tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278675922024-02-07T22:57:13.832+01:00meanwhile time fliesBarcelona, life, restaurants, metro, travel, strangers, and the daily minutiae and pantomime of life.outside-janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13209943475795895771noreply@blogger.comBlogger118125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27867592.post-47792734896829413392013-08-04T11:27:00.000+02:002013-08-04T11:27:17.927+02:00¡Qué guay!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0hMdnBQPmfxzBiI9RzCVqHzm0hYgBFQkqcPPyUhq0mMlQuFvN_ppwSgpzOrfwt4Gr15qRzEiZnqS6KqZWUPGJsrrG-jwxnsLzpeOmkHnxTo97T8ODQzjbY4co9RKsZ69Bz0pO1Q/s1600/lehmann-joerg-crosses-knife-and-fork-on-a-plate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0hMdnBQPmfxzBiI9RzCVqHzm0hYgBFQkqcPPyUhq0mMlQuFvN_ppwSgpzOrfwt4Gr15qRzEiZnqS6KqZWUPGJsrrG-jwxnsLzpeOmkHnxTo97T8ODQzjbY4co9RKsZ69Bz0pO1Q/s200/lehmann-joerg-crosses-knife-and-fork-on-a-plate.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
It's always nice to be reminded that one is getting older and slowly, but inevitably, becoming less cool. And it's especially nice to get a double hit of this delightful feeling.<br /><br />Everyone knows that, when in a restaurant with a Specials board, it is someone's job to go and stand in front of it, memorise it (ideally in less than a minute) and then return to the table and reel-off said list, with all the customary guess-work, ad libs and mis-rememberings:<br />
"I think it came with veggies or rice… or maybe something else. Oh and there was definitely a pasta thingy… and there was one more… which sounded quite good actually…"<br /><br />Well no, if you are nodding sympathetically at that last paragraph, then I am sorry to be the one tell you – but you are old. That is not the thing to do at all. If you are a young hipster, you simply stand in front of the board and take a photo of it with your camera phone. Of course you do, obvious isn't it? (only, it would never have occurred to me to do that).<br /><br />But even hipsters get out-hipped on occasion. <br />"Oh no sir" said the waiter "there's really no need!" He placed reassuring fingertips on the young man's sleeve and with a Dickensian smile, that managed to be both cap-doffingly subservient and supremely condescending, he said:<br />"It's really not necessary to do that! Not at all! The Specials are all online! Simply swipe the code" and he pointed, in turn, to several strategically placed squares, hidden discreetly amongst depressingly similar abstract art prints. "Just swipe the code and the entire menu, along with the Specials, is all there!"<br /><br />The young hipster returned to his seat suitably chastised, and I made a mental note to never, ever stand up to look at a Specials board, ever again.outside-janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13209943475795895771noreply@blogger.com0Barcelona, Spain41.3850639 2.173403499999949441.1944764 1.8506799999999495 41.5756514 2.4961269999999494tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27867592.post-26730142136376078892013-07-30T20:07:00.000+02:002013-07-30T20:07:20.354+02:00That Moment<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxxbXPGQPo6pxwA9BRoo9uAts0IL0QzC0Qm_Pv0_Vy6iOT5TABTjKrfcq5696YvIKxqriM-MYVm2G0f3oh-5py0o9eboY2SUxuXX62hfDJpTaiA7my5EtU85agYfc-_FrTDu5iEg/s1600/3058119_370.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxxbXPGQPo6pxwA9BRoo9uAts0IL0QzC0Qm_Pv0_Vy6iOT5TABTjKrfcq5696YvIKxqriM-MYVm2G0f3oh-5py0o9eboY2SUxuXX62hfDJpTaiA7my5EtU85agYfc-_FrTDu5iEg/s200/3058119_370.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
That moment: That moment when the pale, spotty youth, with his cap on sidewards, mostly lost in his mobile phone app, momentarily glances up and sees the tall, statuesque blonde with the waist-length hair and the thigh-length skirt, who looses her balance as the train pulls out of the station, stumbles on her tall shoes and lands roundly in his profoundly grateful lap.<br /><br />May we all have at least one moment of unexpected joy, as good as that, this week.<br />
<br />outside-janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13209943475795895771noreply@blogger.com1Barcelona, Spain41.3850639 2.173403499999949441.1944764 1.8506799999999495 41.5756514 2.4961269999999494tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27867592.post-70130901102944021222013-07-18T19:31:00.006+02:002021-03-01T15:22:30.610+01:00Huevos Rancheros<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtXioTe1Yc9ax3ChSvz1RUy8bAajMve85WkaxEbBRXRxpbM_kCfCT4GLePdeVqfdJXw_i4sNlWlmpvVM0XdptfawE4OOyneXzhgEug0LV4fWdH65HyUoo_50Ovyc8i7Plrb9MYYg/s1600/sharing-food.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtXioTe1Yc9ax3ChSvz1RUy8bAajMve85WkaxEbBRXRxpbM_kCfCT4GLePdeVqfdJXw_i4sNlWlmpvVM0XdptfawE4OOyneXzhgEug0LV4fWdH65HyUoo_50Ovyc8i7Plrb9MYYg/s16000/sharing-food.jpg" /></a></div>
"You shouldn't have ordered the eggs" she said, "the doctor says your cholesterol is already too high and they'll be dripping in oil"<br />"But I <i>like</i> huevos rancheros" he said.<br />"They're bad for your health."<br />The man said nothing. His gaze, benign and unruffled, settled gently on the space just behind her (his wife, I had no doubt) left shoulder.<br />"I'm having the gazpacho" she said, with a touch of defiance.<br />"And I'm sure it will be delicious" he replied.<br /><br />The food arrived quickly: her thin, pale soup decorated with five carefully placed croutons and his two golden-yolked, fried eggs covered with thick, oregano-scented, tomato sauce.<br />"How are your eggs?" she asked solicitously.<br />"Delicious" he said, smacking his lips "how is your soup?"<br />"It's special" she said, "I think it has peach in it"<br />"Mmmm"<br /><br />They ate, he silent and focused, whilst she kept up a more-or-less continuous stream of chatter about the office, the street, their plans for the weekend. Then the woman broke off a small piece of bread, and casually, without pausing her conversation she reached over, broke one of the yolks and dipped her bread into it. He paused, his fork suspended just above her wrist, but said nothing. She dipped again and informed him that María-from-work has a new boyfriend.<br />"You have something on your chin" he said. There was a drip of egg yolk.<br />"Oh my goodness" she said, quickly covering half her face with her napkin, "how long has that been there? Why didn't you say something?" she wiped her face thoroughly and grumbled gently as they both continued to eat. She, delicately sipping her soup and reaching across now and then, to dip her bread and he, slowly but with relish, only pausing to watch her hand, each time it advanced and retreated.<br />
<br />
He stopped eating, looked directly at her and pointedly rubbed his chin. She grabbed her napkin once more and thoroughly rubbed at her face.<br />"It's all right for you" she said "your back's to the room"<br />"What?"<br />"I look ridiculous!"<br />"Do you?"<br />"With egg all over my face!"<br />"There's nothing on your face"<br />"You rubbed your chin!"<br />"What? Did I?"<br />"You know you did! You told me I had something on my chin"<br />"I may have rubbed my chin. So what?"<br />"You rubbed your chin!"<br />"So?"<br />"If that was a joke, it wasn't funny." She sulkily helped herself to a small piece of egg.<br />"Can I try your soup?"<br />"Of course…" he leant across, borrowed her spoon and took a generous spoonful.<br />"You took a crouton!" she said.<br />"You said I could try your soup! It comes with croutons!"<br />"Yes, but not enough…"<br />"Shall I ask the girl for more?"<br />"No, they're too fattening"<br />"Then it is good that you have one less to eat."<br />They glowered mutually and she dipped a small piece of bread into the tomato sauce.<br /><br />He also tore off a piece of bread and wiped it in the sauce, she recommenced her chatter and he listened carefully. Then she took the last piece of bread and dipped…<br />"Of course I told her that wouldn't work, but she wouldn't listen to me… what?"<br />"You have something on your chin – sauce I think"<br />(There was nothing on her chin)<br />She glared at him and considered the situation. He met her gaze calmly.<br />"Stop it" she said.<br />He shrugged.<br />She quickly wiped her face with her napkin and looked around her to see if the congregation of the crowded café was smirking at her behind their hands, as she clearly believed them to be. They weren't. Or maybe they were just being extra subtle about it.<br /><br />The waitress came and cleared the dishes. <br />"What did you order next?" she asked.<br />"The pork."<br />"Oh, me too" she said, somewhat crestfallen.<br />Personally, I thought it was for the best.<br />
<blockquote>
*Translated from the Spanish… and possibly embellished a little.</blockquote>
outside-janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13209943475795895771noreply@blogger.com2Barcelona, Spain41.3850639 2.173403499999949441.1944764 1.8506799999999495 41.5756514 2.4961269999999494tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27867592.post-22407875409102416982013-07-02T23:19:00.000+02:002013-07-10T23:28:55.705+02:00Another Train BlogShe was about 50, glamorous, stylishly but not expensively dressed; low heels, long hair. She got on the train about 2 stops after me and settled herself into the seat opposite with a loud sigh. She glanced out the window for a few seconds and then began rummaging in a voluminous leather handbag in search of her make-up. She applied darker eye liner, some sparkly eye shadow and glossy lipstick, all with intense concentration. Next she added some of that extra thickening, lash extending, pump-up, emulsion mascara (that, I personally, think looks terrible). After applying she attempted to brush most of it off with a tiny eyelash brush – jumping and grumbling every time the train bumped or took or corner. When she had finished, she stared into space for a moment and then looked disapprovingly down at the rest of her.<br />
<br />
She took out her cosmetics once more and, with her compact mirror, she was making a show of looking at her eye make-up… but she wasn't looking at her eye make-up. I had to be careful, she was aware of me now and shooting occasional glares my way - some of which hit their mark. But with surreptitious observation I could see that what she was in fact doing, was considering how many buttons to un-do on her blouse. She first undid the top one, looked in her mirror, then undid a second… re-fastened the second, checked again… re-fastened the first… She bit her lip and furrowed her eye-brows… then she undid the first, left the second, put her compact away with a snap and shot a fierce stare at me to show she meant business.<br />
<br />
Next she did something I haven't seen in 25 years – we all did this at school: she carefully folded over the waistband of her skirt (which is not easy to do discreetly, whilst seated) to make her skirt that little bit shorter. After completing this task, she looked around to see if she had an audience – I was caught red-handed. She stared me out and I looked away.<br />
<br />
She looked at her watch, then at the próxima estación (next station) display. She closed her bag and hugged it to her as she edged forward in her seat and prepared to stand. She looked down at her shoes, flexed her feet, then looked at her hands… and she froze.<br />
<br />
She started to bring her hands together, hesitated, then made her decision. After a quick glance around her, she quickly and carefully removed her wedding ring, stood up, straightened up and walked off the train into a warm, dusky evening.outside-janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13209943475795895771noreply@blogger.com1Barcelona, Spain41.3850639 2.173403499999949441.1944764 1.8506799999999495 41.5756514 2.4961269999999494tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27867592.post-35155230168528252642013-06-28T21:58:00.000+02:002013-06-28T21:58:31.050+02:00Metro PantoRunning down the stairs; taking them 2 by 2; dodging my compañeros de viaje; clutching my laptop bag and trying to avoid thinking about how much the contents actually cost... all because I can hear that tell-tale "shhhhiuuuuussh" of the train pulling in. I reach the bottom, swing and pivot on the railing, catching a glimpse of the monitor as I twirl and come skidding to a halt in a cloud of cartoon dust... because, dammit, it's not my train.<br />
I look ostentatiously casual and do some gratuitous twirls to show that I fully <i>meant</i> throw myself down the stairs – <i>it's the very bestest exercise, don't you know</i>. And then I realise, to my horror, that actually it IS my train! On instinct I lunge at the doors just as they close, narrowly taking my nose out west. It required an extremely complex pantomime to recover from this one.<br />
<a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/video/2012/nov/01/david-mitchell-soapbox-social-signals-video">#DavidMitchellPantomime</a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh44iQzPWuQyVvHWpiuVxiCQtDb2-KWLhYXDU5YHqeP2mG8qezoGUJtMnrWt0u96nQywwksLvyDkPAaCfr4R5KuPVOFVVLVL5K0WwbMj8QWMujMvJK-BmyWoN-nT1JLi2_nZ4EtnQ/s1600/woman-missing-train1.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh44iQzPWuQyVvHWpiuVxiCQtDb2-KWLhYXDU5YHqeP2mG8qezoGUJtMnrWt0u96nQywwksLvyDkPAaCfr4R5KuPVOFVVLVL5K0WwbMj8QWMujMvJK-BmyWoN-nT1JLi2_nZ4EtnQ/s400/woman-missing-train1.jpg" /></a>outside-janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13209943475795895771noreply@blogger.com0Barcelona, Spain41.3850639 2.173403499999949441.1944764 1.8506799999999495 41.5756514 2.4961269999999494tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27867592.post-38330017141503852922013-06-26T23:31:00.000+02:002013-06-26T23:31:43.801+02:00A new beginningThe smell of the city: diesel, dust and cheap perfume. A kaleidoscope of colours and characters. People strolling, traffic, smoke, the heat of the pavements, the time disconnection - it's never too late. And the food - my-oh-my the food! Barcelona. Here I am.
