GREEK
It has been brought home to me today, rather forcibly impinging itself upon my consciousness in fact, that Friday afternoon is not the most opportune time to be teaching teachers.
I am afraid I lost it.
Twice.
We were 'doing' prices, to which end I had given them a café style menu with which to practice.
The menu had pictures of all the items on offer and the first task was to match the pictures to the words. One wouldn't have thought that Hamburger & Chips would have caused too much concern but I had reckoned without the headmaster.
"Simon, what does 'chips' mean?"
Oh. My. God.
"Well, how do you say 'hamburger' in Hungarian?"
"Er...hamburger."
"And can you see a picture of a hamburger on your menu?"
"Yes."
"And that pile of potatoey things next to it?"
"Hasáburgonya."
"Okay then. So what's the problem?"
"What does 'chips' mean?"
I had also, to save time and add a touch of verisimilitude, used the ampersand (&) on the menu. I had not gone so far as to use the aberrant apostrophe but even this small touch of shall we say, expediency on my part proved too much for the headmaster's henchman who wanted to know whether or not the '&' was universally interchangeable with 'and'.
Anyway, onwards and upwards.
I gave them 10 minutes to ask each other how much any combination of menu items was and was pleasantly surprised to hear there were very few problems. Minor errors of pronunciation maybe, but this was not the focus so I let them go. I brought the activity to a halt and, rather foolishly I must admit, asked if there were any questions. Cue the Head of Textile Technology.
"Simon, what does 'pound' mean?"
At this point I must confess that it was rather difficult for me to restrain from demonstrating its alternative meaning by repeatedly bringing into close conjunction a hard-back book and the top of her skull but...what?
What is it about a foreign language that drives normally rational and intelligent people to lose all sense of reason and logic? To fail to apply their intelligence to arrive at a reasonable interpretation of a text?
Why is it that when the focus of the next lesson was the Present Simple and they knew the following words, "Bob...doctor...English...now lives...Australia...small town...Alice Springs...not ordinary doctor...flying doctor", that they couldn't be satisfied with what might be termed a global understanding and had to spend at least 10 minutes in fervent Hungarian discussion of just what the phrase 'in the small town of Alice Springs' might mean? Lack of comprehension? Hardly.
"Where does Bob live?"
"In Australia."
"Where in Australia?"
"In Alice Springs."
"What is Alice Springs?"
"It's a small town."
"So, what's the problem?"
"What does 'in the small town of Alice Springs' mean?"
They crunch me on Fridays.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Monday, March 06, 2006
IMPAT/EXPAT
A Balance of Payments
"Why?"
A question I am still asked with alarming frequency and one to which I am still tempted to respond with a sharp left hook and an instep to the groin. It is as if I have broken some natural law, removing myself from my native environment and replanting in alien soil. The fact is that all I was really doing was pedalling my bicycle a little further than that nice Mr Tebbit had in mind when giving his awfully considerate 'Words of Advice for Unemployed People' some many moons and no few blindingly boisterous benders ago. That would not, in itself have been enough. What really tipped it for me was the fact that I realised with absolute certainty that I was among those whom he would personally have escorted to the airport. Shipped out. Passage paid. Chattering class.
Well, not actually of that coterie of playwrights, dons, television producers et al so derided by the tories of the time but certainly among an audience prepared to give as much time to them as to that other gang of playwrights, dons, television producers et al, not a chatterer among them obviously, who never earned the wrath of the grammar school classless by the simple expedient of agreeing with them. I doubt Roger Scruton, Alan Walters, Roger Ordish or Sir Alec Guinness would have made it onto the passenger list but I digress.
Anyway, the country had somehow survived the eighties but had emerged divided and quite suddenly, it didn't feel like home anymore. It wasn't that I was on the wrong side of the chasm, more that trying to straddle it while retaining my balance was becoming almost impossible.
Personally and professionally, my life had stalled and I was in need of a fresh start. England had little appeal at the time, the country was going to hell and there was bugger all I could do about it. Being there only involved me in its decline due to the simple fact that it was impossible to ignore. Can't beat 'em, leave 'em.
Now, it's a spectator sport only. I can watch the ovine being led by the bovine and all I feel is amusement and relief. Not that any of you would fall into either of those two categories, I'm sure...but viewed from afar and en masse? Leave. Abandon ship. I'm an intelligent, get me out of here.
I am now twice removed. From the blight of my native land and from my country of domicile...I will never truly belong here or be affected by it in the same way as the natives. I am indeed an island and I find I enjoy it. I have pruned my responsibilities down to the bare minimum of family and friends and have removed myself as far as possible from any...what?...systems, I suppose. Whatever anyone, anywhere is doing, I can quite honestly and categorically state that it is not being done in my name. Whatever happens to me is almost entirely down to me and me alone.
I have a daughter now. Five and a half years old. Intelligent, generous of spirit and equally at home with the en point and the forearm smash. Do you honestly think I'd entrust her to the English education system? Naah, I ain't coming home.
Maybe not quite what you had in mind, Doc...I might be able to come up with something a little more...er...flighty if you give me a day or two but for now my advice is of the Nike variety.
Just do it, girl.
A Balance of Payments
"Why?"
A question I am still asked with alarming frequency and one to which I am still tempted to respond with a sharp left hook and an instep to the groin. It is as if I have broken some natural law, removing myself from my native environment and replanting in alien soil. The fact is that all I was really doing was pedalling my bicycle a little further than that nice Mr Tebbit had in mind when giving his awfully considerate 'Words of Advice for Unemployed People' some many moons and no few blindingly boisterous benders ago. That would not, in itself have been enough. What really tipped it for me was the fact that I realised with absolute certainty that I was among those whom he would personally have escorted to the airport. Shipped out. Passage paid. Chattering class.
