, make a cup of tea and stand in a perfect queue.

I have to get the picture signed by someone I have known for two years to say the picture is an accurate likeness. Only someone who has known me for two years can see that the picture is me, it's not like they trust airport security to do that job in 2 seconds. I also need to get all the paper work signed by someone I have known for two years, is a British citizen, not in my family and strangely from a list of accepted professions. When I told them that I haven't known anyone in Madrid for two years, she told me I should have lied because they have no way of knowing that you've known them for two years. Then she (the same Spanish woman) proceeded to give me a little lecture on British culture. She said we British are a trusting people, happy to take people at their word (apparently thats why we don't have ID cards) and they would have taken my word if I said I knew them for two years. I'll leave you to come to your own conclusions. I asked if she could take my word that the form is correct so I didn't need the signature but that didn't go down well.

My first class is in a few hours, a three hour epic on the topic of change. Its going to be special.

love love love x