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg4m4w_6HqNItlYg9Dq_AtKn2viVpU2TVL3zKqfrFzpJdEdGiH3VdJ5gq6TsXPemWFKEBHeWrsWxnkPksbhG2eEnA4JaWVDsiDwyoGkGYynxSU85GxO0IOqoKI5gCvTjcvMUFA4g/s1600/barcelona-paseo-de-gracia-2011.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg4m4w_6HqNItlYg9Dq_AtKn2viVpU2TVL3zKqfrFzpJdEdGiH3VdJ5gq6TsXPemWFKEBHeWrsWxnkPksbhG2eEnA4JaWVDsiDwyoGkGYynxSU85GxO0IOqoKI5gCvTjcvMUFA4g/s400/barcelona-paseo-de-gracia-2011.jpg" /></a>outside-janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13209943475795895771noreply@blogger.com0Barcelona, Spain41.3850639 2.173403499999949441.1944764 1.8506799999999495 41.5756514 2.4961269999999494tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27867592.post-44033147206488406022010-05-13T13:08:00.005+02:002010-05-13T19:35:40.847+02:00This Time Last Year<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6sJQb180Mc3arc0FJ8M1ZPq2U9wbQuTIKZ23gFut8zhdFzklyQO5yBghwIlwYRVf4U3uoPg6nBuDQ0Cm0P3ihp3qh8tgYJl8f76NcR4DzNQizonYZPiIWOsvvSon2of1O1qwBVw/s1600/last-year.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 262px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6sJQb180Mc3arc0FJ8M1ZPq2U9wbQuTIKZ23gFut8zhdFzklyQO5yBghwIlwYRVf4U3uoPg6nBuDQ0Cm0P3ihp3qh8tgYJl8f76NcR4DzNQizonYZPiIWOsvvSon2of1O1qwBVw/s400/last-year.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470719397265045154" border="0" /></a>This time last year I was halfway through my Yoga Teacher Training and loving every minute of it. When I wasn’t doing yoga I was teaching rich honeymooners to dive – but not many of them, as Mexico was in the midst of the Swine Flu tourist-draught.<br /><br />In May, the year before that, I was teaching diving in the Philippines. The year before that, I had only recently arrived.<br /><br />The year before that I was back in London, saving hard and flipping coins as to where to go next. Two years before that I was meandering in Costa Rica, running out of money and coming to terms with the fact that I would soon be returning to the UK.<br /><br />In May of the year before that, I was living in Honduras, diving, bartending and living by the beach. The year before that, in May, I had recently arrived in Guatemala and was falling in love with the same village that I left just a few months ago. The year before that I was in Canada, living in Victoria, taking great long walks along the sea front, with my state-of-the-art, only recently invented MP3 player (which had it’s own bag – it was too big and too heavy to fit in my pocket!)<br /><br />In May of the year before that, I was living in London with two wonderful friends – good times. One of those lovely women is getting married this summer – I can’t wait!<br /><br />Early May, of the year before that, I was in Indonesia. A much less travelled Indonesia than it is now. I was travelling with a man who was the most handsome of my previous boyfriends and also the tallest. We went to places where just being white and foreign was enough to make us celebrities. My boyfriend, at 6’4” was also a giant, from whom small children would run screaming. They would come back of course, but run screaming again if he took off his shirt – he had a hairy chest, which is unheard of amongst Asian men. I remember a young man of about 18, who was clearly sick with jealousy, politely asking if he could touch Andrew’s chest. Andrew, somewhat mollified, said yes. The boy touched the hair tentatively, and then nodded approvingly.<br />“I am going to buy one like that” he said, “I can buy one in Lombok.”<br />We told him we had been to Lombok and it was lovely, but we hadn’t seen any chest hair.<br />“Really?” said the boy in surprise “but I have heard, that in Lombok, everybody is a rock star.”<br /><br />The year before that I was on a fishing boat somewhere in the Gulf of Carpentaria. That year I worked a season on a prawn trawler out of Darwin. One night our nets were attacked by sharks, which didn’t happen often. We pulled the nets in at dawn and in the half-light, as the nets came to the surface, I saw the water churning and frothing with, maybe 60, sharks. It was one of the most extraordinary scenes I’ve ever witnessed. When the nets came out of the water, the few remaining fish fell out – the nets were full of holes. Our skipper was apoplectic with fury and launched into a tirade against sharks, holes, nets and his crew (rather unfairly, I thought). He said the boat was a "useless tub of shit" until those nets were fixed and back in the water, then he went to bed. We five, pulled in the outriggers and hung the nets off them like vast blue curtains. The biggest hole was a metre across. So we set about sewing up the holes – it took us 20 hours – then we got back to work. A few months later I got off that boat fitter, stronger, browner and blonder than I had ever been.<br /><br />The year before that I was in London, feeling anxious: I was about to embark on my first long-term, solo trip and I was very concerned about having the right stuff. I had decided to buy a new backpack – a proper one. Cheap backpacks, as every traveller knows, are a false economy. The straps cut into your shoulders and then break. I spent most of this month choosing. My final choice was £85, making it the most expensive item I had ever purchased. When I handed over the money I remember thinking that that I would be wearing this bag <span style="font-style: italic;">for a whole year</span>. That trip lasted 2½ years, and I’ve worn that backpack for many, many more.<br /><br />The year before that I had just broken up with my first love and decided to start saving to go travelling. The year before that I had just moved to London, with my first love, I was learning graphic design and wondering if I would stick at it.<br /><br />At this time, early May, of the year before that, I was I was doing my Finals at University. My friends were all worrying about jobs, but I did not apply for a single one. I knew what I was going to do – I was going to travel. A week after my exams ended I packed up my student digs and cleared out my bank account. I bought a one-way ticket to Athens and the cheapest backpack I could find. I left with the country with £60 in my pocket. My dad remembers me saying that I would be away for 3 years! My dad privately told my mum not to worry, that I would be back by Christmas! He was right – I was back in November.<br /><br />During that summer, a fat man in a very expensive white suit approached me in a bar in Paxos. He had four bodyguards with him, all in matching black suits. I was told later, by the owner of the bar, that this man was a Godfather in the Greek Mafia. He offered me a job, on his private island:<br />“Doing what?” I asked<br />“I don’t know” he replied “what are you good at?”<br />I politely declined his offer.<br />“Don’t you have a sense of adventure?” he said “what are you going to do instead?”<br />I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I said “but I’ll think of something.”outside-janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13209943475795895771noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27867592.post-17917723973480454402010-04-29T14:05:00.007+02:002010-04-29T14:29:27.667+02:00Hanging In There<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTL69le8q1S-4QNZjXANhQKwjjWzjUT9IO0VWM_zFaUpEbN9rpHMbdPVQP9ySHXo4BgavS5IhRnyGKgWXAVWI3WDOOr2vRBh30xcSW3EK8I2FPPu5Kcs7jop6dPs6BBfsP3gUS7w/s1600/shut-the-gate.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 274px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTL69le8q1S-4QNZjXANhQKwjjWzjUT9IO0VWM_zFaUpEbN9rpHMbdPVQP9ySHXo4BgavS5IhRnyGKgWXAVWI3WDOOr2vRBh30xcSW3EK8I2FPPu5Kcs7jop6dPs6BBfsP3gUS7w/s400/shut-the-gate.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465534406122423842" border="0" /></a>Alright! Everybody stop panicking! Relax, rest easy and call off the search parties – oh, you already have. That’s nice. Well you will be relieved to hear, none-the-less, that I am not dead; I have not joined M16 and disappeared into a dark, sticky world of subterfuge and superfudge; I have not sunk into a well of depression and resentment against the world and life in general... oh hang-on! Actually, I have been doing a bit of that.<br /><br />Since returning to the UK I have been mostly unemployed. Yes, unemployed. Not idling, with is healthy; not lounging, which is delicious; not glorying in an existence unrestricted by the conventions of nine-to-five and pension schemes, which is everything a perfect life should be – oh no – I am just unemployed. As <a href="http://www.literaturepage.com/read/idlethoughts-3.html">Jerome K Jerome</a> (a role model of mine) pointed out –<br /><blockquote>“It is impossible to enjoy idling thoroughly unless one has plenty of work to do. Idleness, like kisses, to be sweet must be stolen.”</blockquote>Being unemployed is pointless and no fun at all. Hence the lack of blog – basically, for the last four months, I have had nothing to say.<br /><br /><blockquote style="font-weight: bold;">Dec to Apr & what I thought of it</blockquote><span style="font-weight: bold;">December:</span> Still had my tan and the entire trauma of home invasion rattling around in my head. Was ill and didn’t sleep (with the exception of 25-26th of December – both sleeps being booze induced). Mostly wandered around being startled and checking all the doors were locked, repeatedly. Attended Christmas.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">January:</span> Glared at the snow. Started job-hunting in a lackadaisical and unfocused manner. During my previous incursions to the UK I have secured work within a few weeks – I assumed it would be the same this time, so I actually wasn’t in too much of a hurry. My first batch of applications met with complete and thunderous silence.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">February:</span> Started seeing a Counsellor – she told me I was depressed and needed to take anti-depressants. I insisted I was not depressed, just a bit fed-up and exhausted because I hadn’t slept properly since July. Realised, as I said it, how foolish this sounded. Continued, more earnest applications were met with continued resonating rejection.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">March:</span> Diligent and enthusiastic job-hunting: a revised CV and a fancy new portfolio. My first interview! I hated them. Sleeping better, putting on weight, feel like the lights (inside and out) are coming back on. It’s sunny! Slight tan returning. Decide to rethink my plan – maybe I won’t become vampire (<a href="http://www.vampires.nu/pages/forums.cfm/action/viewmessages/Forum/25/Topic/477/PageID/10">sanguinarian</a>, obviously, otherwise what’s the point) after all. Decide to become a T-Shirt designer instead (more on that coming soon – bate your breath people).<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">April:</span> Some interviews, more rejections, but feeling more positive about the whole business. Still unemployed, very broke. But I am sleeping and no longer feel compelled to check that the house is secured every half-hour. It occurs to me that I used to write a blog...<br /><br />So that’s it. My next posting will be cheerful, I promise! So... England eh? It’s a funny old place, isn’t it?outside-janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13209943475795895771noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27867592.post-27507022339696442202010-01-25T15:21:00.005+01:002010-01-25T15:37:27.486+01:00Hello LondonI arrived at Marylebone at 4pm, left the station and walked towards Baker Street. Soon I’m on the massive Baker Street intersection where I nearly got run over in 1995. I was deep into a walkman-zone that day: bouncing along with my techno-house on full volume. Daydreaming and oblivious to my surroundings, I nearly stepped out into the on-coming traffic, and would have done, if an elderly gentleman hadn’t stopped me with his umbrella. I was startled and slightly disoriented for a moment.<br />“Do, excuse me,” he said “ I wasn’t sure... were actually <span style="font-style: italic;">trying</span> to kill yourself?”<br />I assured him I wasn’t and said thank-you.<br />“Jolly good” he said cheerfully, the lights changed and we walked on.<br /><br />I took a left turn onto Paddington Road and then right into Marylebone High Street to see how the rich people shop. Exotic delis, interior design stores and sexy little Boutiques with surprisingly few clothes – even the sandwich bars have chrome fittings. I worked around here back in 2000 – terrible – nowhere to buy lunch. <br /><br />I reach Wigmore Street – do I turn left here or continue to Oxford Street? My foolish side decides to have a look at London’s busiest street. I last nearly 20 metres before wanting to shake my fists angrily at some stupid French tourists who come to complete stand-still in front of me, without warning. I step to the right to avoid hitting them and an American family crash into me. The French girls toss their Parisian ponytails and flounce away unrepentant. I take a sharp left back to Wigmore Street. There’s a couple standing at the corner:<br />“Or we could walk down Oxford Street?” says the girl, hopefully.<br />“No,” retorts the man “it’s just like this street except with thousands of idiots.”<br />Quite right. I set off down Wigmore enjoying my purposeful stride. <br /><br />Turn right onto Regents street and take the first left, past a nice little Bar that does great food at lunchtime... now... <span style="font-style: italic;">how do I know that?</span> When have I been there? I am still musing when I pass a familiar doorway. Ah yes, there’s a little Design Studio on the third floor. I can’t remember when I worked there, but my boss was <span style="font-style: italic;">very</span> good looking, <span style="font-style: italic;">very</span> charming and sadly, very married. But he used to take me out for lunch every Friday to that nice little bar around the corner. <br /><br />Soon I’m back on Oxford Street, the marginally less packed end. I’m looking for a little shop near Tottenham Court Road. This shop does two things: they sell a wide selection of tweed flat-caps and they unlock mobile phones very cheaply. I find it – it’s still there. I peruse the caps while they unlock my phone and then continue on my way.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitJz_fzZn1ErCDbDQ4qzBgiOhEYj697stfb4iA2KwuHf1_ozg3-jveOZFjfDj6hb2kEx-OI-WZtcDgDNlgBEJt5u3WCbtkSQUiZKX0nLvWKYz-Cz6-sYpJexurzJVteMKofMtGGQ/s1600-h/charing-cross-night550.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 311px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitJz_fzZn1ErCDbDQ4qzBgiOhEYj697stfb4iA2KwuHf1_ozg3-jveOZFjfDj6hb2kEx-OI-WZtcDgDNlgBEJt5u3WCbtkSQUiZKX0nLvWKYz-Cz6-sYpJexurzJVteMKofMtGGQ/s400/charing-cross-night550.