Well, not actually of that coterie of playwrights, dons, television producers et al so derided by the tories of the time but certainly among an audience prepared to give as much time to them as to that other gang of playwrights, dons, television producers et al, not a chatterer among them obviously, who never earned the wrath of the grammar school classless by the simple expedient of agreeing with them. I doubt Roger Scruton, Alan Walters, Roger Ordish or Sir Alec Guinness would have made it onto the passenger list but I digress.
Anyway, the country had somehow survived the eighties but had emerged divided and quite suddenly, it didn't feel like home anymore. It wasn't that I was on the wrong side of the chasm, more that trying to straddle it while retaining my balance was becoming almost impossible.
Personally and professionally, my life had stalled and I was in need of a fresh start. England had little appeal at the time, the country was going to hell and there was bugger all I could do about it. Being there only involved me in its decline due to the simple fact that it was impossible to ignore. Can't beat 'em, leave 'em.
Now, it's a spectator sport only. I can watch the ovine being led by the bovine and all I feel is amusement and relief. Not that any of you would fall into either of those two categories, I'm sure...but viewed from afar and en masse? Leave. Abandon ship. I'm an intelligent, get me out of here.
I am now twice removed. From the blight of my native land and from my country of domicile...I will never truly belong here or be affected by it in the same way as the natives. I am indeed an island and I find I enjoy it. I have pruned my responsibilities down to the bare minimum of family and friends and have removed myself as far as possible from any...what?...systems, I suppose. Whatever anyone, anywhere is doing, I can quite honestly and categorically state that it is not being done in my name. Whatever happens to me is almost entirely down to me and me alone.
I have a daughter now. Five and a half years old. Intelligent, generous of spirit and equally at home with the en point and the forearm smash. Do you honestly think I'd entrust her to the English education system? Naah, I ain't coming home.
Maybe not quite what you had in mind, Doc...I might be able to come up with something a little more...er...flighty if you give me a day or two but for now my advice is of the Nike variety.
Just do it, girl.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Saturday, February 04, 2006
FROM THE SON TO THE FATHER
or
Back and Here Again
He was walking now. Head bent back and tilted to one side. Whether or not he had volunteered or had been lifted out and set down is not clear.
They had been shopping. A short walk down the hill to the grocer's. Inside, as in any building that was not home, he had watched that other world, the one which existed just a few feet above his head and which occasionally dipped down for a brief moment of inclusion.
They were approaching the old farm and he could hear the chatter of the chickens above the noise of the cars changing up a gear as they crested the steepest section of the hill.
They stopped. She stooped slightly over the handles of the pram, her breathing shallow and urgent. She placed one hand on her swollen belly and with the other, reached down for his.
**********
He was walking again. Head down. Watching the early morning sun catch the shine on each alternate new shoe and concentrating on the cadence of their fall.
Her grip was tight and the pull, forward. He wondered what the badge on his jacket pocket meant and tried his best, at first, to keep up. He knew instinctively that the tempo was not born out of any excited anticipation but out of a need to be on the other side of something, to be beyond and the event, behind.
The gravity of home was stronger the further away it became and yet the rubber of his new shoes could not slow their progress towards the gates. There, a woman was waiting, both stern of face and of dress. Hard edged. No solace to be found in her cold embrace.
The woman took his other hand and, for a moment, he had a hand in both worlds. He looked up at the old, familiar one and saw heartbreak over-ridden by a grim determination. She let go his hand and turned away.
**********
He was sat on the bed. Her hand was in his. It had been a long time now since she had last walked and her physical frailty seemed to him somehow to be unfair. A poor reward. He saw the same heartbreak and determination as she asked him not to drag it out. He kissed her. Let go her hand and turned away.
**********
He was walking again. Head bent down and tilted to one side.
"Daddy, you know that cartoon, 'the Magic Pencil'? The one where everything you draw comes to life?"
He said that he did.
"If you had one of those, what would you draw?"
"I don't know, sweetheart. Lots of ice-creams, I guess. How about you? What would you draw?"
"Your family."
He reached down and took her hand.
or
Back and Here Again
He was walking now. Head bent back and tilted to one side. Whether or not he had volunteered or had been lifted out and set down is not clear.
They had been shopping. A short walk down the hill to the grocer's. Inside, as in any building that was not home, he had watched that other world, the one which existed just a few feet above his head and which occasionally dipped down for a brief moment of inclusion.
They were approaching the old farm and he could hear the chatter of the chickens above the noise of the cars changing up a gear as they crested the steepest section of the hill.
They stopped. She stooped slightly over the handles of the pram, her breathing shallow and urgent. She placed one hand on her swollen belly and with the other, reached down for his.
**********
He was walking again. Head down. Watching the early morning sun catch the shine on each alternate new shoe and concentrating on the cadence of their fall.
Her grip was tight and the pull, forward. He wondered what the badge on his jacket pocket meant and tried his best, at first, to keep up. He knew instinctively that the tempo was not born out of any excited anticipation but out of a need to be on the other side of something, to be beyond and the event, behind.
The gravity of home was stronger the further away it became and yet the rubber of his new shoes could not slow their progress towards the gates. There, a woman was waiting, both stern of face and of dress. Hard edged. No solace to be found in her cold embrace.
