I hate January. Hate it so much. Always have, always will. I hate it more now that we are in Europe where the dark mornings and evenings are more pronounced and more, well, dark.
The cold I can deal with; the dark less so. I need sunshine and lots of it if I am to remain the happy-go-lucky life and soul of the party that you all know me to be. Without it I am a miserable bastard. I know, I know, that will come as a real shock to you but there it is.
This January has not helped by the two of us getting covid for the first time. For those that have had it, you know how shit it is. It has come as quite a shock for the two of us. What you think is merely a bad cold turns out to be something that knocks you for six (try explaining that phrase to Spaniards). Or knocked sideways, if that helps your understanding of how much t affected us both.
The past week has been a neverending series of cursing and huffing and puffing around tasks that we have to perform merely to get through the day. The dogs have, of course, absolutely loved it. Mummy and daddy at home, in bed or on the sofa for 24 hours per day with the only interruptions for walkies and for food. Hello!
The cat… Well we are never sure how the cat feels about things. He could be deliriously happy or totally pissed off, his outward mood never really changes. He complains that he never has enough food and complains when there is loads left over in his bowl. He complains when I spend an hour or two with him downstairs in the granny flat and he complains when I am not there.
We have tried bringing him in but he complains. We have tried leaving him outside but he complains at that too. That Schrodinger chose a cat to represent his philosophical conundrum is no accident at all, in fact it was perfect. I am pretty sure he must have had Sparky or some other Moroccan street cat in mind when he dreamt up the experiment.
Whilst we are on the subject of arseholes, may I make an honourable mention to Spanish drivers? I may? Thank you…
Good god, what is wrong with these people? Seriously! I have no idea which genius wrote the handbook about how to take roundabouts but he or she needs stringing up. The Spanish are even worse than the Portuguese. I know, I know! That is some claim to make but I am making it. Worse than the Moroccans? Don’t be ridiculous, not even the French are as bad as that.
Some of the driving around here has to be seen to be believed. We live in a commuter town and have to travel ten kilometres to the other commuter town where our school is. Sometimes this takes an hour because of the sheer fuckwittery of the Spanish who have decided that even though there are daily crashes which result in these delays, what they will do is drive like an imbecile and cause even more crashes! Yay! Brilliant!
I will say one thing for Spanish and Portuguese drivers; their fuckwittery is not based upon gender. In Morocco it was pretty much all men who were the idiots. Here and in Lisbon it is shared equally between men and women. Silver lining and all that…
Anyway, we went to a wedding not far from where we are living. We dropped the dogs off, gratefully, and made our way to an unknown satellite town of Madrid and a hotel that was hosting the guests of the wedding of Guillermo and Marina, two friends from our time in Lisbon. We were nervous because they had specified a theme – either traditional Spanish or medieval. We went for the former and dressed as Flamenco dancers.
It was one of the best weddings I have ever been to. It was brilliant. Only two guests failed to dress properly. We were the only ones not dressed in medieval apart from a couple who came in Basque or Galician costume and we got absolutely hammered.
I love weddings. I love the whole concept. You declare your undying love for someone in front of the people who mean the most to you. To be invited to one is a sign of great honour and I appreciate it so much. Am I trying to make an excuse for having a few tears? Of course I am. I always cry at weddings and this one was no exception.
It was an unusual one for the two of us, and not just for the costumes. First time I had seen a ceremonial sword fight between the bride and groom and the first time I had been on a bucking bronco as part of the festivities.
And the food, oh my god, the food. The irony of being in a country that has not enthused us with their culinary delights in restaurants also delighting us with the wedding food on offer is not lost on us. The wine was plentiful as were the hangovers the next day. Our first time in a hotel without the dogs wasn’t the romantic time we envisaged whilst we were making numerous and loud trips to the bathroom the next day. The less said about the drive home, the better.
Lightweights.