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430684576259040594" border="0" /></a><a href="http://www.surreyartists.co.uk/aaw/websites/surreyartists/thames-ditton/surrey-art-gallery/charing-cross-night.htm"><span style="font-size:85%;">Charing Cross Road, by John Walsom</span></a><br /><br />Right into Charing Cross Road, past The George, another favourite pub: one of those places where you know you’ll have a great night... so long as you don’t get mugged.<br /><br />Next, Cambridge Circus, a gladiatorial arena where the game is as follows: Cambridge Circus has an eccentric traffic situation, many roads and many lanes, which follow no discernible system. No matter where you cross, no matter what colour the lights, when you are halfway across the road a vehicle (usually a black cab) will appear from some previously unseen side street and attempt to run you over. The trick, for those in the know, is to find some tourists heading your way and use them as a human shield.<br /><br />I spotted a couple of suitably substantial Germans and trotted along side them, the woman gave a yelp of surprise when the black cab missed her by mere inches, but we all survived and I’m sure the sprint did them good. <br /><br />Ahead of me are two narrow streets. I know that one of them will take me direct to Seven Dials and the other will lead me into the murky maze of back streets somewhere behind the London Graphics Centre. I take a guess... and a minute or so later I am lost amongst shadowy streets, dotted with abandoned Art Students. A left, then a right, I kind of recognise that bead shop, and yes! There is Seven Dials straight ahead.<br /><br />The little pub I used to frequent is still there, but it seems they no longer allow people to take their drinks over the road and onto the mini roundabout to sit on the statue. That’s a shame – negotiating traffic whilst carrying a round of drinks is something everyone should try at least once. I stop for a quick coffee, for old times sake, at the Japanese-inspired basement coffee lounge, full of cool kids with astonishing hairstyles. Then it’s a right turn down Neal Street.<br /><br />At the bottom of Neal Street, where the M&S is now, there used to be a veritable Palace of all things Kitsch. I don’t remember what the shop was called, but on the front was a row of plastic manikin legs, all doing the Can-Can. At 15 years old I thought that shop was the heighth of cool. M&S is no substitute. <br /><br />I turn left down to Covent Garden and look for some street theatre. There’s a juggler – he’s not bad, a few good tricks, but nothing my brother couldn’t do. I was about to walk on, when he starts to do the same sequence, but this time juggling meat cleavers. That’s worth a look! Then he repeats the same sequence, with the cleavers, whilst riding a unicycle. For that, I give him some applause. But then he says those dreaded words “a volunteer” and it’s time for me to move along. I stop to listen to some opera singers – is there anywhere else in the world where opera singers busk? Sadly I only hear the end of their set, but they’re excellent. <br /><br />I pass a Bar I used to visit often in my early 20s. It looks the same and I pop in to use the toilet. In the toilets are two girls applying make-up with industrial trowels.<br />“You know what” says one, between coats of high-gloss emulsion mascara “sometimes I don’t feel like going out, I’d rather stay in... but y’know, it’s gotta be done, innit?” <br />Her friend nods sagely, “you know what that is” she replies, “we’re getting old.”<br />They are no more than 22. <br /><br />Back on the street, I am pleased to find the shop where I bought my backpack – the one I have been carrying around these last 14 years, is still there and still busy. Finally, I circle past the Ted Baker store (well I can dream can’t I?) before locating the pub where I will be meeting my two, delightful old friends (‘Oi! Less of the old’ I hear them grumble). I haven’t seen them for five years, so I’m looking forward to it.<br /><br />Safely reunited, after a quick pint, we head over to a French Bistro style Restaurant for dinner. My companions, both of whom have vegetarian wives at home, order meat, followed by meat, with some meat on the side.<br />“Absolutely” says one friend, “and if they’d let me, I’d have sausages and chocolate for dessert!” As I order the goats cheese, my other friend, sighs in an ‘I’m-so-disappointed-with-you’ kind of way.<br />“Oh Jane” he says, “you’re such a girl.” <br /><br />Dinner was excellent, and the company even better. Afterwards we head to a nearby subterranean bar, which serves delicious cocktails for exorbitant prices. Bizarrely, the three of us have a tradition of drinking in subterranean bars. As we settle in with our cocktails, my friend sniggers and points,<br /> “Check out the DJs girlfriend” he says, “have you ever <span style="font-style: italic;">seen</span> anything so bored!”<br />He’s not wrong. She’s wearing a sparkly top, but she couldn’t be any less sparkly without inducing a coma. She’s hunched and slouched on a little stool, motionless, glassy eyed, tedium and apathy oozing from very pore. Half an hour later my friend says, <br />“Have you noticed the music has got <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> good?” We agree and turn to look – <span style="font-style: italic;">oops!</span> It seems the DJs girlfriend... is actually the DJ! And she’s very good. The bloke is now slouched on the stool at her side, looking equally bored and ever so slightly resentful.<br /><br />It gets late, having said goodbye to one musketeer, I head back with the other to his new place. Safely back at his flat, we sit down for a nice cup of Earl Grey, and I admire their new chandeliers, before retiring to their very comfortable guest room, accompanied by their very friendly cat! How times have changed – back in the day, when we first became friends, I would have been lucky to get a warm beer night-cap, a musky sleeping bag and a bean bag on the living room floor! It seems some things really do get better with age!<br /><br />And so, there ends my evening in The Big Smoke. Hello London! It’s been a while, but you’re looking well. It was good to see you again.outside-janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13209943475795895771noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27867592.post-61512977756965597032009-12-03T00:28:00.004+01:002009-12-03T01:12:14.153+01:00English Roses<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTLztTSH1gYmwWK5M0pHGGTIkAYgcSVCbZpwt6RaCm7P7NVIGGjRNQuuBpWurvQg_sv2Yi2G84qjv0CsYgnVqAKsfzoogCWqPhnlN_3-ex0aSMFQf_C9Y_HxxxMjPUK94IoU9neA/s1600-h/shopping.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTLztTSH1gYmwWK5M0pHGGTIkAYgcSVCbZpwt6RaCm7P7NVIGGjRNQuuBpWurvQg_sv2Yi2G84qjv0CsYgnVqAKsfzoogCWqPhnlN_3-ex0aSMFQf_C9Y_HxxxMjPUK94IoU9neA/s400/shopping.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410786579323803090" border="0" /></a>I was sitting on a bench in the Shopping Centre (here in the UK we shop in Centres, not Mauls.) eating my humble, flat sandwich from a cardboard box. I was wearing shoes – how strange to look down and not see my toes – and a thick coat. How strange. Sitting on either side of me were two overweight women. When I sat down I received disapproving and faintly resentful stares from them both. I am not sure whether it’s my fading tan or my waistline that sets me apart, but I definitely have the feeling I am not “one of them”. Or perhaps that’s all in my head.<br /><br />Strolling all around us are many more overweight and obese people – there’s more fat people and more elderly people here than I’ve seen in a long time, on the other hand, there’s a noticeable absence of pregnant women.<br /><br />I see an angry woman marching purposely towards our bench; she is red-cheeked with fury and dragging behind her a young girl of maybe nine or ten years.<br />“I had to get out of there before I lost it and hit her” she announces to all of us. I wonder which of the women sitting next to me she knows.<br />“We were waiting there for <span style="font-style: italic;">20 minutes</span> and then she just <span style="font-style: italic;">pushed</span> past me! Some people!”<br />I realise, uncomfortably, that she doesn’t know any of us. The woman on my left says<br />“It’s ever so crowded today.”<br />“I know! Twenty minutes we waited in that queue! <span style="font-style: italic;">Twenty minutes!</span> And my girl was <span style="font-style: italic;">ever</span> so good!”<br />The young girl is pulled forward to be displayed to us. Exhibit A: Well-behaved daughter, studies her shoes and blushes.<br />“It can be difficult when you’ve got children with you” said the woman on my right.<br />“I told her! I said if you’ve got kids I bet they’re as horrible as you are! That’s what I said, didn’t I?” Exhibit A mumbled and shuffled her feet, “then I thought, I’m so angry I’d better get out of here and calm down.”<br /><br />The woman on my left shifted in her seat, I think she was wondering whether we should all move up so the furious woman could sit, and calm down – but there isn’t really room. There is a pause as all three of us silently assess the space available and fidget in a polite but unhelpful manner. Having collectively decided not to move up – my neighbours examine the floor and I inspect my remaining half sandwich.<br /><br />“Well I told her!” said the furious woman. Pause. “I think there’s another bench around the corner,” she added pointedly “but it’s usually full of kids.” Then she took the child by the elbow and marched on her way.<br /><br />I finished my sandwich and wondered whether I should have joined in the conversation.outside-janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13209943475795895771noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27867592.post-5463264189059401202009-11-16T04:59:00.005+01:002009-11-16T06:02:33.328+01:00Too Much Stuff<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy9P9HGap6Mcu8XQpdWNIVEDNnczVyPYIYZmrlOFSSjbTMYBhrRVUrDQOeEuj9kGaYR7xu4b074LLrNWa-kwJ09IGEfvuavE3HAldRSq7UlBPOKMifGSlfJh_dyvSGfoteT94F_g/s1600/stuff-on-bikes.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 274px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy9P9HGap6Mcu8XQpdWNIVEDNnczVyPYIYZmrlOFSSjbTMYBhrRVUrDQOeEuj9kGaYR7xu4b074LLrNWa-kwJ09IGEfvuavE3HAldRSq7UlBPOKMifGSlfJh_dyvSGfoteT94F_g/s400/stuff-on-bikes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404555682637475938" border="0" /></a>Sorry for the recent lack of blog: it's been a mobile time. I am now back in Mexico - it took five days to get here. Day 1: Antigua-Lanquín = 8.5hrs. I was supposed to leave Lanquín the following morning but I accidentally spent Day 2 in a hammock. Then (Day 3) Lanquín-Flores = 10hrs. Thanks to two Israeli's who decided the whole bus should wait for them while they <span style="font-size:85%;">(a)</span> arrived late <span style="font-size:85%;">(b)</span> strolled off for lunch <span style="font-size:85%;">(c)</span> changed their travellers cheques and <span style="font-size:85%;">(d)</span> organised their Day Trip for the following day. I would like to say that this is unusual behaviour, but I can't. Day 4 saw me cross the border into Belize (and ripped off by Guatemalan Border Guards. I would have complained, but unfortunately I had a dodgy, under-the-table stamp - long story - so I said nothing). Then out of Belize (not ripped off at this border <a href="http://outside-jane.blogspot.com/2009/06/leaving-arriving-old-friends-new.html">this time</a> - hurrah) into Mexico (ripped off at the border) and to Chetumal. Followed by a <span style="font-style: italic;">"pleasant"</span> wait at Chetumal Bus Station and a night bus all the way to Cancun. Arrived 5am, shattered but with great plans... slept all day.<br /><br />I've been here for a few days now and all is sorted. <span style="font-weight: bold;">Big News!</span> I will be flying back to the UK on Tuesday to try out "real life" for a while. I don't think I'm going to like it - but I am trying to stay positive. Ha! In the last week I have met two people who recently moved back to Europe... and yes, they're both here again now.<br /><br />Not that I have necessarily given up travelling forever (I don't know yet) - but I know I would like to have a home and also, I am completely broke. I couldn't find work anywhere and my savings have slowly trickled away. Also, if I'm honest, after the tribulations I've had recently, I am feeling tired and defeated. I don't want to sound melodramatic - but <span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">I just can't take it anymore!</span></span> And, of course, I don't have a choice.<br /><br />From what I'm hearing I am not sure if anything's going to be better in the UK. Sounds like the <a href="http://careers.guardian.co.uk/desperate-job-seekers-kate-mccann">job market</a> there is pretty awful - so it could be that after a creepy-crawly Summer, followed by the most monumentally crap Autumn ever (by far), I may be heading back to a cold, dark, unemployed Winter. <span style="font-style: italic;">Please, no.</span> If that happens I shall endeavour to assimilate by embracing day-time television and hallucinogenics, equally. I will also eat a lot of cheese and become obese - well darling, that's all the rage in the First World, don't you know.<br /><br />Right now I am packing. That's not strictly true: right now I am writing a blog, whilst surrounded by numerous looming piles of dive gear, yoga mats, clothes, tea (leaving), sudoku (definitely taking), books... books! O dear, could it <span style="font-style: italic;">be</span> any more harsh? Books or clothes? I can't take them all! I currently own 6 books. I would like to take 5 of them with me, but they won't all fit. I can take 2-3.<br /><br />They are:<br /><ol><li>Rough Guide to Mexico (I might need it again... ok, probably not)</li><li>Midnights Children (definitely taking - I will sacrifice whatever clothes necessary for this one)</li><li>On Chesil Beach</li><li>The Reluctant Fundamentalist</li><li>The Iliad</li></ol>I am not sure if I can make this decision (or handle the truth) - please advise?outside-janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13209943475795895771noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27867592.post-16967344081998977422009-11-01T21:56:00.005+01:002009-11-01T22:17:08.453+01:00Cleaning and other considerationsThis week I have been mostly sulking. I am still in Antigua – waiting for the swelling (from the ousted wisdom tooth) to subside sufficiently for the dentist to oust the other wisdom tooth. It’s so nice to have something to look forward to.<br /><br />I have spent a lot of time in-putting books into Library Thing. That “Words” blog opened up a whole can of worms! But it’s kept me occupied – so for that, I am grateful. Digging out my Book Lists also inspired me to do a little spring clean of my ‘Personal Organiser’. (Remember them? The thing you used to have before your Blackberry – they do much the same job, don’t need batteries, but do require a biro.)<br /><br />So I emptied out all of the various pockets and spaces.