The woman took his other hand and, for a moment, he had a hand in both worlds. He looked up at the old, familiar one and saw heartbreak over-ridden by a grim determination. She let go his hand and turned away.
**********
He was sat on the bed. Her hand was in his. It had been a long time now since she had last walked and her physical frailty seemed to him somehow to be unfair. A poor reward. He saw the same heartbreak and determination as she asked him not to drag it out. He kissed her. Let go her hand and turned away.
**********
He was walking again. Head bent down and tilted to one side.
"Daddy, you know that cartoon, 'the Magic Pencil'? The one where everything you draw comes to life?"
He said that he did.
"If you had one of those, what would you draw?"
"I don't know, sweetheart. Lots of ice-creams, I guess. How about you? What would you draw?"
"Your family."
He reached down and took her hand.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Sunday, January 15, 2006
FOR A FRIEND
Word of the day: Furkle (v) intrans. Part. about/around: That which hands should be getting up to under the covers during the watches of the night.
Drink of the day: Lagavulin
You remind me, gently prompt me even. You nudge me towards the inescapable truth that this blog has been in cryogenic suspension for far too long.
You are respectfully hesitant and choose your register with care. You retreat when my written response is terse to the point at which, were I to be charitable to myself, it could be interpreted as rudeness, an impolitesse to which I should, in all honesty, admit.
So. Wherefore was I thus stung? I draw the toxin ere it has time to burrow deep and realise that it came not from your arrows but from mine own. I am, therefore, doubly wounded; once by the mirror and again by the ice cold stab of consequent self judgement.
Don't you just love it when you can work a semi-colon into the narrative?
Now, where were we? Oh, yes. The hiatus. The pause. The blank page which has been my life since the first snowfall. And that, my dear, is a serious underestimation if ever there was. I could plead the mitigating circumstances of the dearth of gainful employment that has led to my spending the majority of my time at home which, were I to take David Byrne's definition of 'a place where nothing ever happens' could accurately be described as Heaven, and the attendant minutae of everyday life being insufficient to provide enough material for bloggage but I am not so sure.
When I started this blog, it was as an opportunity for me to communicate with an English speaking audience, to use my language freely and with abandon, released from the constraints of the classroom and the knowledge of my Hungarian interlocutors. In short, it was as unfocussed as the attention of a lecher in a whorehouse. To rant, to entertain, to focus my thoughts and explore my feelings, my life, my adoption, my daughter, my creed. The fact that it hasn't led to the revelation of Jeeves' recipe for the mid-morning restorative is neither here nor there. But that very lack of focus seems to have dissipated my energies somewhat.
And then, with time, all these options became exhausted and I was forced into the acceptance of that which I had known all along. That my character and all my creative abilities are, in essence, reactive. Kan does not do creation. Or, that which he is capable of has, by now, been done and done to death. Psychologists among you may note at this point, the shift into the third person but I care not a jot. Yah boo and sucks to you.
Even as a musician, I react to others' creative input. I can refine, improve and extrapolate in an infinite number of ways but to ask me to create that spark, that flash of inspiration, would be a fruitless endeavour.
My mind works quickly. Be my straight man, or woman, and I will give you the gags. Just don't ask me to write the script. I am drawn more to forums, chat rooms and comments these days than to this blog. The immediacy and opportunity for a witty riposte attract and yet fail to completely satisfy due to their transient nature. Here today, gone today. Posterity? I've sat it.
As a writer, I am a fraud. Yes, I can sling words together with a certain rythmn and cadence and I realise that I am at my most effective when I choose to forget my influences. I could tell a story, maybe. Invent one? Well, not for you lot anyway. My daughter remains the sole recipient of Kan the Man Storylines Inc. and, as yet, she isn't telling. Although the tale of the wedding of Miss Fartpants and Mr Burpalot may well last as long as my lineage and be among the most requested at bedtime, I doubt I shall be mortaring the publishers at my gate.
And my life in comparison to yours, my friend? A breeze, I believe, is the expression, although whether or not it could be described as being in any way current is debatable to say the least.
But, then again, I am approaching senility and will soon begin to dribble.
Bugger.
Word of the day: Furkle (v) intrans. Part. about/around: That which hands should be getting up to under the covers during the watches of the night.
Drink of the day: Lagavulin
You remind me, gently prompt me even. You nudge me towards the inescapable truth that this blog has been in cryogenic suspension for far too long.
You are respectfully hesitant and choose your register with care. You retreat when my written response is terse to the point at which, were I to be charitable to myself, it could be interpreted as rudeness, an impolitesse to which I should, in all honesty, admit.
So. Wherefore was I thus stung? I draw the toxin ere it has time to burrow deep and realise that it came not from your arrows but from mine own. I am, therefore, doubly wounded; once by the mirror and again by the ice cold stab of consequent self judgement.
Don't you just love it when you can work a semi-colon into the narrative?
Now, where were we? Oh, yes. The hiatus. The pause. The blank page which has been my life since the first snowfall. And that, my dear, is a serious underestimation if ever there was. I could plead the mitigating circumstances of the dearth of gainful employment that has led to my spending the majority of my time at home which, were I to take David Byrne's definition of 'a place where nothing ever happens' could accurately be described as Heaven, and the attendant minutae of everyday life being insufficient to provide enough material for bloggage but I am not so sure.
