Failure

Following my firm decision to have a life, I went out last night. I met up with Rory and Dave (met via Carina) for a couple of drinks. We went to a rock place, which seemed like a good idea, I mean, there’s nothing like a good rock place, but then I found myself downing two pints while praying that I would not go deaf and making Herculean efforts to keep a conversation, which consisted of us shouting into each other’s ears and stretching our necks to hear what others were saying.
And this morning I woke up with a huge headache and ringing in my right ear.
I don’t know, maybe I’m getting old, but this was not fun. I mean, it was lovely to see them, and they are very interesting people that I definitely want to keep in touch with, but why couldn’t we have went to a calm pub and actually have a proper conversation in an environment that did not impede any attempt on communicating? Oh well.

Photo of an undetermined amount of time

Here’s a pic I took before Easter and somehow failed to post. I took it with my phone camera, so the quality leaves to desire, but that's not the most important.
Location: Victoria Square, Birmingham.

It was empty, it looked appealing, so she took a spin. And it made her happy. Here's to making the most of life!

Stealing hugs and feeling human

We had a group teaching event today so I saw all people from my programme, well at least the French/Spanish lot.
Lyndsey’s got a boyfriend! Yay to that one!
Vincenzo and Paul are still Vincenzo and Paul, and I’m still worried, but well, suppose that they’re big boys and they know what they’re doing.
Carmen (my uni tutor) said I looked happy. I guess I am happy, if you forget not having a life.
But I’ve squabbled with Vincenzo and stolen so many hugs that it almost makes me feel human again.
I had very ambitious plans as to how I would use the time freed by the fact that I had less lessons to plan – on top of today’s thing, tomorrow’s a course work moderation day and next Thursday the National Union of Teachers strike – but it’s pretty obvious by now that I will not do half of what I’ve planned. I think I’ll just pop a frozen pizza into the oven, take a shower and watch CSI, while wallowing in this feeling of human closeness and love.

Words and meanings

Yesterday afternoon at the university we had an event where Year 9 kids from different backgrounds were teaching us their languages. There was a girl teaching Norwegian, but to my great disappointment all she could provide were names of animals – I wanted ‘I love you. Marry me’. That was beyond her knowledge of the language. Oh well.
There were also three kids teaching Polish – all people who had stopped at their tables would come back to me and show off what they had learned. I particularly appreciated Lyndsey telling me that she had a cat – which in Polish could mean ‘I’m nuts’ and Paul declaring he had a horse – which could have been interpreted as him admitting to having a penis. Ah, you’d better be careful, you never know what you’re actually saying!
So I’ve learned some Norwegian, some Portuguese, some Lingala, some Cantonese and some sign language. The latter being the only one that I’ve not forgotten.But most of all, I learned some Satswana. It’s a language spoken in Botswana. And it’s amazing. Their currency is ‘Pula’. That word also means ‘rain’. In an African country. Wow. ‘Madi’ means both ‘money’ and ‘blood’. Wow again. But it gets better. ‘Monday’ is ‘mosupologo’, which means ‘get out of your shell and get going’. Hating Mondays must be something they don’t quite get. Or maybe they get it even better. The word for ‘Sunday’ means ‘bells are ringing’. But my very favourite is ‘maitsiboa’, which translates as ‘evening’, but means ‘you know it’s time to come back’. Isn’t that all that evenings should be about?

On hair and feudalism

No one here knows me enough to appreciate the importance of the fact, but hopefully some of you do: my hair has been growing for months now and I have not yet been caught whining about ‘this back bit’ annoying me, read: I have no desire to chop it off.
It is a known fact that cutting hair is a symbolic expression of the desire to liberate oneself from their past. Also, hair is a symbol of femininity, which is why many cultures hide it and see wearing long hair loose as a sign of exuberant sexuality. Finally, think Samson – hair is power. It makes me wonder what should I read into this unusual willingness to let mine grow…
Never mind.
A random fact that caught my attention today: until very recently, there was still a feudal state in Europe! A little island in the south-western English Channel, called Sark, has just abolished fiefdom this month. And all these years I was dealing with feudalism as something belonging to the past, ignoring the fact that there was a genuine feudal Seigneur living right under my nose! He even has a Seneschal! Check it out for yourselves: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sark.
For my part, I want to go there!

Back in Brum

It was snowing as I woke up in London this morning and it made me feel peaceful. I must be a winter person, in spite of being prone to light-deficiency induced depression.
The winter scenery didn’t last though, and as I arrived to Brum, after almost three hours of blissful staring out of the window of a National Express coach while listening to the music, there was no snow left outside. But it is snowing again now. So there’s hope for another soothing winter view before the craziness and stress and hectic life start all over again tomorrow.

Nut day and my bits of Aix

I was having coffee with Hil this morning, and we were all happy and excited to be together again, and blabbering about what has happened, how life was and what was coming up when this elderly gentleman came up to our table and mainly told us off very vehemently for talking too loud when we had nothing to say. ‘All I can hear is your noise’ he said ‘and you have nothing to say’. My spontaneous reaction was to tell him that it wasn’t about the words coming out of our mouths but all the love behind them and that I was sorry he was to bitter to get that, but I bit my tongue. Why spoil his day? After all, being a Brit living in Frogland, he can’t have an opportunity to tell people off too often, so hey, cheers to you, hope it made you happy.
Then we wandered about the market and Hil bought a pear. The seller helper tried to put it in a bag for her, but the stall owner told her off for that cause you shouldn’t waste an expensive plastic bag for just one pear (she obviously thought we didn’t speak any French). That’s when we decided it was a nut day.
Anyway, off to buy some more bits of Provence and last drinks with friends.
Mantra changed to what Nick told me over a drink last Sat, when I was all whining about why the fuck did I leave and I want my life back: “Yes, you had a great life here, but it was going nowhere”.
Which doesn’t change the fact that I miss my life here.
And a final random thing: every time I walk into Cours Mirabeau heading for Rue Fabrot, I can’t help but turn my head and I can still see the Disappearing German waiting for me on the corner of Rue Thiers, and that smile, and the Dreamcatcher Hair, and Oh GOD. Beautiful memory it is indeed.