<br /><br />I threw away:<br /><ul><li>Several business cards belonging to people I am sure I’ve never met.</li><li>Several email addresses from people I am certain I will never contact.</li><li>Some passport photos, which should never have seen the light of day.</li><li>Numerous scraps of paper with “To Do” Lists on them – nearly all of which were undone.</li></ul>I kept:<br /><ul><li>A membership card for “Perama Travel – All Over Indonesia!” Which expired in 1998.</li><li>A bus ticket from Luang Prabang to Vang Vieng (Laos) dated my birthday, 1999.</li><li>A Donor Card.</li><li>An “I do something amazing, I give blood” Card (although I haven’t, for a long time – but perhaps this will inspire me.)</li><li>A London Underground map</li><li>Business Cards for a Photographer in Sussex, an Italian Hair Stylist in Mexico and a handsome man in the Philippines (you never know).</li><li>A photograph of my parents</li><li>A newspaper clipping from November 2000 – which made me very happy and looks like this:</li></ul><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAJ_vE9k5KAP3od2f3aUiF3scyduNP_CW0qgRsXx9ZFGVmHk7azPHQ1i6S19-QmbnK8RJ-2pkrG0hZfa48UmPk7JDswJg4rNz55IKF6B1bnW-QZWUEF50pskWeKEx27XA_oGOhkQ/s1600-h/newspaper_elvis.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAJ_vE9k5KAP3od2f3aUiF3scyduNP_CW0qgRsXx9ZFGVmHk7azPHQ1i6S19-QmbnK8RJ-2pkrG0hZfa48UmPk7JDswJg4rNz55IKF6B1bnW-QZWUEF50pskWeKEx27XA_oGOhkQ/s400/newspaper_elvis.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399247172223736562" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And<br /><ul><li>The Proust Questionnaire</li></ul><br />I cut this out from a magazine several years ago, with the intention is doing something with it... filling it in I suppose. These days there are so many imitators knocking around on Facebook and the like, that I have got truly sick and tired of Questionnaires. Most of them are so banal – <span style="font-style: italic;">“what time did you get up this morning? Who is most likely to reply to this questionnaire?”</span> Yawn! But this one is actually quite interesting. It supposedly gets to the very heart of an individual. Maybe it does. Kate Winslet apparently uses it when developing a new role.<br /><br />Here are the questions:<br /><ul><li>Your favourite virtue;</li><li>Your favourite qualities in a man;</li><li>Your favourite qualities in a woman;</li><li>Your biggest flaw;</li><li>Your favourite occupation;</li><li>Your chief characteristic;</li><li>Your idea of happiness;</li><li>Your idea of misery;</li><li>Your favourite colour and flower;</li><li>If not yourself, who would you be?</li><li>Where would you like to live?</li><li>Your favourite prose authors;</li><li>Your favourite poets;</li><li>Your favourite painters and composers;</li><li>Your favourite heroes in real life;</li><li>Your favourite heroines in real life;</li><li>Your favourite heroes in fiction;</li><li>Your favourite heroines in fiction;</li><li>Your favourite food and drink;</li><li>Your favourite names;</li><li>Your Pet Aversion;</li><li>What characters in history do you most dislike?</li><li>What is your present state of mind?</li><li>For what fault do you have the most toleration?</li><li>Your favourite motto;</li><li>How would you like to die?</li></ul>So I did finally complete it. It concerned me how many flaws I could think of and how few characteristics – none in fact. I don’t know what my characteristics are – I don’t think I have any. Maybe glibness. Is that a characteristic? Facetiousness? My flaws, on the other hand, had to be both long and short-listed.<br /><br />It saddened me that my favourite novelists, poets, composers and painters were <span style="font-style: italic;">all</span> men. Especially having recently read <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2002/apr/27/fiction.carolshields">‘Unless’</a> in which she blames her daughters descent into depression on the marginalisation of women in the Media. Has this been truly ingrained in me? Or are there (dare I say it) simply less creative women than men? Mind you, all my most hated characters from history were also men (book burners, all).<br /><br />Even sadder, I realised that I have absolutely no heroes or heroines in real life – but many from fiction. Naming my fictional hero/ines was easy! (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frodo_Baggins">Frodo</a> Baggins, <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/ford.shtml">Ford Prefect</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anna_Karenina">Levin</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C3%89owyn">Eowyn</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Much_Ado_About_Nothing">Beatrice</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lessa">Lessa</a> – in case you were wondering). But people in real life are so tainted – how can <span style="font-style: italic;">anyone</span> be so above reproach that is possible to feel nothing but admiration for them? Even after much consideration, I can think of no one. I did, in the end, come up with three names, but I am not completely happy to pronounce them ‘heroes’. (Alexander the Great, Elizabeth I and Emmiline Pankhurst). Does this reflect on me? Am I being realistic or too cynical?<br /><br />And how would I like to die? Healthy, of course.<br /><br />I’ve posted my full answers as a comment. Feel free to leave your own – yes, I am interested! Mr Botogol recently mused that every blog gets the readers it deserves... so I have no doubt that you are a sensitive, noble and discerning bunch!outside-janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13209943475795895771noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27867592.post-90084926629908227392009-10-25T20:04:00.004+01:002009-11-16T06:04:00.928+01:00Deconstructing MontyIt is the nature of the world that all things must change, but there has been one particular development over the last few years that is causing me some considerable concern. Ladies and gentleman, have you noticed that sandwiches are getting fatter?<br /><br />The sandwich was famously named after John Montagu, the 4th Earl of Sandwich (how sad that they didn’t end up being known as Geralds – as Blackadder mis-predicted – or indeed Montys. One can’t help thinking that daily life would be a little richer if lunch consisted of a nice cheese & tomato monty.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinMf-PFGds7EW9DPXggoMJUReEa3uFuAwzcsDx9CE2jK0yk3mDOb_kwwqEQVfa0czaED4Y51f3tgFoUhHUappu1eWyHZLtumZu9ewqssV10ukjErDaofXQ5YExMD1FJC83K1L8WQ/s1600-h/Sandwich-Layout_1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinMf-PFGds7EW9DPXggoMJUReEa3uFuAwzcsDx9CE2jK0yk3mDOb_kwwqEQVfa0czaED4Y51f3tgFoUhHUappu1eWyHZLtumZu9ewqssV10ukjErDaofXQ5YExMD1FJC83K1L8WQ/s400/Sandwich-Layout_1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395873482041852082" border="0" /></a><br />Until writing this blog, I was under the impression that the Earl of Sandwich invented sandwiches so his troops could eat whilst marching. What kind of cold-hearted scoundrel won’t let his men sit down for lunch? However, I did my homework and it seems Montagu didn’t invent the sandwich – he just liked them. The Earl was actually an entirely different kind of scoundrel – he was an incorrigible gambler. He ordered his meat served between two slices of bread so he could eat, without having to leave the gaming table or getting his hands (and his cards) greasy. It seems he was also a bit of a trendsetter since, after he ate them, everyone else asked for “one like Sandwich”. Et voila y mange tout – the cult of the Sandwich was born.<br /><br />In the years following, the sandwich has become a touchstone of modern life: even now, if one strolls the streets (of the West) at around 1pm, one can see numerous office workers clutching their little bread-wrapped parcels of goodness.<br /><br />In the last few years, as Western Society’s taste for novelty has grown, the sandwich (and everything else) has suffered many mutations. First we had those ‘open sandwiches’ – which, as we all know, is just a posh way of saying ‘on toast’. (Anyone for a baked bean, toasted open sandwich?) Around the same time, from across the Atlantic, came the ridiculous ‘Club’. I am not a fan. I ask you? Who needs <span style="font-style: italic;">three</span> slices of bread in their sandwich? Surely the purpose of the bread is to contain the filling – this third, central slice is both redundant and wasteful. More importantly, it set a precedent for a new thickness of sandwich.<br /><br />Not long before I left England last time, one major sandwich retailer had started selling Breadless Sandwiches. I was always under the impression these were called ‘Salads’ – but it’s all about the branding I suppose.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKA0X4HJt7nBM3_r0sN2CMQeFWvKWq9Rnb4SFGEGA-3FJmOVbTAOApSrvqg6vQDaa2SRtI20lEJUsbw44s0l8xkdxdA36mHeu6dJExGLEyhtmKpF29jJaH5fLxSaHta9R7uQtfOg/s1600-h/Sandwich-Layout-2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKA0X4HJt7nBM3_r0sN2CMQeFWvKWq9Rnb4SFGEGA-3FJmOVbTAOApSrvqg6vQDaa2SRtI20lEJUsbw44s0l8xkdxdA36mHeu6dJExGLEyhtmKpF29jJaH5fLxSaHta9R7uQtfOg/s400/Sandwich-Layout-2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395874344895218210" border="0" /></a><br />However, in general the evolution of the sandwich has resulted in bigger, over filled, thicker cut and overall: much, much <span style="font-style: italic;">fatter</span> sandwiches. This causes a problem for me. Now, after careful study of my fellow human beings, I don’t believe that I have an especially small mouth. It’s seems to be of an average size – so I cannot believe I am alone in finding that most sandwiches I order these days are too big to bite!<br /><br />So how are you supposed to eat them? I can see only two options:<br /><ol><li>You squash them flatter until you can get your mouth around it.<br /><br />Depending on your sandwich filling, this is problematic because some items (avocado is especially bad for this) get squeezed out the side and fall, hopefully but annoyingly, on your lap or, even more annoyingly, but more usually, on the floor. Also, the bread turns into that funny, doughy, squashed breadiness type thingy, which just isn’t right.<br /><br /></li><li>You take them apart.<br /><br />But then you’re <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> eating a sandwich! Once you deconstruct your monty, you can no longer pick it up – and then, well... really... <span style="font-style: italic;">what’s the point?</span> Also, the real beauty of a sandwich is the mixture of flavours – for example, the cheese, tomato, mustard & mayonnaise culinary opus. If you are obliged to destroy your sandwich before you can enjoy it – do you then attempt to reconstruct the combination of flavours on your fork? But then you’re eating a <span style="font-style: italic;">sandwich</span> with a knife and fork, and that’s just silly.</li></ol>This sandwich situation is a worry, and where will it end? Before long we’ll be eating ordinary salads with bread on the side – and then we might as well be French (not that’s there’s anything wrong with being French of course ;-)<br /><br />Surely, if a sandwich-maker wants to make their sandwiches bigger or more substantial it would be wiser to bake larger loaves and make the sandwich wider, rather than fatter? Or give us an extra slice of bread and make a halfie?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc3O6r7zitATlVI9FVrY2tAZItjovhHkmqRSoUy0M8mwtgCVslc0FY_RjePZfQITFPpHTaVjFrIrQusbwmDwm6op_c4FSfUv_orcVGt3pNCBlLW6xsKl-TiwDckIc-iuopA0k_Mw/s1600-h/very-big-sandwich-150.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 193px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc3O6r7zitATlVI9FVrY2tAZItjovhHkmqRSoUy0M8mwtgCVslc0FY_RjePZfQITFPpHTaVjFrIrQusbwmDwm6op_c4FSfUv_orcVGt3pNCBlLW6xsKl-TiwDckIc-iuopA0k_Mw/s200/very-big-sandwich-150.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395876391819263106" border="0" /></a>Here ye! Restaurants, cafes and humble sandwich shops – <span style="font-weight: bold;">hear my plea!</span> I want to be able to pick up my sandwich and eat it! I might want to march with it! I might even want to peruse the gaming tables with it! Let’s get back to basics and start serving monties that Sandwich would be proud of.<br /><br />In the last nine days I have had five appointments with the dentist. Various parts of my mouth have been numb, swollen, painful or a combination of all three, all week. I’ve had one wisdom tooth out – (one more to follow) it had to be smashed up before it would come out. Boo. I haven’t been eating much. But eating, <span style="font-style: italic;">and the ease thereof,</span> has been much on my mind.<br /><br />I have to eat soft food – the other day, I thought a cheese sandwich might be appropriate (soft bread, of course, no crusts) – but even though this particular sandwich wasn’t especially fat by modern standards, it was still more than my poor jaw could handle. I had to deconstruct it, and in doing so I realised that there is no better example of ‘the whole being far greater than the sum of its parts’ than the cheese sandwich. I love cheese, and I enjoy lettuce, tomato and mustard. But whilst a cheese sandwich is one of favourite vittles, the components of a cheese sandwich, eaten separately, are a bit rubbish (except the actual cheese, of course). Hence this blog.<br /><br />My dentist is very professional, and a nice, apologetic chap. He apologises after every appointment! As I left on Thursday he said, “sorry... for, you know, everything”<br />“For pulling my tooth out?”<br />“Well... yes”<br />“Or the dental work in general?”<br />“Well... yes. Sorry.”<br />“That’s alright, it is why I’m here!” He sighed, in an ‘it-hurts-me-more-than-it’s-hurts-you’ kind of way.<br />“I made another appointment for you on Monday – is that ok? Sorry. The other side will probably be easier... well... definitely quicker!”<br />And I replied: “Dentist, do not try to frighten me as if I were some feeble child or woman without knowledge of war’s work. No, I know about fighting and the killing of men well enough. I know how to swing the tan ox-hide of my shield to the right, I know how to swing it to the left – that I call true shield fighting. I know how to charge into the fury of speeding chariots. I know the steps of Ares’ deadly dance in the close fighting. But on your guard now – great man that you are, I do not want to hit you with a sneaking shot, with an eye for my chance, but in an open fight, like this, if this strikes home...”<br /><br />Okay, I didn’t say that. But <a href="http://outside-jane.blogspot.com/2009/10/word-words-words.html">The Iliad</a> is ever so good, by the way!<br /><br /><blockquote>Further Reading</blockquote>While researching this delicious subject I discovered that there exists a <a href="http://www.sandwich.org.uk/">British Sandwich Association</a> (of course there does) whose aims include: <span style="font-style: italic;">“To promote excellence and innovation in sandwich making.”