Anyway, so we went to the Lunar Museum about an hour away on the following weekend. It was brilliant. It is a tiny museum in a small village in the middle of nowhere and it celebrates the Spanish array that relayed the tv pictures and radio announcements from the first ever Moon landings in 1969, something I was completely unaware of until I read about it the week before.
The Moon Landings have a special place in my heart for many reasons. Armstrong is one of my all-time heroes for what he did and how he did it; Aldrin is now a new hero after getting married at the age of 93 to a young 63 year old woman. But what they achieved was only possible through the efforts of so many others, which they have always been very clear about.
In this case it was the staff of an array built specifically for the purpose of being one of three relay stations in the world for what was a momentous moment in human history. This museum was dedicated to them and the astonishment that NASA gave them this shot at being part of history.
We watched various videos and interacted virtually with some of the many interesting exhibits. The most arresting, however, was the video of those engineers talking about what they did. These old Spanish scientists and engineers spoke of their pride, their surprise and, to a man, ended up crying their eyes out because they realised what they had achieved would live forever.
It was inspiring. The pride they felt was palpable, as was their sheer sense of wonder even after decades thinking about it. These were very sensible people and not prone to hyperbole. When they say it was a life-defining moment, I’ll choose to believe it. Did I have tears when I listened to them speak? Absolutely.
And why not?
School life will continue tomorrow for the both us. Not easy since we still have no energy for anything at all. Not sure how many more week this feeling of being knackered will continue for. We have both had intense evenings speaking at Parent’s evening. For the two of us, I think they went well.
Meeting parents is always an interesting exercise. You get to meet the whole gamut of humanity in one evening and you are expected to relate to all of them. It is my great pleasure to say that the vast majority of them are nice and who are realistic in their hopes for their child. Some are dressed to the nines and others slumped in their car waiting for their child to finish football. It doesn’t matter – they have this one time of year when they are expected to talk to a teacher and they do it well.
I am now, of course, a Science teacher. And Maths! Try not to laugh at the back there. What that means, in real time, is that my subjects are deemed to be quiet important and so I should know what I am talking about. That isn’t as easy as it sounds when you really haven’t got a clue.
I think I blagged it though. I oozed sincerity when talking about Learning Goals and some scientificish big words. Many parents were just grateful that there was someone out there willing to spend some time with their offspring and attempting to educate them. These are the fee-paying crowd; what must it be like for parents who don’t have to pay to get rid of their kids for five days a week?
Anyway, my fear of being a Science teacher has dissipated somewhat due to the shock of being around so-called scientists in my department who leave all of their crap out all of the time. This is supposed to be a community that is paranoid about the sanctity of scientific studies and yet who will leave an un-named beaker full of some kind of bacterial growth next to the fridge where your milk is.
There is crap everywhere, I kid you not. I am just as guilty; I left five trays of oil on water and various substances to control it overnight. The smell…
But I digress. I thought my fellow science teachers would be more organised. I am disappointed by their careless regard for the future of humanity should they inadvertently leave a potent mixture that grows a consciousness and attempts to enslave the world.
And I will also try my best to remember Maeve as we leave January behind. Maeve was Sonalee’s BFF from many years ago. She was the MC at our wedding and a visitor to our place in Andalusia. Maeve died two years ago after a long battle against blood cancer. Sonalee was unable to attend the funeral because of covid. We hope to visit her grave this year and say our long overdue goodbye.
And we hope to visit home this summer seeing as we are not looking to move yet again. It is nice not looking for another job. Or another city to live in. Or another country. I have started to miss home – I haven’t been back for four years now. It would be nice to see Pompey again and to see friends and family. And have M&S scotch eggs – it’s the little things.
Ayubowan,
Hasta luego, isnhallah,
Ciao
Paul
PS: Don’t go just yet, stay a while. Can you see it clearly now? And, of course, do you go to the movies?
PPS: This blog is dedicated to Mango, Mike’s cat. RIP you little sod.