When I started this blog, it was as an opportunity for me to communicate with an English speaking audience, to use my language freely and with abandon, released from the constraints of the classroom and the knowledge of my Hungarian interlocutors. In short, it was as unfocussed as the attention of a lecher in a whorehouse. To rant, to entertain, to focus my thoughts and explore my feelings, my life, my adoption, my daughter, my creed. The fact that it hasn't led to the revelation of Jeeves' recipe for the mid-morning restorative is neither here nor there. But that very lack of focus seems to have dissipated my energies somewhat.
And then, with time, all these options became exhausted and I was forced into the acceptance of that which I had known all along. That my character and all my creative abilities are, in essence, reactive. Kan does not do creation. Or, that which he is capable of has, by now, been done and done to death. Psychologists among you may note at this point, the shift into the third person but I care not a jot. Yah boo and sucks to you.
Even as a musician, I react to others' creative input. I can refine, improve and extrapolate in an infinite number of ways but to ask me to create that spark, that flash of inspiration, would be a fruitless endeavour.
My mind works quickly. Be my straight man, or woman, and I will give you the gags. Just don't ask me to write the script. I am drawn more to forums, chat rooms and comments these days than to this blog. The immediacy and opportunity for a witty riposte attract and yet fail to completely satisfy due to their transient nature. Here today, gone today. Posterity? I've sat it.
As a writer, I am a fraud. Yes, I can sling words together with a certain rythmn and cadence and I realise that I am at my most effective when I choose to forget my influences. I could tell a story, maybe. Invent one? Well, not for you lot anyway. My daughter remains the sole recipient of Kan the Man Storylines Inc. and, as yet, she isn't telling. Although the tale of the wedding of Miss Fartpants and Mr Burpalot may well last as long as my lineage and be among the most requested at bedtime, I doubt I shall be mortaring the publishers at my gate.
And my life in comparison to yours, my friend? A breeze, I believe, is the expression, although whether or not it could be described as being in any way current is debatable to say the least.
But, then again, I am approaching senility and will soon begin to dribble.
Bugger.
Friday, December 30, 2005
SHOVELLY JUBBLY
A winter wonderland? Maybe. If you're dressed for it.
On the other hand, shorts and a T-shirt might just prove sufficient should you ever be required by law to shovel the stuff off your pavement frontage.
Or even, out of necessity, dig out your car prior to a shopping expedition.
I'm not at all sure that this is doing it any kind of good whatsoever.
A winter wonderland? Maybe. If you're dressed for it.
On the other hand, shorts and a T-shirt might just prove sufficient should you ever be required by law to shovel the stuff off your pavement frontage.
Or even, out of necessity, dig out your car prior to a shopping expedition.
I'm not at all sure that this is doing it any kind of good whatsoever.
Monday, December 26, 2005
THE FEAST OF STEPHEN
Today is St Stephen's day and, being fortunate enough to have a next door neighbour who answers to the call, "István!", we popped round this evening to wish him all the best on his nameday.
I had bought him a bottle of the finest 2000 Tokaj Fürmint and for this, and our sincerest congratulations, we were rewarded with roast stuffed chicken, fried chicken thighs in breadcrumbs, Wiener Schnitzel, roast spare ribs and rabbit stew with garlic and chillis followed by a rich and varied assortment of cakes and confectionery, all washed down with copious quantities of brandy and home made Tramini wine.
All that was missing was the roast canary on a spit. Trust the Blades to fuck up my Christmas.
Anyway, as we were leaving, he pressed upon me a plastic coke bottle containing 2 litres of aforementioned Tramini and also a goody bag of cakes.
Every day is somebody's nameday here in Hungary.
I think I might just have stumbled upon a whole new lifestyle.
Today is St Stephen's day and, being fortunate enough to have a next door neighbour who answers to the call, "István!", we popped round this evening to wish him all the best on his nameday.
I had bought him a bottle of the finest 2000 Tokaj Fürmint and for this, and our sincerest congratulations, we were rewarded with roast stuffed chicken, fried chicken thighs in breadcrumbs, Wiener Schnitzel, roast spare ribs and rabbit stew with garlic and chillis followed by a rich and varied assortment of cakes and confectionery, all washed down with copious quantities of brandy and home made Tramini wine.
All that was missing was the roast canary on a spit. Trust the Blades to fuck up my Christmas.
Anyway, as we were leaving, he pressed upon me a plastic coke bottle containing 2 litres of aforementioned Tramini and also a goody bag of cakes.
Every day is somebody's nameday here in Hungary.
I think I might just have stumbled upon a whole new lifestyle.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
SLEIGHED
Just done the rounds of neighbourly present delivery and have sampled the hospitality at each and every one. 11:30 in the morning here and I'm presently pleasantly plastered.
Now I've got to go and cut the tree down, trim it to size and somehow get it indoors and upright.
I have a feeling it isn't going to be easy.
Uncy asks, "Why don't you just take the house outside?"
INTERMISSION
I guess it's my neanderthal genetic inheritance telling me that real men chop down trees, wear high hee...oops.
Anyway, job done. Only minor injuries, flesh wounds, a pine sap rash up to my biceps and an entire string of now defunct fairy lights draped haphazardly over the dog's kennel which interrupted their freefall after they had been precipitately defenestrated in frustration.
I only hope that the firestarter, upon returning from watching Narnia at the cinema this afternoon, demonstrates the requisite inordinate levels of appreciation otherwise she'll be sleeping under aforementioned lights tonight.
Thank God for beer and home distilled pálinka.
Your very good health, one and all.
Just done the rounds of neighbourly present delivery and have sampled the hospitality at each and every one. 11:30 in the morning here and I'm presently pleasantly plastered.
Now I've got to go and cut the tree down, trim it to size and somehow get it indoors and upright.