</span> They also have a whole page of <a href="http://www.sandwichesonline.org.uk/sandwich_recipes/cheese/index.shtml">Recipes for Cheese Sandwiches</a>, which is as wonderful as it is unbelievable.<br /><br />Finally, for some truly marvellous musings on the psychology of sandwiches (yes, really) you must read this: <a href="http://www.richardclegg.org/new/musings/sandwich.html">The Secret Language of Sandwiches.</a>outside-janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13209943475795895771noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27867592.post-61674238246561020072009-10-20T02:49:00.002+02:002009-11-16T06:04:33.557+01:00“Word, words, words”<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx-gTOn3HcbfYiQypY7ukydAeLmRAkjiwN0kR2Ka9WlToxkRd0kxNnZYmiEN24h2unsr0_aCpyyLGBTqCOccS_LxfZiWNuvoEuUo3x8AfGjTICjxL5guE-eRO0HZ9fCfUzAM5UlA/s1600-h/Blog_books.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 116px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx-gTOn3HcbfYiQypY7ukydAeLmRAkjiwN0kR2Ka9WlToxkRd0kxNnZYmiEN24h2unsr0_aCpyyLGBTqCOccS_LxfZiWNuvoEuUo3x8AfGjTICjxL5guE-eRO0HZ9fCfUzAM5UlA/s200/Blog_books.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394478840211907458" border="0" /></a>I am a voracious reader. You don’t have to take my word for it – I keep a list of every book I read, so you can decide for yourself: In 2008, I read a total of 41 books; in 2007, a meaningful 42. So far, 2009 has been a big year – I have already read 45 books. Voracious? I would say so. As a traveller, being a voracious reader can be quite hard work. I obviously can’t afford to buy books. Instead I exchange them, sometimes with other travellers, but more often at Book Exchanges – which are found in Hostels, Book Stores, Cafés and occasionally, even Dive Shops.<br /><br />Frequently, my first mission in any new town is to locate my next book. I could write a Guide Book on books, and how to locate them. Sometimes I am lucky and find excellent Book Exchanges with an abundance of interesting and intriguing titles to choose from. Sometimes I seem to be following in the footsteps of peasants, and I end up with nothing but light romance and ‘Airport Blockbusters’.<br /><br />However, when it comes to the crunch, I would rather read <span style="font-style: italic;">anything</span>, than nothing, so sometimes I read truly terrible books. Low points this year have included ‘Wedding Season’ by Darcy Cooper (the heroine cancelled her own – did I care? Hell no) and the entirely unmemorable ‘False Memory’ by Dean Koontz (I have no memory of what it was about – but it’s on the list, so I must have read it.) Although, the fact that I will read <span style="font-style: italic;">anything</span> does also lead me to some good books which I probably wouldn’t have chosen: <a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/reviews/killing-pablo-by-mark-bowden-752803.html">‘Killing Pablo’</a> by Mark Bowden, which was about the pursuit of Pablo Escobar, was a surprisingly good read. ‘Reminiscences of the Cuban War’ by that well-known, homicidal nutcase, <a href="http://archive.newsmax.com/archives/articles/2004/2/23/171252.shtml">Che Guevara</a>, insured I would never, ever be tempted to wear one of those naff t-shirts adorned with his face. And I would strongly advise anyone who owns one of those t-shirts to read this memoir and see if you can justify the many senseless murders he proudly confesses to.<br /><br />A few years ago, in the absence of anything better, I read a book called <a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=1746110">'Chasing Copernicus'</a> by a bloke who was tracking down all the ‘First Editions’ of Copernicus’s masterwork, ‘On the Revolutions of the Celestial Spheres’, and trying to establish if anyone had actually read it! It seems Isaac Newton wrote notes in the margin of his copy (at Cambridge) – so <span style="font-style: italic;">he</span> did his homework. But the author found several copies in which the pages had yet to be cut! His conclusion was that ‘Revolutions’, although containing an incredibly exciting theorem, is actually a work of staggering monotony which almost no one has read – preferring instead to get the gist of it from Isaac Newton or other, more available, science geeks at dinner parties. Sadly the same could be said of his own book.<br /><br />But, in the wonderful world of literature, there are always more high points than low. This year’s notable highlights have included <a href="http://www.kundera.de/english/Bibliography/The_Book_of_Laughter_and_Forge/the_book_of_laughter_and_forge.html">‘The Book of Laughter and Forgetting’</a> by Milan Kundera (if I ever am able to complete a novel, I would like it to be just like this one); <a href="http://jco.usfca.edu/works/novels/mulvaneys.html">‘We Were The Mulvaneys’</a> by Joyce Carol Oates and <a href="http://www.isabelallende.com/fools_reviews.htm">‘Daughter of Fortune’</a> by Isabel Allende. All wonderful.<br /><br />I never look for ‘Classics’ (by ‘classic’, I mean a timeless works of genius, rather than a book that necessarily belongs to the canon of literature – although the two are often the same) because I had an insight at University, which terrified me. In my second year, as instructed, I dutifully read all (truthfully? Ok, most) of Shakespeare’s Plays*, but it was only when I had finished them that I realised, with profound sadness, that I will never again, in my life, read a Shakespeare Play <span style="font-style: italic;">for the first time</span> (unless someone finds 'Cardenio' – you never know...).<br /><br />It occurred to me then, that if I kept devouring the Classics at my usual pace, then it was possible that by the time I was 60 or so, I might have read them all! “The horror! The horror!” And then what would I do until I died? Of course, new Classics will always be written. And they are joyous because you often don’t know they’re a work incomparable greatness until you finish them. That is a different experience (most recently <a href="http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/books/article514753.ece">‘Never Let Me Go’</a> by Kazuo Ishiguro was a unexpected pleasure). But nothing can compare to that thrill, the excitement, the relish of sitting down and opening the first page of <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2004/mar/20/featuresreviews.guardianreview30">‘Anna Karenina’</a> or <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2003/dec/13/classics.miguelcervantes">‘Don Quixote’</a> and knowing you are about to bring a sublime creation into your mind.<br /><br />So I made a decision – that I would never actively look for these great books. Instead, I would patiently wait for them. I know that sooner or later they will all cross my path – and I will read them, when I am meant to read them, during the course of my life.<br /><br />Despite knowing without any doubt, that it would inevitably become one of my most beloved books – I managed to restrain myself from reading <a href="http://www.barrowdowns.com/articlesshadsmeagol.php">‘Lord of the Rings’</a> until I was 26. And then, even as I read it, and delighted at every twist and turn in the story, I also felt that inescapable sadness that I would never be delighted in this way, by this story, ever again.<br /><br />I waited years before stumbling across <a href="http://www.newsweek.com/id/204478">‘War and Peace’</a>, and nearly cracked and bought it so many times. But in the end it was here, in Antigua, six years ago, that I came across it in a Café. I read it whilst visiting Lago Atitlan, in the shadow of a volcano.<br /><br />This morning, I noticed a single shelf of dusty old paperbacks in the corridor of my hostel. Out of habit, I glanced over, although I am still halfway through my current read... and there it was, patiently waiting for me – tatty, battered, but still in one piece – <a href="http://www.thadguy.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/07/merchandising-the-iliad.png">‘The Iliad’</a>.<br /><br />I am very excited! This week I am mostly going to the dentist (a fitting end to a truly crap summer) and The Iliad seems to me to be an appropriate accompaniment!<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />* Except for five, which I started, but couldn’t finish because, they were tedious! Don’t make that face! He wrote 36 Plays; you can’t seriously expect them </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" >all</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> to be brilliant!</span>outside-janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13209943475795895771noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27867592.post-70450549704273441382009-10-13T02:58:00.008+02:002009-10-13T23:49:07.823+02:00Raining Sunglasses<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2AaW4UtHd0We6t87VeRduGOqoInFZk7Ug0kAuD18PDn3DqkZLPfCETi19MJnOzPA0rB3_YBNCEtdFlHXiXi4c45uRzJsyHoULi2CEspzZ-ToPYiUvA_JWknOVaPzwSzz712YhEw/s1600-h/falling-sunglasses.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2AaW4UtHd0We6t87VeRduGOqoInFZk7Ug0kAuD18PDn3DqkZLPfCETi19MJnOzPA0rB3_YBNCEtdFlHXiXi4c45uRzJsyHoULi2CEspzZ-ToPYiUvA_JWknOVaPzwSzz712YhEw/s200/falling-sunglasses.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391889165336169698" border="0" /></a>I have broken my last three pairs of sunglasses in the same way: the sunglasses are on my face where they belong – I push them up, onto the top of my head because the sun’s momentarily gone in or I go indoors – then a passing bird/tall building/signpost or similar, causes me to look up, and the sunglasses clatter to the ground behind me, cracking the frames and/or breaking the lenses.<br /><br />“If you’ve done that three times – why haven’t you learnt by now?” I hear you ask.<br />And to you, I retort “yeah, well... no one likes a smart arse you know! And I hear your mother’s so fat <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mother_insult">she fell in love and broke it.</a>”*<br /><br />Today I was looking for the Papelaría – to be specific I was looking at shop signs to find the Papelaría (no, you don’t get any points for guessing what’s coming and no, don’t skip ahead to the next paragraph!) when the sun passed behind a cloud, I pushed my sunglasses onto my head and – wait! Is that the sign? Am I right next to it? Is the sign right above my head? And (yes, you guessed it) CRASH, with a resounding clatter my sunglasses tumbled from my head, fell a full 5 feet and very nearly 6 inches (take note young Tilda) to the ground, <span style="font-style: italic;">bounced off the kerb</span> and landed, with a miserable death rattle, in the gutter.<br /><br />NoooOOOooooo! They were almost new! They never even got to leave the country! Surely even a humble pair of sunglasses should be able to see Mexico before they die? Where is the justice in that?<br /><br />But wait! Hang on – I picked them up and they were still in one piece! I was surprised to find that the lenses were still intact. I made a careful inspection looking for cracks – there were none! A small scratch on the corner – but I didn’t get where I am today by not wearing sunglasses with a small scratch on the corner.<br /><br />Amazed and happy, I placed my sunglasses back onto my face and... and... (wait for it) <span style="font-weight: bold;">they even fit better!</span> It’s true!<br /><br />Further evidence that my luck is changing? Oh yes, I think so. Still haven’t got a job, or a home, or a clue. But hey – have sunglasses, will travel.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">*Thought Yo Mama jokes were modern? And American? Me too! But apparently Shakespeare got there first! Act IV, Scene II of Titus Andronicus:<br /><br />Demetrius: "Villain, what hast thou done?"<br />Aaron: "That which thou canst not undo."<br />Chiron: "Thou hast undone our mother."<br />Aaron: "Villain, I have done thy mother."</span>outside-janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13209943475795895771noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27867592.post-77976150434631853882009-10-07T23:49:00.004+02:002009-10-07T23:56:17.791+02:00A Lucky EscapeWalk into any backpacker hostel and you can always spot the solo travellers. They generally send out loud vibes, and they fit into one of two categories:<br /><ol><li>“Don’t talk to me, I am doing my own thing and I’m fine” or,</li><li>“I am so bored, please talk to me – someone – anyone!”</li></ol>So far, since arriving in Antigua I have been mostly in the first category. However I have noticed a woman, mooching around the place, who is most definitely in the second category. I had previously made a mental note, that if I do start to get bored with my own company, then this is someone who I could chat to.<br /><br />This afternoon I had a design job to do, so I found myself a quiet spot on the roof terrace and settled down to work. I saw my potential friend hanging around, looking bored, when another solo traveller (from Category 2) offered her a cup of tea. That was two hours ago. They are sitting in the kitchen, which is directly behind me – so I can’t help but eavesdrop! And in the last two hours, I swear, she hasn’t paused for breath once. During the last two hours her companion has managed to contribute the following to the conversation: “yes” (x 20*), “really” (x 10*) and “is that so” (twice). That is all.<br /><br />Furthermore, this woman appears to be one of the most self-important, boorish and staggeringly tedious people I have ever had the misfortune to eavesdrop upon. I don’t need to be able to see them, to hear the pain in her companions’ occasional replies.<br /><br />Just think: I might have said hello to her, and her long-suffering companion could have been me! It seems my luck may have changed: this time, I had a lucky escape!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglJu70SWylbdGi-Tt-HvlkYDNbQOipxp6D9_dvvWcrm5IePu6oaUlIFd1Atg60sNgDy2oI44OJd7jNyJPlKTx-bA_m9zu5mjh0gK9XvuggbuDEEKVOin8nzPV_cRflDoat5PFifw/s1600-h/boredom.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglJu70SWylbdGi-Tt-HvlkYDNbQOipxp6D9_dvvWcrm5IePu6oaUlIFd1Atg60sNgDy2oI44OJd7jNyJPlKTx-bA_m9zu5mjh0gK9XvuggbuDEEKVOin8nzPV_cRflDoat5PFifw/s400/boredom.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389979943010809922" border="0" /></a><br /><span style=";font-size:85%;" >* Approximate figures.</span>outside-janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13209943475795895771noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27867592.post-13777850328281490182009-10-02T20:29:00.004+02:002009-10-02T20:36:13.708+02:00The Book of JaneWell it’s been an interesting and challenging month. I left Lanquín (of course) and headed down to the coast to see some friends. <br /><br />The first week was very strange: I wasn’t sleeping hardly at all and kept getting the shakes and crying. I would find myself in the street and have no memory of where I was going. One morning I started my usual yoga practice and then I was sitting at my desk. Bizarrely, I am not sure when I stopped doing yoga and sat down – it was all quite unnerving. I decided to look up my symptoms on the internet and it seems I was suffering from Post Traumatic Shock. Which is odd, because I’ve never been entirely convinced that shock, as a condition, existed. I have always been of the opinion that one should simply pull oneself together. Luckily, I didn’t have <a href="http://jerome.thefreelibrary.com/Three-Men-In-A-Boat/1-1">Housemaids Knee</a>.