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Sunday, 11 January 2009


It's difficult to believe that this time last week I was fretting over my weight. Anything over ten kilos and I would have to start tossing stuff out of my suitcase to get past the evil Ryanair staff.
Here I am now fretting over tomorrow and the reminder that classes 3A and B are plotting as I write. I am pondering the idea of laying bets that the first twenty minutes will be hell and will involve fights and name calling and throwing of books and pencil cases and balancing of chairs on heads and, on it goes.

I read somewhere recently that foreigners especially the French think the English haven't acquired an adult mind. I like to think this means we are in touch with our inner child or have playful natures but after watching some of the television programmes that I am thankfully unable to get here I realise we are, or rather they are if I wash my hands of them, a nation of guffawing degenerates. I still don't know what dogging means and am baffled at a lot of the language being used to describe men and women.

I don't have many regrets but I wish I had seen a play while we were in London. I also wish I had the courage to ride what is known as a chairoplane in Leicester Square as it did look like fun and might have finally got me over so many phobias. Flying and people for example. We did get to see the latest or the last James Bond film which I loved. Henderson looks like Daniel Craig especially around the gills. A sort of Teutonic, feral type creature known for its unpredictable behaviour.

Last night during a bout of insomnia I chatted with a friend on the internet and although she was miles away in Torquay I invited her for a chocolate and churros at the Granja Anita, a cafe here that deals in this dreadful drink and its fat and sugar laden dip. Henderson refuses to go here as the last time our conversation was drowned out by a gaggle of women all talking at the same time and high on the content of the above aberration of taste. So I invited her to the Juan Sebastian bar instead.

Speaking of miles I wondered about changing the word for kilometres and it doesn't work if you are singing The Who's I can see for kilometres and kilometres or 'guess what? I joined the kilometre high club', or perhaps, 'I'm sorry, I didn't hear you, I was kilometres away'. Too much time and hands I guess.

Lastly, Henderson reminded me that I am still sleeping with my eyes open which just makes me convinced I am right when I say I haven't slept for twenty years. He added that I am still lying in a sunbathing or deckchair position with my hands behind my head and a look of serenity. Little does he know of the traumatic dreams going on. Last night I dreamt I lived in Camden and it was always night.....................

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