I have a feeling it isn't going to be easy.
Uncy asks, "Why don't you just take the house outside?"
INTERMISSION
I guess it's my neanderthal genetic inheritance telling me that real men chop down trees, wear high hee...oops.
Anyway, job done. Only minor injuries, flesh wounds, a pine sap rash up to my biceps and an entire string of now defunct fairy lights draped haphazardly over the dog's kennel which interrupted their freefall after they had been precipitately defenestrated in frustration.
I only hope that the firestarter, upon returning from watching Narnia at the cinema this afternoon, demonstrates the requisite inordinate levels of appreciation otherwise she'll be sleeping under aforementioned lights tonight.
Thank God for beer and home distilled pálinka.
Your very good health, one and all.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
ARACHNAPHILIA
"Even the paddle-shift gear change works well, allowing for the full PlayStation driving experience. The F430 also has an F1-style manettino switch on the steering wheel that allows you to adjust the suspension, traction control and gear shift depending on your mood. This means that if it's icy the car will take care of everything; then there is a normal driving setting where you can pretend that you are a good driver, safe in the knowledge that the car is holding your hand; a sport mode where, like a boxing referee, the traction control will only kick in if someone is going to get hurt; and a race mode where everything is switched off and it's just a matter of time before you kill yourself." Michael Booth - The Independent
Yeah, but what a way to go, eh?
"Even the paddle-shift gear change works well, allowing for the full PlayStation driving experience. The F430 also has an F1-style manettino switch on the steering wheel that allows you to adjust the suspension, traction control and gear shift depending on your mood. This means that if it's icy the car will take care of everything; then there is a normal driving setting where you can pretend that you are a good driver, safe in the knowledge that the car is holding your hand; a sport mode where, like a boxing referee, the traction control will only kick in if someone is going to get hurt; and a race mode where everything is switched off and it's just a matter of time before you kill yourself." Michael Booth - The IndependentYeah, but what a way to go, eh?
Thursday, December 08, 2005
VENUS IN WHOSE GENES?
As the sabbatical enters its fourth month and Kan the Man Enterprises Inc. is still operating at roughly 20% of maximum output, I have been forced into a reconsideration.
Even when the chimneys were belching out under full steam, Idris was also gainfully employed and yet, beyond cooking the (very) occasional meal and making sure that the socks (mostly) went into the laundry basket, I did very little in the way of domestic maintenance and I now wonder why this was so.
Did I expect her to somehow make up the massive difference in our salaries by putting in all those extra hours?
Was it because I was the child of a housewife who stayed at home while my father ventured forth in search of provisions?
Or was it because I have dangly genitalia and am therefore, genetically indisposed to perform household chores?
Maybe all of the above are responsible, at least at a sub-conscious level, but there is an inescapable and undeniable suspicion that the major factor in my dereliction might just have been sheer bloody laziness. After all, if someone else was prepared to do all the work, who was I to interfere with the natural order?
The present situation however, is such that even I cannot justify my continuing to do bugger all now that I am at home on 4 out of 5 working days although the demands of the internet and televisual media outlets are more exacting (and time consuming) than you might think.
I have found it strange and yet logical that one of the first symptoms of unemployment is serious and serial sloth. One stays abed until the forenoon and neglects both blog and facial hair alike. One's consumption of comfort food cranks up the cholesterol levels and tobacco intake assumes alarming proportions. One walks briskly past the beers temptingly arrayed on supermarket shelves and yet has a weekly blowout courtesy of the stockpiled Islays.
So, will a new squeaky clean, freshly shaved and pinafored Kan arise phoenix-like from this slough of stagnation?
Not for a couple of days at least. Froggy has the sniffles and will be off nursery school starting tomor...oops, today. She's promised to teach me some magic tricks later.
An au pair out of a hat might be a good start.
As the sabbatical enters its fourth month and Kan the Man Enterprises Inc. is still operating at roughly 20% of maximum output, I have been forced into a reconsideration.
Even when the chimneys were belching out under full steam, Idris was also gainfully employed and yet, beyond cooking the (very) occasional meal and making sure that the socks (mostly) went into the laundry basket, I did very little in the way of domestic maintenance and I now wonder why this was so.
Did I expect her to somehow make up the massive difference in our salaries by putting in all those extra hours?
Was it because I was the child of a housewife who stayed at home while my father ventured forth in search of provisions?
Or was it because I have dangly genitalia and am therefore, genetically indisposed to perform household chores?
Maybe all of the above are responsible, at least at a sub-conscious level, but there is an inescapable and undeniable suspicion that the major factor in my dereliction might just have been sheer bloody laziness. After all, if someone else was prepared to do all the work, who was I to interfere with the natural order?
The present situation however, is such that even I cannot justify my continuing to do bugger all now that I am at home on 4 out of 5 working days although the demands of the internet and televisual media outlets are more exacting (and time consuming) than you might think.
I have found it strange and yet logical that one of the first symptoms of unemployment is serious and serial sloth. One stays abed until the forenoon and neglects both blog and facial hair alike. One's consumption of comfort food cranks up the cholesterol levels and tobacco intake assumes alarming proportions. One walks briskly past the beers temptingly arrayed on supermarket shelves and yet has a weekly blowout courtesy of the stockpiled Islays.
So, will a new squeaky clean, freshly shaved and pinafored Kan arise phoenix-like from this slough of stagnation?
Not for a couple of days at least. Froggy has the sniffles and will be off nursery school starting tomor...oops, today. She's promised to teach me some magic tricks later.