<br /><br />I was staying in a small <a href="http://www.garifuna.com/">Garifuna</a> town, where the elderly Garifuna women dress as if they are at a Doris Day Convention – lots of colouful outfits with full skirts and big collars and everyone wears a hat. I felt jealous and wanted a hat to fit in a little. But there’s a hat mystery in Livingston: everyone wears splendid hats, but no-one sells hats (other than nasty baseball caps). Hmmmm.<br /><br />So lacking a hat, in a brave attempt to assimilate with the local community I got <a href="http://www.medicinenet.com/dengue_fever/article.htm">Dengue Fever</a> instead. You would think, that after my experiences with knives and ski masks, things would have to get better wouldn’t you?! Ha!<br /><br />Readers, if you can get through the whole of your life without getting Dengue Fever I would strongly advise that you do so. Dengue Fever sucks big time. Permanent exhaustion, aching all over, cold sweats and for the coup-de-grace, I came up in a rash that covered my arms, torso and lower legs, and which itched – but more than itched – it was like pins and needles! Arrrrgggghhh! Fortunately I was too weak to actually tear my skin off.<br /><br />A couple of days ago the Dengue started to clear up. I began to make plans for the future... I was sitting in my room, listening to a deafening thunder & lightning storm, when a very bright light shot through the window and struck my hand, causing a shock that threw me out of my chair onto the floor.<br /><br />Was I really struck by lightning?! Surely not! But what else could it have been?<br /><br />Seriously, this is getting ridiculous! If I come up in boils next week – then I take it all back, I will humbly apologise to God and concede that he does exist. Good job I haven’t got a first born to sacrifice. Although, perhaps my eldest niece should go into hiding just in case.<br /><br />I am now in Antigua, a beautiful old Colonial town in the south. I love it here. I am eating good food (cheese! REAL cheese!), strolling the picturesque streets and wondering what horrible torment will befall me next. I am keeping an eye out for falling pianos.<br /><br />I am going to head further south in a few days to look for work. I’ll keep you posted.outside-janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13209943475795895771noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27867592.post-60189495081479564202009-08-28T22:37:00.006+02:002009-08-28T22:55:12.551+02:00Monday Night-Tuesday Morning 1.30amAbout five weeks ago our house was burgled. They didn’t get inside; they reached through the windows and grabbed what ever they could. Their prize for the night was M’s bag with cash, cards and some keys.<br /><br />We changed the lock for the front door and thought that was that. But on Saturday evening we were burgled again, only this time they had keys, so they got inside (all the doors were secure). They took a lot of stuff from me, and only from me. Perhaps they got in through my balcony so mine was the first room they came to. Perhaps they went to straight to my room. Either way they took an External Hard drive with a year worth of work, photos, artwork, writing and the rest. I am still coming to terms with that. They also took small electronic stuff – my card reader, MP3 player and some leads and spare batteries. Plus some jewellery and a few other things. Suffice to say, I was not happy.<br /><br />Three, sometimes four, people live here and both robberies happened at the exact time that all of us were out. Which suggests they have been watching us, enough to know our routines. Last night I didn’t feel comfortable walking up the road after dark. I live on a very dark, very quiet street, and it occurred to me that someone watching would know I have a laptop. They now know I don’t leave it in the house – it doesn’t take much to guess what’s in the laptop-sized backpack that I am never seen without.<br /><br />So tonight, I decided not to walk up the road, but to stay home. I was relaxing on the terrace, listening to music, when... I don’t know, something made me look round. I saw something-someone next to the garage door, two metres behind me. It was all very quick... I didn’t know what was happening, I vaguely thought it was someone looking for my house-mate, but I knew it wasn’t right. I jumped out of my hammock and stepped toward them, which activated the security light on the corner of the terrace.<br /><br />The next few moments are vivid in my mind. My step forward illuminated two men, wearing home-made ski masks and dark clothing, coming towards me with knives. The knife of the one in front looked like a prison weapon – the handle had frayed cloth wrapped around it.<br /><br />I read somewhere that to be a victim, you must behave like a victim. I am simplifying of course, but you get the idea. This article suggested that when under threat, like this, you should be loud and aggressive. You must show no fear, as if you were dealing with a big, unknown dog.<br /><br />When I opened my mouth to start shouting, I thought for a half-second that I might sob or vomit instead, but then I heard shouting and knew it was me. They both jumped. I got louder, then something strange happened: it must have been the combination of adrenalin and fear, but I became genuinely furious. The fury took hold of me, in fact I was more than furious – I was enraged. So now I’m really shouting at them, cursing them and threatening them. I advanced on the one in front, yelling into his face and they both backed away. Then they were running away and I was standing on the very edge of the terrace shouting curses and outrage into the night. I think, by then, I might have actually been shaking my fists.<br /><br />I ran into the house and went straight for M’s machete. <span style="font-style:italic;">How did I know where it was?</span> Thinking back, I remember seeing it last month when I was putting some clean blankets away in the wardrobe – The Blue Blanket actually – which is becoming a recurring ‘special guest’ in the outside-jane show), but I didn’t think I really <span style="font-style:italic;">took note</span> of it, I just saw it.<br /><br />None-the-less, I knew exactly where it was earlier tonight... <span style="font-style:italic;">but what did I think I was going to do with it?</span> I stormed outside and did some more shouting. I think I could easily pass my Vogon Flight Officer exams now.<br /><br />Then the fear hit me like a punch in the chest and I realised I needed to be <span style="font-weight:bold;">inside</span> the house right now. I grabbed my laptop and ran inside, locking myself in – <span style="font-style:italic;">hands suddenly useless and fumbling with the lock. Did I lock the machete outside?! You stupid bi... No! It’s here by my foot. Is that a noise? A shadow? Jesus, they had fucking ski masks? What now? Phone!</span><span style="font-style:italic;"> I have a phone!</span><br /><br />Can you believe, after nearly two months, yesterday I finally capitulated and bought a new phone. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Yesterday.</span> I already have two phones, but they won’t work with Guatemalan sim cards. I have been looking for somewhere that ‘unlocks’ phones. Then yesterday I gave up and bought a new one. Yesterday.<br /><br />I phoned my house-mate. No answer. He’s the manager of a restaurant and it was Happy Hour. With shaking hands, I struggled to send the following text:<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />“2 men in ski masks at the house. I yelled and they ran. But am sacred. Please call police.”</span><br /><br />I rang again. I remembered I have M’s number too. I sent him the same text. He called me straight back. From there it got better – he started ringing everybody.<br />“Where are you?” he asked.<br />“I’m downstairs” I was pacing the floors, machete in hand.<br />“Go upstairs, you can close the door and stand on it” My room is an attic and I have ‘a door in the floor’. He was right, it’s the safest place, but thinking that scared me all over again. I went upstairs and stayed on the phone with M and his girlfriend until the Calvary arrived: Three Policeman, one policewoman, both house-mates, the restaurant night guards, his friends, the kitchen matriarch, and a customer from the restaurant who was brought along because he’s bilingual (fantastic – he translated for me, so I could talk to the police,) and maybe more! There were lots of people, a whole house full of people. People everywhere; people with lights; people searching the bushes; shadows in the bushes and everyone asking me the same questions. Too many people.<br /><br />Finally everyone left, and two security guys came to watch the house for tonight. House-mate #2 and I finally sat down (I hadn’t sat down since I jumped out of the hammock earlier) and stared at each other in surprise. <br />“This is just crazy,” he said. And it is.<br /><br />Fatigue.<br /><br />Now, it’s 1.30am I’m exhausted, but still wide-awake. So once again, in a crisis, I am opting to write about it. Do I live my own life vicariously through this blog? Do I distance myself, and detach, by externalising personal events into a ‘story’? Do I suppress my emotion by focusing instead, on finding the correct vocabulary? The most appropriate tone? Suitable jokes?<br /><br />So what next? I love this place, I really do. I spoke with my Dad on skype earlier this week; I did the usual thing of turning the computer around so he could see where I was.<br />“It looks like an Impressionist painting,” he said. <br />He’s exactly right; it has that same idyllic colour scheme, warm light and peacefulness. Sometimes in the morning, I finish my yoga practice just as the mist is lifting off the mountains – soft light and long shadows falling across verdant hills – and I think it’s so beautiful here it takes my breath away. Except two men in ski masks threatened me with knives this evening. <br /><br />So I think I’m going to have to leave. How very, very sad. What a truly terrible ending to a really rubbish week. But I can’t live somewhere where I can’t walk home alone, or stay home and relax for an evening. They came at 9.15pm. Usually I get home just before 9pm and the earliest my house-mates are home is about 10pm. So I am sure they knew I would be there, and be alone. I think they’re after the laptop – so sooner or later they will try to rob me again. And you only have 'the element of surprise' once.<br /><br />I realise “these things happen” and you shouldn’t look for sense or order where, perhaps there is none... but I can’t help feeling that I’m being tested. It seems to be one damn thing after another in this Eden. First the spiders! Perhaps you wouldn’t believe it from reading these blogs, but I am terrified of spiders! I’m as jumpy as hell in this house. So I try to make light of it, to see the ridiculous side of the situation and of myself. But there comes a point when you run out of jokes. Then I get my first scorpion sting! That was only two weeks ago! For nearly two weeks we have no running water... and then the house floods. Two burglaries, then two blokes in ski masks. The Universe is coming at me from all angles and I’m not sure whether I’m bobbing or drowning.<br /><br />So what now?<br /><br /><blockquote><span style="font-weight:bold;">Friday Morning</span></blockquote><br />The came again on Wednesday night. This time I didn’t see anything, I was inside the house. But the Night Watchman saw the security light go on, when he went to look he saw someone running down towards the river. Upon investigation, he also found a space in the bushes where someone had been sitting, presumably watching the house. The police came back and looked around, but he was long gone. It’s so easy to disappear in this environment, unless they’re caught red-handed, they won’t be caught.<br /><br />Since Monday I’m not really sleeping and I’m very jumpy. I still feel kind of ‘surprised’ by the whole thing. It feels very personal – either they’re after the laptop or me. I have wondered whether I have offended someone without realising? But I can’t think when. People say ‘the lads’ around here must know who it is... so I also wonder whether ‘the lads’ are laughing at these guys for getting scared off by an unarmed, lone woman. This is Latin America, the home of Machismo, if they feel I’ve ‘made fools’ of them...<br /><br />If they’re stupid enough to stick to the same pattern – Saturday, Monday, Wednesday – maybe they’ll come again tonight? We have lots of people staying the house now – some of whom are hoping they <span style="font-style:italic;">do</span> come back.<br /><br />I will leave very soon – just getting a plan. Fatigue.outside-janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13209943475795895771noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27867592.post-18534486045591409012009-08-22T18:02:00.012+02:002009-08-22T18:56:35.574+02:00Beauties & Beasties<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO-eulRyzjrkLOgfOe1q2VlwRdL9XhlmE5wJww1Gz5JWUOQivAlwRTQA617Tziejb9pP2CCjOXqdk7r-necNerB4RzlPL_m7G8rq00b4YbrVBB-VeBpDt03qR_FgC-gVpx1JevRQ/s1600-h/Thing_Layout.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO-eulRyzjrkLOgfOe1q2VlwRdL9XhlmE5wJww1Gz5JWUOQivAlwRTQA617Tziejb9pP2CCjOXqdk7r-necNerB4RzlPL_m7G8rq00b4YbrVBB-VeBpDt03qR_FgC-gVpx1JevRQ/s400/Thing_Layout.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372827960559872258" /></a><br /><br />This fella deserves a blog all of his own really. What IS IT?! (Answers on a postcard please). The photos don't do him justice - the wings were really quite beautiful - pale blue with gold ridges and silvery flecks, and so delicate. Then there's this <span style="font-style:italic;">monstrous</span> head... with pinchers! Too weird. He stayed in the bathroom for a few days, but he's left now.<br /><br />On the plus side, this rather lovely butterfly hung out and posed for photos yesterday. My housemate (human) has quite a way with butterflies, as you can see!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu1xhxKaP1Pt-ewTp0TOXumEWurJLDso5xKJCHhZMXtedGsqgOfOe-GNe4R-IbyqWOjV0CvM9kc6UKKKFx1v_za1gvjKr-SKqUrgFAyeG6A8OUVJDo__exCctQKCJ1fzoTlofDhQ/s1600-h/Butterfly_Blog.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu1xhxKaP1Pt-ewTp0TOXumEWurJLDso5xKJCHhZMXtedGsqgOfOe-GNe4R-IbyqWOjV0CvM9kc6UKKKFx1v_za1gvjKr-SKqUrgFAyeG6A8OUVJDo__exCctQKCJ1fzoTlofDhQ/s400/Butterfly_Blog.