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Friday, 13 February 2009


Oh dear. Various exploits, a need to be outside and a wonderful cold which needed feeding in the same way you might nurture a Dundee cake before Christmas has lead me once again, nowhere. The blog remains unwritten and the too long short story I wanted to send off to the Writers' and Artists' comp. has been pushed aside with the vain hope it may be entered into the Bridport one instead. These and various bursts and snorts whilst reading Gussie Fink-Nottle's drunken prize giving are not good enough reasons for not writing but at least I am capable of saying that P.G. Wodehouse should be compulsive and compulsory reading if only to induce the feeling that in an ideal world everything would be all right................................

Yet no amount of P.G can save me from the modus operandi of classes 3A and B. It had a slight variation the other day in the shape of Carlos who in true Aragonese style refused to give me the tennis ball he'd been playing with for twenty minutes despite warnings and then kept a conversation of two sentences those being, 'Give me the ball' and "will you give it back?' for a good five minutes. I'm not sure if it was the 'will you give it back?' that inspired me to open the classroom door on retrieving the ball and lobbing it as far as my wearied self could permit which was in this case as far as the dole office that stands next to the school, the one that burnt down a few months ago, and which I presume is where Carlos is heading in a few year's time. I imagine here he will sign his name which will be followed by an exclamation or question mark. The look of shock on the faces of the other reprobates assured me of a class that resembled some kind of normality and Carlos can at least reassure himself, thank his lucky stars and starts in life that it wasn't him that I turfed across the playground towards the labour exchange. Apart from Carlos the school itself leaves a lot to be desired and I am not sure if I want to get started on this one except one would have to travel far, say to Omsk, to see misery on this scale.

On a lighter note I have just been reading about something that might be the perfect murder, although only in Spain. It is something out of an Almodovar film. A young man has just been let off for murdering his father because he wasn't, while he was killing him, ' the owner of his actions' or rather, he wasn't all there on account of the magic mushrooms he had wolfed down before he bumped off his dad.The story ended that the murder took place in the early hours a couple of years back in September at the start of the fiestas of Saint Matthew in case you were wondering.

Lastly, one of the reasons I can't continue to write is due to a certain vicar called Peter Owen-Jones who has captured my imagination with his Around the World in Eighty Faiths which is now on the tele. More of him at a later date.Toodle pip.x

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