An au pair out of a hat might be a good start.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
DOUBLE TROUBLE
You have Santa Claus. We have Mikulás. For you, he's yet to come. For us, he's been and gone.
The custom here is that, as in most of mainland Europe, Santa arrives on December the 5th and is usually accompanied by Krampusz, a devil like figure whose role seems to be to reinforce the underlying message that Santa's gifts are conditional upon good behaviour.
There is also gift giving on the evening of the 24th when, in sure and certain proof of the resurrection, it is the 'baby' Jesus who dispenses the largesse. Not wishing to inculcate such twaddle into the impressionable software of my spawn, I tell her that the English Santa has been delayed and will probably arrive in the dark watches of Christmas Eve. I fear I am fighting a battle I cannot win.
I am prepared to participate in the collusion required to perpetuate the myths of Santa, the Tooth Fairy et al because I believe that deep down, where it really matters, most kids are aware of the games we adults play and are generous enough of spirit to humour us in our folly. Or if not, then we assume that the trauma of discovery is fair preparation for an adult life of similar disillusionments and revelations.
But the legend of the baby Jesus? Notwithstanding the fact that he was supposedly resurrected at the age of...what was it...32, how is it that all good Catholics have sufficient faith in the discriminatory powers of their offspring that they can expect them to accept that one mythical figure is just that and that the resurrection of another is a reality?
It's all very strange.
You have Santa Claus. We have Mikulás. For you, he's yet to come. For us, he's been and gone.
The custom here is that, as in most of mainland Europe, Santa arrives on December the 5th and is usually accompanied by Krampusz, a devil like figure whose role seems to be to reinforce the underlying message that Santa's gifts are conditional upon good behaviour.
There is also gift giving on the evening of the 24th when, in sure and certain proof of the resurrection, it is the 'baby' Jesus who dispenses the largesse. Not wishing to inculcate such twaddle into the impressionable software of my spawn, I tell her that the English Santa has been delayed and will probably arrive in the dark watches of Christmas Eve. I fear I am fighting a battle I cannot win.
I am prepared to participate in the collusion required to perpetuate the myths of Santa, the Tooth Fairy et al because I believe that deep down, where it really matters, most kids are aware of the games we adults play and are generous enough of spirit to humour us in our folly. Or if not, then we assume that the trauma of discovery is fair preparation for an adult life of similar disillusionments and revelations.
But the legend of the baby Jesus? Notwithstanding the fact that he was supposedly resurrected at the age of...what was it...32, how is it that all good Catholics have sufficient faith in the discriminatory powers of their offspring that they can expect them to accept that one mythical figure is just that and that the resurrection of another is a reality?
It's all very strange.
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Sunday, November 13, 2005
WAGONS HO!
I tasted a spot of enforced sobriety last night and I'm not at all sure I like it. Get this. I volunteered...yup, you heard right...to be the designated driver for an evening out at a nearby hotel and restaurant complex where we were lustily entertained by a thirteen piece retro rock 'n' roll/R & B band.
Four forty-five minute sets and only one trombone solo. Shocking. Anyway, a lot of mineral water under the bridge later and my mate's wife finally lets rip with a two minute tirade during which I was invited to "go in a cunt" for committing the heinous crime of failing to ask her to dance. I had to forgive her of course. She had obviously failed to understand the direct relationship that exists between consumption of alcohol and my stepping the light.
Picked up Froggy from the babysitters' this morning and discovered that she had been regaling them with repeated choruses of that Ian Dury classic, 'Fuck Off, Noddy'. I have no idea where she gets it from.
Now you must excuse me. Megyek a picsába.
I tasted a spot of enforced sobriety last night and I'm not at all sure I like it. Get this. I volunteered...yup, you heard right...to be the designated driver for an evening out at a nearby hotel and restaurant complex where we were lustily entertained by a thirteen piece retro rock 'n' roll/R & B band.
Four forty-five minute sets and only one trombone solo. Shocking. Anyway, a lot of mineral water under the bridge later and my mate's wife finally lets rip with a two minute tirade during which I was invited to "go in a cunt" for committing the heinous crime of failing to ask her to dance. I had to forgive her of course. She had obviously failed to understand the direct relationship that exists between consumption of alcohol and my stepping the light.
Picked up Froggy from the babysitters' this morning and discovered that she had been regaling them with repeated choruses of that Ian Dury classic, 'Fuck Off, Noddy'. I have no idea where she gets it from.
Now you must excuse me. Megyek a picsába.
Monday, November 07, 2005
YOU DON'T SAY
It would appear that the practice of stating the bleedin' obvious on product packaging has finally reached Hungary. To whit, one milk carton. Itt nyílik...open here.
Phew. Nearly had me foxed, that one.
I find it a wee bit surprising, given their obviously low estimation of consumer intelligence, that there is no indication whatsoever of in which direction the cap should be unscrewed.
No milk for me today, then.
And please don't get me started on 'serving suggestion'.
It would appear that the practice of stating the bleedin' obvious on product packaging has finally reached Hungary. To whit, one milk carton. Itt nyílik...open here.Phew. Nearly had me foxed, that one.
I find it a wee bit surprising, given their obviously low estimation of consumer intelligence, that there is no indication whatsoever of in which direction the cap should be unscrewed.
No milk for me today, then.
And please don't get me started on 'serving suggestion'.
Friday, November 04, 2005
GRIN AND BEAR IT
It's so good to see the Shoe back up and running after a hiatus seemingly filled with sex and violence and brought to an end by drugs. It would seem that some people have all the luck.