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372825815825012402" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr_ltgydYD_t5K496c2lRJkfG8omLeHvDuLdYbfZ48Q4OJ1wMDFfY1BlWRkgYg7gV6Rxyc4Mbon17XSfggKeV5du9oUtEqOHUtSsi4o_hzQCwIAzKyncXxN89cEBufRT4hCsUJhA/s1600-h/Butterfly_Layout.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr_ltgydYD_t5K496c2lRJkfG8omLeHvDuLdYbfZ48Q4OJ1wMDFfY1BlWRkgYg7gV6Rxyc4Mbon17XSfggKeV5du9oUtEqOHUtSsi4o_hzQCwIAzKyncXxN89cEBufRT4hCsUJhA/s400/Butterfly_Layout.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372825456345044978" /></a><br /><br />I don't know what the caterpillar, shown here, will turn in to! But isn't he cute! He was about 1 inch long and very fluffy.<br /><br />Also, I think there was a Preying Mantis in the kitchen yesterday. Pictures to follow... my housemate (human) thinks this house may actually be an independent, fully functioning Ecosystem. One day people will come here to study. Just as <a href="http://www.literaturecollection.com/a/jerome/three-men-boat/1/">Jerome anticipates medics completing their training solely on him</a>, so Biologists and Zoologists will, one day, write Theses on my bathroom.<br /><br />The house flooded yesterday - we've had almost no running water all week and then, overnight, a flood! I woke up to three indignant cats, perched in a row on the sofa, saying -<br />"Have you <span style="font-style:italic;">seen</span> the state of this house? Are <span style="font-style:italic;">you</span> responsible for this? No! Of course I don't know where the 'bloody mop' is! I'm a CAT! <br /> The woman's a fool, I'm telling you. She can't even feed us without getting herself stung. You just can't get the staff these days..."<br /><br />I swept the water out, but I suspect it will return. The immediate result is that the indoor frog population has dramatically increased.outside-janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13209943475795895771noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27867592.post-40727402896203580382009-08-15T18:59:00.008+02:002009-08-15T19:55:38.760+02:00You don't say!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipohGzNVC_k8xH-bH1aE8WRh71MfylH7f_xYo-vaZmLePaLP6Yx9utJSXKCJBUOEvy28RiOgWwYQPULqQBMDUhH-LcXBnvDWom4UjVY33-SWpMBx_RqLPtKS8WKqpvrFN3JyZ2JQ/s1600-h/scorpion-tatoo-thumb.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 120px; height: 120px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipohGzNVC_k8xH-bH1aE8WRh71MfylH7f_xYo-vaZmLePaLP6Yx9utJSXKCJBUOEvy28RiOgWwYQPULqQBMDUhH-LcXBnvDWom4UjVY33-SWpMBx_RqLPtKS8WKqpvrFN3JyZ2JQ/s200/scorpion-tatoo-thumb.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370240775150234738" /></a>So yeah, Tuesday was a rather scary evening! Thanks so much for all the kind comments – I am absolutely fine. That night, the doctor assured me there are no scorpions in Guatemala that can kill you (there <span style="font-style:italic;">are</span> in Mexico - but apparently those ones aren't seen here), but, of course, it would have been good to know that <span style="font-style:italic;">before</span> I was stung!<br /><br />Later that evening it got even stranger - I could actually feel the poison spreading into the shoulder and then down into my chest and ribs. I worried about that - but it didn't affect my breathing. Also, about 4 hours after the sting my whole mouth went numb and my lips started to tingle (like pins & needles). I wondered whether <a href="http://blogs.kvoa.com/health/?p=1322">my tongue would swell up</a> and maybe that's why the Mayans (a few people) told me I should cut my tongue? But nothing else happened, just numbness. And no, I didn't cut my tongue with a machete! Although the night-watchman offered to do it for me - with a foot-long cutlass! Can you imagine!<br /><br />I had a look on the internet to see if I could find out more about tongue-cutting for scorpion stings, but there is no mention of it. This morning I asked some Mayan friends here, and they tell me that cutting the tongue is very old-fashioned. No, you need to take a machete and bite the blade, three times, as hard as you can. Or, if you can catch the scorpion, you can cut the tail off (and throw that away carefully) and then take the liquid that comes out of the body and rub it onto the sting. Or, drink some hot, very strong, black coffee. I told them that I had drunk beer, they gave that some consideration and said yes, they thought beer was also good.<br /><br />The next morning my arm just felt dead. Remember when you were a kid and someone (in my case, one of my dear brothers!) would give you a 'dead arm' by punching your shoulder? Well, it felt like that - stiff and weak. It eased off during the day - I think it was a full 24 hours before I was fine again.<br /><br />That evening I was taking a coffee cup off the shelf and what should be behind it? Uh-oh! Another scorpion! I was glad that I didn't feel freaked out or scared – I’m already jumpy enough with the spiders. But I certainly have gained a healthy respect for the little bastards! I'm not walking around barefoot in the dark any more. And I'm being more careful about picking things up, etc. Not an experience I want to repeat.<br /><br />Strangely, what really scared me at the time was that I would pass-out on the road. There are no street lights here (no real streets - my 'street' is a mud track) and it's pitch black at night. So if I’d passed out in the middle of the road, the chances of getting run over would have been very high. And that's what was really worrying me! Why I should be more scared of getting run-over than dying of scorpion poison, I don't know. Perhaps getting run over is an idea that my brain could more readily accept? Interesting.<br /><br />Of course now people want to share their 'scorpion stories' with me: one poor chap got stung twice on the leg when he put his trousers on and found one inside. Another guy was walking barefoot through the grass and trod on one. A girl got stung on the hand, feeling around for the light switch in the dark... When I say I was stung whilst feeding the cats, a few people have said how awful that I was stung while doing a good deed! Aren't people funny!outside-janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13209943475795895771noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27867592.post-88193752746870104352009-08-12T04:35:00.003+02:002009-08-12T04:53:52.390+02:00Really? Are you sure?They made me laugh out loud. It’s so strange how your evening can change course so rapidly, so unexpectedly. I went inside to get my keys and the cats looked at me with such yearning and angst that I thought, ‘ah, poor little things – I better feed them before I go’.<br /><br />It was a new bag of cat food and as I took it out of the box, I worried about spiders. I lifted it very tentatively – ready to jump if something black and hairy appeared. When nothing did I felt quite relieved, and that was when I picked up the bag properly and the black scorpion hidden in the fold stung me on the soft skin between my thumb and first finger. <br /><br />The first moment of pain was like a flash of light. I think I actually saw a flash of light. I did have the good sense to look to see what it was. Then I just swore loudly. It’s a shock! I mean obviously it’s a shock. But I mean really – I was very, very surprised by just how much it actually hurt.<br /><br />I ran to the sink and plunged my hand into the cold water and then I just stood there. Swearing occasionally and then stopping to listen to the strange silence, only broken by the heartless cats trying to break in to the bag of cat food that I’d dropped on the floor.<br /><br />Upon seeing the scorpion I had, of course, realised that I was about to experience an extortionate amount of pain. That’s all anyone ever says about scorpions – that you couldn’t imagine just how much it hurts. And you really can’t. It’s quite surreal. I stood there, observing myself and found I couldn’t fathom how anything could hurt quite this much. There are moments of clarity (and loud, fierce, bitter obscenities) then moments of, “really? Are you sure? This can't be real? Perhaps I’m going to wake up now?”<br /><br />Then I started to think. How serious is a scorpion sting? Am I going to pass out soon? Because my house-mates (the human ones) won’t be home for hours. The clinic is 15 minutes away – do I need to leave now? What is going to happen when I take my hand out of this cold water? Can it, could it, actually hurt even worse that this? Is my arm going numb? Can I still move my hand? (I could – but didn’t do that again for a while – moving it hurts a lot more.)<br /><br />I realised that I knew nothing about how bad or dangerous the scorpions <span style="font-style:italic;">are</span> around here. I wondered how I could be so stupid to not ask something like that before now. I realised that I had to leave the house right now.<br /><br />I didn't cry until I was outside and trying to get my shoes on - tieing my laces was agony. But I got it back together and soon I found my self stumbling up the road in the dark, holding my hand aloft like a torch. Self-control. It’s all about self-control. ‘Pain is just a feeling’ I kept repeating those words. I'm screaming inside. But I'm still walking, so I'm fine. Its just pain. Excruciating, unfathomable pain, washing over me like giant pacific waves. By the time I got to the first house I was drenched in cold sweat. I was quite surprised when I realised this, and quite alarmed when I realised I was light-headed.<br /><br />I saw my neighbour in his yard. “Conoce escorpiones?” I asked called out (Do you know scorpions?)<br />“What?” he replied, walking over “what scorpion?”<br />“A small black scorpion” I replied, “It is dangerous? I need a doctor?”<br />He shone a light in my face “where? When?”<br />“About 10 minutes ago, here” I showed him my hand.<br />He said I needed a tourniquet; it took a while for me to understand that. He said I needed a machete. I mimed chopping my hand off and laughed. He smiled grimly and mimed cutting my tongue. I asked him “will I be ok?” I realised my tee shirt was soaked through with sweat. And it’s cold tonight. He said I should go to the clinic now. I left.<br /><br />So I found myself stumbling down the road, light headed, sweating, my hair band tied tightly around my wrist, feeling bewildered and frankly amazed by how much pain I was in.<br /><br />The doctor at the clinic said I would be fine. He offered anaesthetic. I asked “do I need it?” (I don’t use anaesthetics unless it’s an emergency – I had too many as a child). He said I didn’t actually <span style="font-style:italic;">need</span> it. He told me the pain would wear off in a few hours. So I walked back to the bar.<br /><br />Still drenched, still feeling quite surreal. They looked startled when I walked into the bar. “I’ve just been stung by a scorpion” I announced.<br />“Wow” said the bartender “you must be in so much pain”<br />“Yes” I said, choking back tears. I actually put my hand over my mouth and had to turn away for a second. I am proud to say I am not a woman who cries in public. “A beer please”<br /><br />And so here I am, several beers and 2 hours later, sitting upstairs in the bar, letting the pain sweep through me like a warm summer breeze. It’s definitely not as bad as it was. Although I still can’t move my hand without great swathes of pain engulfing my head. It still feels quite surreal. I am typing this with one hand and trying to remember whether I locked the front door. Bizarrely, I am pretty sure I fed the cats before I left. Did I really do that? I think I did. The beer is certainly helping – as (strangely) is writing this.outside-janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13209943475795895771noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27867592.post-42899562862277583702009-07-28T03:50:00.012+02:002009-07-28T17:18:06.316+02:00Estoy la Maestra de Yoga!I am the Yoga Teacher! It occurred to me that I haven’t really blogged about that yet - so I thought I should. Well, my new career got off to a slow start. I planned to do my first lesson at 5pm on the 1st of July. I had 5 people signed up, everything was looking good, I was ready, with my lesson plan neatly typed up, bag of mats underarm... then at 4.45pm the heavens opened and the rain came down in torrents. Ah yes, The Rainy Season – I had forgotten about that.<br /><br />I re-scheduled to the following morning, but was disappointed when just 1 person came to my very first class. They warned me that it rains most days at 5pm, so I decided to stick with the 7am class. For 2 days, no one came. People were telling me that this is too much of a party place and no one would get up that early, and I was starting to feel pretty disheartened.<br /><br />Then, it picked up! The next day there was 2.... then 6... then one bright sunny morning I had 8 people, which was very exciting! Initially, I was teaching on some flat grass by the river, but as the rains kicked in, that location became too muddy. So I moved the classes to the terrace at the house, which is lovely – but it’s 'off campus' – so now I have to persuade the lazy backpackers to walk down the road. As a result, recently the 7am class became an 8am class! But my schedule is still very fluid, as the weather and the customers change.<br /><br />There have been some interesting students and moments. Last week there were two people who extended their stay just to do some more yoga with me, which was a wonderful compliment. This week, there was a small, public-school girl, doing her first ever yoga class, who spoke mostly in capitals, and thought yoga was “aMAZing” and “JUST INCREDible” and “fanTAStic and “NEVer EVEN KNEW yoga could be like THAT!” <br /><br />Of course there was also the serious young man in lycra leggings who huffily told me he preferred “proper yoga”. I asked what he considered to be proper yoga? <br />“Like they do in India,” he replied. I said that I haven’t been lucky enough to study yoga in India yet, and asked if he would tell me more about it. <br />“You know” he said “no-one telling you what to do – everyone does their own thing, at their own speed”. It occurred to me that if he wanted to do his own thing at his own speed, he didn’t really need to come to a class! But I didn’t say anything.<br /><br />In the first week, by the river, there was a young cow that was very curious. One day, she came to class! She stood on the back row and watched intently for about 45 minutes. Finally, during the Balance Sequence it all became too much for her – she rubbed her nose against one of the girls, knocking over a very nice Ardha Chandrasana (Half Moon Pose). So I shooed her away (the cow, not the girl) – but the rest of the back row complained – it seemed they all liked her being there! The following day she was more restrained and just watched from the side (the cow, not the girl).<br /><br />Yoga has been met with complete amazement by the local Mayans. None of them have ever seen yoga before and they are quite enthralled. The first day 4 gardeners watched, literally with open mouths. <br />“But what <span style="font-style:italic;">is</span> Yoga?” I am frequently asked! Funny, that was the first question in our Final Exam for the Teacher Training – but I didn’t actually think I would ever get asked that in ‘real life’.<br />“It means union” I reply, “It’s an exercise, and a philosophy, from India” <br />“Where?”<br />“India, it’s a country in Asia”<br />“Oh, that’s a long way from here”<br />“Well, yes.”<br />“But what is it <span style="font-style:italic;">for</span>?”<br />“Strength, flexibility, balance and happiness” I say. <br />“Oh” they say. “Is it just for tourists?”<br /><br />Several of the Mayans have said they’d like to come – but it hasn’t happened yet! I also had a request from one of the ladies in the kitchen to come and teach a class at the Community Centre for a group of ladies and children. She said there might be 40 of them! Most of who don’t speak Spanish (let alone English). We are still in discussion, but hopefully one of our Mayan bartenders will come with me to translate. It could be interesting! Most of the women here still wear traditional clothes – I cannot imagine them in shorts! I can’t imagine them even <span style="font-style:italic;">owning</span> shorts! I have this vision in my mind of 40 buxom Mayan chicks in Warrior 2, all wearing hand-woven full skirts, lace tunics and plastic slippers :-) So I’ll keep you posted on how, or whether, that happens!<br /><br /><blockquote><span style="font-weight:bold;">Wildlife/Housemates Update</span></blockquote><br />I think Behemoth #1 has left home! It seems this house wasn’t big enough for the both of us. Behemoth #2 is still in residence and in revenge for destroying his digs (<a href="http://outside-jane.blogspot.com/2009/07/blue-blanket.html">the Blue Blanket</a>) he now likes to hang out at the top of my stairs, just next to the light switch – scaring the living daylights out of me when I am on my way to bed.<br /><br />A smaller behemoth (Beast #1) seems to be stepping into the voluminous, but metaphorical, boots vacated by Behemoth #1; I am watching his progress with interest.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLAfUymKxpFtXHO39lP6pBr0P3_93eWjkH9bJ6kd9kgzstLDX3gknxUvPXsyFT8P99rSNtyMdO03Iqt51uGZGghoEBO3MfK_dOn5hbyH6A-yzbohme_sznaCuj23XzgXL5rgNEUg/s1600-h/for-blog_29Jul_1a.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 230px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLAfUymKxpFtXHO39lP6pBr0P3_93eWjkH9bJ6kd9kgzstLDX3gknxUvPXsyFT8P99rSNtyMdO03Iqt51uGZGghoEBO3MfK_dOn5hbyH6A-yzbohme_sznaCuj23XzgXL5rgNEUg/s400/for-blog_29Jul_1a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363331778104917538" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh4Lv7xbPztsl1JjIs_bq0UFbMlq1YOlmyxIEpbarHvVprQAhU-owXajZqUBDDUXUD0e_gf-wn9wxUSILUccscDeVKb1wK1_uLfcSLwm8dYjUxWNmALC2wd7xTFaKqI-4uNzTCpA/s1600-h/for-blog_29Jul_1b.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 230px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh4Lv7xbPztsl1JjIs_bq0UFbMlq1YOlmyxIEpbarHvVprQAhU-owXajZqUBDDUXUD0e_gf-wn9wxUSILUccscDeVKb1wK1_uLfcSLwm8dYjUxWNmALC2wd7xTFaKqI-4uNzTCpA/s400/for-blog_29Jul_1b.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363331785775899554" /></a><br /><br />Two pikey scorpions are roaming, but not yet ensconced in, my region of the house. The smaller one was first seen in my room – presumably he was stopping by to introduce himself – I was not hospitable, but bravely swept him down the stairs. I suspect he is now hiding in the closet at the bottom of the stairs. The second, however, is out and proud.<br /><br />The cats are all fine – they have recently formed a Barber Shop Trio, led by ‘Alpha Cat’, and they get together in the kitchen, for a sing, at about 4am, which is just marvellous. ‘Tom Cat’ was ‘done’ last week, to the great relief of everyone – so the house no longer smells of cat pee. He is furious and won’t even look at us anymore. ‘Small Cat’ was also ‘done’ and some kittens were aborted. She looks very small and forlorn now – but we are making a fuss of her and she seems ok.<br /><br />The last house-mates I should mention are the possums, who come through the kitchen window and mix cocktails in the dead of night – they then get drunk and dance on the roof. I haven’t actually witnessed this because I can’t be bothered to get out of bed, but I hear them loud and clear. At least they shut the cats up.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9FGsknZ7wH2MYb7Z6FR8XI_1CfOiNjmQNuCH_aaagzayfRrEgS6CqBUMxkr4KmDYs6onWyrJO1-BJ0EridKOEeK7EncRa96VUYQQw2ijfXPuBfr_wgm7BWW7dvhJpMhgb9PqwPg/s1600-h/for-blog_29Jul_2a.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 230px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9FGsknZ7wH2MYb7Z6FR8XI_1CfOiNjmQNuCH_aaagzayfRrEgS6CqBUMxkr4KmDYs6onWyrJO1-BJ0EridKOEeK7EncRa96VUYQQw2ijfXPuBfr_wgm7BWW7dvhJpMhgb9PqwPg/s400/for-blog_29Jul_2a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363331787549786722" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFXigNzaJ2A5bbpYROGVUv6tJlsy08NDe-MmcDXaf637tY32-HxtrD3gLetJKe9P2XG-I78qEhwj_-VyLKUOyEIOhW_i7Jjoe4zmqRHllxBIcyvm_wB7tKzWoQg01LuFoyd7_bg/s1600-h/for-blog_29Jul_2b.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 230px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFXigNzaJ2A5bbpYROGVUv6tJlsy08NDe-MmcDXaf637tY32-HxtrD3gLetJKe9P2XG-I78qEhwj_-VyLKUOyEIOhW_i7Jjoe4zmqRHllxBIcyvm_wB7tKzWoQg01LuFoyd7_bg/s400/for-blog_29Jul_2b.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363331793028035682" /></a><br /><br />Life in the garden is also thriving – a large, totally groovy, caterpillar is living near the outside tap. So far, he has ‘burned’ both of my (human) house-mates but not me! I am too sharp. Several frogs abound, both indoors and out, which makes showering more exhilarating.<br /><br />The herd of bulls from over the river have discovered the uncut grass in our garden is far superior to scrub on their side and are now regular visitors. This is particularly exciting when one to comes to the door for a look, especially if you are half-asleep and not really prepared to see a large bull standing in the open doorway.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZPlnw3_oPjMoULqmSiJUIsf2spfJxgL3TAEl2ta0Qs9ic28_WBQMIjWmrf1yRyzbPWiB5cOJiK-Sf0hVI2MTUJOevG8GTtCybiqi24fvKbBll9vNH06B4xOFEMz3kAUwhibb1KA/s1600-h/for-blog_29Jul_3a.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 230px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZPlnw3_oPjMoULqmSiJUIsf2spfJxgL3TAEl2ta0Qs9ic28_WBQMIjWmrf1yRyzbPWiB5cOJiK-Sf0hVI2MTUJOevG8GTtCybiqi24fvKbBll9vNH06B4xOFEMz3kAUwhibb1KA/s400/for-blog_29Jul_3a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363331797898296466" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG7FLekojHaEIsdUliQoU7jcEffnX4wcR2shfxnZFtMLkgq79GYWhye8tg_MognC4cZEi11MGhb5NI6HAHRCit8TsKgllxENuL9EbcLYJUmXIqoSg76-GXEsdc0UybKBJdmuUHvg/s1600-h/for-blog_29Jul_3b.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 230px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG7FLekojHaEIsdUliQoU7jcEffnX4wcR2shfxnZFtMLkgq79GYWhye8tg_MognC4cZEi11MGhb5NI6HAHRCit8TsKgllxENuL9EbcLYJUmXIqoSg76-GXEsdc0UybKBJdmuUHvg/s400/for-blog_29Jul_3b.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363333021240507650" /></a><br /><br />I’m posting some pictures of my various housemates – and one (especially for my brother – who is a big fan) of the largest moth I have ever seen. This one was in the shower; I put him out the window, before the ‘shower tarantula’ got him. Behemoth #1 used to love moths...outside-janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13209943475795895771noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27867592.post-79730469498170804322009-07-14T15:55:00.002+02:002009-07-14T16:01:21.470+02:00InterfaceThe junior backpacker was so young and fresh he was almost shiney. He approached the bar and asked, “Is there any chance of hot water around here? I could do with a proper <span style="font-style:italic;">scrub</span> after that awful bus ride,” he added apologetically.<br /><br />But it was too much, too fast, for our Mayan Bartender, whose English is good, but not great. He replied cautiously: “Hot water?”<br />“Yes, hot water! Any chance? Around here?” he made a circular motion with his hand to further elucidate ‘around here’ (a la Peter Kaye).<br />“Hot water,” confirmed the bartender, “for sure, yes!” and he turned, picked up a coffee cup and began to fill it with hot water from the coffee machine.<br />“Oh. I’m getting a cup.” Said the backpacker, a little crestfallen.<br />The junior backpacker and his rosy-cheeked companions conferred quietly. There were murmurs of ‘I don’t think he understood... how should we...? ...ask again! ...Why don’t <span style="font-style:italic;">you</span> ask!’ and I watched with interest as the Bartender returned with a steaming mug of water.<br /><br />Do I need to add that the backpackers were all English? The bartender placed the mug on the bar and the Junior Backpacker smiled warmly, <br />“That’s marvellous!” he said “thanks so much!” and with that, the young adventurers wandered away – dusty and dejected. <br /><br />The bartender turned to me, “English” he said, “like you. I think he must make tea,” he added.<br /><br />Before you ask – yes. I do know where you can get a hot shower around here (making circular motion with the hand). But a cold shower does the little blighters good!outside-janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13209943475795895771noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27867592.post-48176315967402872262009-07-04T04:05:00.002+02:002009-07-04T04:09:11.022+02:00The Blue BlanketI don’t want to be boring and I know that spiders have loomed large in my last two blog posts. But spiders are looming large in my life right now – so I am afraid this is another blog about my eight-legged enemies.<br /><br />Draped casually and prettily over the wall in my room is a large, blue Guatemalan blanket. The other day I decided to see if I could drape the blanket over the rafters and hopefully block out the view of the behemoth that lives in the rafters just beyond my loft (see previous blog). I couldn’t make it work – but shortly after trying; another behemoth hit the ground running, scaring the living daylights out of me, because spiders are nocturnal! You don’t usually see many in the day and you hardly ever see them moving. Like aliens, "they mostly come at night... mostly". It occurred to me afterwards that my moving of the blanket and the agitated appearance of a spider in the afternoon might be connected. Also, this morning upon waking I saw a four-incher sitting right next to the blanket.<br /><br />So I have come to be of the opinion that this blanket is probably a dark and secluded, palatial spider residence. And it’s in my self-designated space. So it’s going to have to go.<br /><br />My friend Judit recently told me a story (which I hope she won’t mind me repeating – as it’s a great story!) A few years ago, she and her husband took over the management of a Dive Shop in the tropics. It had been closed for a few months previously, so when they went to inspect the equipment they found whole families of spiders living in the BCDs (jackets). Their solution was to throw all the gear into the sea and then run away! She said within moments the water was full of black, hairy refugees all frantically learning to swim.<br /><br />With this in mind, whilst I want the blanket gone, actually picking it up and moving it, is the <span style="font-style:italic;">last</span> thing I want to do! I have thought of picking up one end and dropping it into the kitchen below, where I will not be able to witness the resulting exodus (especially if I am cowering strategically on the floor). But inevitably not all of the inhabitants will go down with their blanket. Some will hang onto the wall, next to which I will be strategically cowering. Not good.<br /><br />Furthermore the blanket is not far from the door. So if things start running, they might block my exit. I have a balcony that I could potentially throw myself off – but so far I haven’t been able to find the key to unlock the door. Which might actually be a good thing.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">What to do?</span><br /><br />Oh and I saw my first scorpion last night – four inches away from the light switch which I had just used. So that was a valuable lesson about the dangers of turning on lights. On the bright side: in the garden we have hummingbirds! <span style="font-style:italic;">Hummingbirds!</span> Which, as someone once said, "would be impossible, if they didn’t exist!" I will try to get a picture for you. And so many butterflies! It’s funny, you don’t see many butterflies these days – but here they are plentiful.outside-janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13209943475795895771noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27867592.post-90775491903947438772009-07-01T23:41:00.001+02:002009-07-01T23:44:29.706+02:00AddendumI forgot to mention the cats! I am not sure how many we have because they are all identical. So, needless to say, they are all equally adorable. I am encouraging them to hang-out up here and be fierce with anything smaller than they are.<br /><br />Last night a very grown-up spider emerged from the rafters – easily as big as my hand and particularly ugly – but he was crouched just beyond my designated loft space, so I made the decision he could stay! Ha! <br /><br />I managed to convince myself that he was in his space and I am in mine and he has no reason to invade my loft. Of course this is a ridiculous argument as it presupposes the spider recognises the distinction between my loft and his rafters. It also assumes that he gives a damn. I decided not to look at him. That helped. In my favour, yesterday I did sweep my loft with a verve and ferocity that only those of you who knew me as a small child will be able to imagine. However at bedtime I was forced to fully embrace the fact that, should he choose to do so, he could in my bed in less than 30 seconds. He was almost the size of a small cat!<br /><br />So it’s not surprising that, when one of the small cats jumped onto my bed just as I was dozing off, I should jump, momentarily leaving my skin, and catapult (or kick? I am not sure) the small cat off the bed and across the room. He/she retreated to the bookcase and sat and glared at me with equal parts bewilderment and hatred.<br /><br />I said sorry, but you know what cats are like – it could be weeks until I’m forgiven.<br /><br />And no MG4D, I am not travelling with a mosquito net, but it’s something I think I may need to acquire. Because mosquito nets are impenetrable (I believe they are made of the same fabric as Batman’s cape) to any and all monsters. That’s what I choose to believe anyway, and I don’t want any of you to tell me otherwise. <br /><br />Please.outside-janehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13209943475795895771noreply@blogger.com1