It was interesting to read Jess's take on that old Stoic, the Marcomanniacal Marcus Aurelius Antonius.
I would be much more interested however, in the story of Faustina, his wife. However did she put up with him?
Or did she, in fact, grin and bare it all to Avidius Cassius?
I think we should be told.
Edit: Er...I've been told. Here.
It's so good to see the Shoe back up and running after a hiatus seemingly filled with sex and violence and brought to an end by drugs. It would seem that some people have all the luck.
It was interesting to read Jess's take on that old Stoic, the Marcomanniacal Marcus Aurelius Antonius.
I would be much more interested however, in the story of Faustina, his wife. However did she put up with him?
Or did she, in fact, grin and bare it all to Avidius Cassius?
I think we should be told.
Edit: Er...I've been told. Here.
HALOTTAK NAPJA
The Day of the Dead. The non-digital dearly departed were nearly joined by the trampled remains of my Nikon Coolpix 4100 as none of the 15 easy to use scene modes proved capable of dealing with the conditions obtaining at the time which were, pitch black bar the candlelight. Setting it to 'night landscape' met with a virtual slap round the chops from the flashing red hand, halt icon as did, strangely enough, setting it to 'fireworks display'. Or maybe I should have taken a tripod.
Steadying the camera atop sturdy tombstones was a bit of a no-no given the rather reverential nature of the occasion but I did find one grave unspectated and managed to surreptitiously squeeze one off without disturbing anyone's sense of propriety. Well, all except Idris that is, who gave a very good impression of not being in any way with me as long as I had camera in hand.
Of course, Froggy's firestarting propensities meant that candles would have to be lit but where? Idris hails from another town so we have no interred family here. The fact that we only had one common acquaintance led to us ending up at the grave of my ex-girlfriend's mother and lighting a candle or two to her memory. Rest in peace, Hugi.
I had never given much thought to what I would like to happen to me after my demise, reckoning that whichever way I was disposed of, I would hardly be in any position to object. Even my square foot on Islay is only a lifetime lease and any desire I might harbour to have my ashes placed on the shelves of The Whisky Shop in Lincoln is surely destined to be unfulfilled. But the idea of burial? A return from whence we all came? I don't know. Notwithstanding the problem of finding anywhere to bury me that wouldn't involve my being a fully paid up and practising member of one of a select few religious organisations, the idea of having a focus for remembrance is quite appealing. Well, if I were the one left behind, it would be anyway. My father was cremated and, although I remember him, often and everywhere, I sometimes feel the lack of the focus a grave would provide.
On the way home, Froggy was unable to resist a quick pose with these bronze ballerinas and, as you can see, her favourite colour is now blue. She hasn't wholly abandoned pink however, as evinced by the boots and I have a suspicion that it will be a while yet before I can consign all things princess to the attic, an outcome devoutly to be wished for. Bye-bye Barbie, parting would be such sweet...
The Day of the Dead. The non-digital dearly departed were nearly joined by the trampled remains of my Nikon Coolpix 4100 as none of the 15 easy to use scene modes proved capable of dealing with the conditions obtaining at the time which were, pitch black bar the candlelight. Setting it to 'night landscape' met with a virtual slap round the chops from the flashing red hand, halt icon as did, strangely enough, setting it to 'fireworks display'. Or maybe I should have taken a tripod.
Steadying the camera atop sturdy tombstones was a bit of a no-no given the rather reverential nature of the occasion but I did find one grave unspectated and managed to surreptitiously squeeze one off without disturbing anyone's sense of propriety. Well, all except Idris that is, who gave a very good impression of not being in any way with me as long as I had camera in hand.
Of course, Froggy's firestarting propensities meant that candles would have to be lit but where? Idris hails from another town so we have no interred family here. The fact that we only had one common acquaintance led to us ending up at the grave of my ex-girlfriend's mother and lighting a candle or two to her memory. Rest in peace, Hugi.I had never given much thought to what I would like to happen to me after my demise, reckoning that whichever way I was disposed of, I would hardly be in any position to object. Even my square foot on Islay is only a lifetime lease and any desire I might harbour to have my ashes placed on the shelves of The Whisky Shop in Lincoln is surely destined to be unfulfilled. But the idea of burial? A return from whence we all came? I don't know. Notwithstanding the problem of finding anywhere to bury me that wouldn't involve my being a fully paid up and practising member of one of a select few religious organisations, the idea of having a focus for remembrance is quite appealing. Well, if I were the one left behind, it would be anyway. My father was cremated and, although I remember him, often and everywhere, I sometimes feel the lack of the focus a grave would provide.
On the way home, Froggy was unable to resist a quick pose with these bronze ballerinas and, as you can see, her favourite colour is now blue. She hasn't wholly abandoned pink however, as evinced by the boots and I have a suspicion that it will be a while yet before I can consign all things princess to the attic, an outcome devoutly to be wished for. Bye-bye Barbie, parting would be such sweet...
Monday, October 31, 2005
INVASION
From time to time Kan Towers is invaded by creatures the provenance of which is a complete mystery to me. One of the joys of living in England is that the indiginous insect population never exceeds the size of say, a daddy-long-legs and although, as in the case of those tiny black flies which alight on anything white in Lincolnshire during the summer months and are known locally as 'thrips', their sheer numbers can be overwhelming, one is rarely faced with anything which may force one to accept the existence of that which could not be described in any way as normal.
Take this little beggar for example, which found itself on the wrong side of the mosquito netting this morning, a fact that would probably account for the rather itchy protruberances on the back of my thigh at the moment. After all, if something this size can breach my defences, just how many skeeters have snuck through undetected? A thing of wondrous form and strange beauty though, is it not? Diaphanously winged and provided with limbs far too long and interestingly jointed to be in any way aerodynamic, it would appear to be some kind of mutant grasshopper, a cicada maybe? I consulted my neighbour, whose closeness to what we may call nature is somewhat less distant than my own, by some considerable margin I might add, and he informed me it was a sáska. My joy at finally discovering tangible evidence of the existence of the creature after which all inhabitants of this village are nicknamed, myself included, although in my case the appellation is usually prefixed by 'trainee', was tempered by the fact that I was no closer to an identification I could actually understand.
A quick reference to the dictionary, usually a last resort the reason for which will be all too clear to any ex-pats reading, revealed sáska to be locust. Now you may call me sceptical if you like but I do have a vague memory of the locusts kept in our biology lab at school and, although sharing some characteristics with this specimen, were sufficiently different so as to provide me with no reason whatsoever to revise my opinion of multi-lingual dictionaries. A quick inspection of the grounds was all it took to reassure me that its sudden appearance was not as a scout for some invading army although were frogs to fall from the sky and rivers turn red at anytime in the near future, I should be forced into a reconsideration.
I suppose I could have gone the route of the Bush Tucker Man and deep fried it whole in breadcrumbs...mmmmm, crunchy, tastes just like chicken...but I am far too squeamish for that. I enabled it to escape and watched it fly away. I say fly, but it would seem that wings were an evolutionary afterthought and it still hadn't quite got used to them yet. (I know - still and yet in the same sentence. Tear me for my tautologies.)
So, 'tis Hallowe'en this day. Not, as yet, celebrated here but should trick or treating ever catch on amongst the scabby kneed and snotty nosed, I may have to make a slight adjustment to the wiring of the bell push. I would prefer to go for a kind of tazer effect, enough to disable but just this side of lethal. I'm a bit strapped for cash at the moment and would have to dispose of the charred and partly cooked remains myself.
I did make one concession however, and carve a pumpkin.
I know I wasn't aiming for a scary, snarling rictus effect but I am not quite sure I was intent on producing an inane grin, either. Oh well, it's the Day of the Dead tomorrow which, while not quite being of the same festival nature as it is in Mexico, does produce some wonderful candlelit scenes in the cemetery of an evening. If I can lay off the malt for long enough into the hours of darkness and can actually be arsed, I shall post photos.
Don't hold your breath.
From time to time Kan Towers is invaded by creatures the provenance of which is a complete mystery to me. One of the joys of living in England is that the indiginous insect population never exceeds the size of say, a daddy-long-legs and although, as in the case of those tiny black flies which alight on anything white in Lincolnshire during the summer months and are known locally as 'thrips', their sheer numbers can be overwhelming, one is rarely faced with anything which may force one to accept the existence of that which could not be described in any way as normal.
Take this little beggar for example, which found itself on the wrong side of the mosquito netting this morning, a fact that would probably account for the rather itchy protruberances on the back of my thigh at the moment. After all, if something this size can breach my defences, just how many skeeters have snuck through undetected? A thing of wondrous form and strange beauty though, is it not? Diaphanously winged and provided with limbs far too long and interestingly jointed to be in any way aerodynamic, it would appear to be some kind of mutant grasshopper, a cicada maybe? I consulted my neighbour, whose closeness to what we may call nature is somewhat less distant than my own, by some considerable margin I might add, and he informed me it was a sáska. My joy at finally discovering tangible evidence of the existence of the creature after which all inhabitants of this village are nicknamed, myself included, although in my case the appellation is usually prefixed by 'trainee', was tempered by the fact that I was no closer to an identification I could actually understand.A quick reference to the dictionary, usually a last resort the reason for which will be all too clear to any ex-pats reading, revealed sáska to be locust. Now you may call me sceptical if you like but I do have a vague memory of the locusts kept in our biology lab at school and, although sharing some characteristics with this specimen, were sufficiently different so as to provide me with no reason whatsoever to revise my opinion of multi-lingual dictionaries. A quick inspection of the grounds was all it took to reassure me that its sudden appearance was not as a scout for some invading army although were frogs to fall from the sky and rivers turn red at anytime in the near future, I should be forced into a reconsideration.
I suppose I could have gone the route of the Bush Tucker Man and deep fried it whole in breadcrumbs...mmmmm, crunchy, tastes just like chicken...but I am far too squeamish for that. I enabled it to escape and watched it fly away. I say fly, but it would seem that wings were an evolutionary afterthought and it still hadn't quite got used to them yet. (I know - still and yet in the same sentence. Tear me for my tautologies.)
So, 'tis Hallowe'en this day. Not, as yet, celebrated here but should trick or treating ever catch on amongst the scabby kneed and snotty nosed, I may have to make a slight adjustment to the wiring of the bell push. I would prefer to go for a kind of tazer effect, enough to disable but just this side of lethal. I'm a bit strapped for cash at the moment and would have to dispose of the charred and partly cooked remains myself.
I did make one concession however, and carve a pumpkin.
I know I wasn't aiming for a scary, snarling rictus effect but I am not quite sure I was intent on producing an inane grin, either. Oh well, it's the Day of the Dead tomorrow which, while not quite being of the same festival nature as it is in Mexico, does produce some wonderful candlelit scenes in the cemetery of an evening. If I can lay off the malt for long enough into the hours of darkness and can actually be arsed, I shall post photos.Don't hold your breath.
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