BOTTOMS UP

Our mayor seems to be keeping a low profile again. He can be usually found gracing the pages of the local chronicle, attending all the social events society has to offer or spotted leaving his armoured car with bodyguards in tow as he flits about town. It comes as no surprise and is possibly due to the fact that he owes me money, or rather the council does. This blog is not the only storytelling I indulge in and have a track record of. In the local library I have been entertaining the little ones on the last Saturday of every month with stories in English. This has been going on since last October but pay wise not so. I have been told that the council are slow to cough up, but can you imagine a 'funcionario' not being paid and the stink that would be kicked up? This morning I rang the library and they told me to ring the local cultural centre which is called the 'Matadero', the slaughterhouse on account of it having been an abbatoir at one stage and now people just end up dying on stage, and they sent me to the council who sent me to the treasury who told me that my money was 'pending', which of course it is. I suppose some people might think that having chosen to live in a country where I am not native involves a certain amount of giving in or acceptance. I've left the situation with the word 'pending' in my ears and it will be interesting to hear what words Henderson has to say when he hears about my lack of assertiveness on this episode.

I'm not sure whether to continue writing about the effing bleeder AKA El Borracho de Mierda. It will require a lie down before during and after so perhaps leave it for now eh? I really don't get people who don't enjoy a drink. Unlike a couple I met in South East London who are now in their seventies or eighties who like nothing better than a skinful but know how to entertain. I'm thinking of opening a pub in homage to them. The Rose and George. Last time I saw them I had to hide a bottle of whiskey in that cupboard that lives under the stairs in 1930's British houses because the alternative was to push throught the night with these two doyens of hedonism and wait for the ambulance to arrive.


Talking of doyens, I was watching the BAFTAS not long ago and towards the end an award was given to Vanessa Redgrave for her lifetime achievement or something like that and she went on to give a speech which reminded me so much of leisurely chats with one Mr Isherman at The Duchess Theatre London. I think she may have modelled herself on him or maybe it was the other way round. Anyway, the bit I'm getting at is the way the TV cameras often appear to be scouring the faces of the other actors sitting in the audience for help and suggest to me, the viewer, that all is not well with whoever it is up there stealing the scene and any moment someone will snap and leap on stage and drag them off while they witter on about Dickie and Terence and the rest of the gang.

I don't have much in common with Margaret Thatcher. Come to think of it, if she were here I would probably throw her from my balcony but like her, appeasement is not in my nature and I thought this when I heard a whimper from upstairs this morning. I feel the same when I enter classes 4A and B and also I shall feel this way on Monday evening when we have the dreaded community meeting. This all seems rather trivial when viewed on an international scale and I wonder what will hapen to The Flacklands or rather the other more well known Falklands ( I've got to get this spell check working again I suppose ) as I write this. There are times when I feel like heading there for some peace and quiet but I am not sure if this will be for long.

This blog is going to be the longest so far and not because I have anything to say but because I seem to have a huge blank space that I can't eliminate and I am now going to have to fill it in with more ramblings and trivia as I can't publish it looking like this. Well, here goes, let's see if I have enough rubbish in my head to write about something to get to the ned of the page. Or the end of.

Just found notebook and said ramblings include such nonsense as 'Low Carbon Cars, Fact Fiction or Folly?' This is followed by 'Molecules and the Tree of Life. Surprising revelations'. Underneath this I have written Brain Train Britain and Music to Moulin Rouge and Beswick Cow. It's like when I wake up in the morning with the letter B written on my hand or this week it was the number seven accompanied by the letter L. Any ideas?

I've just remembered that on my trip to Zaragoza I went to the tourist office and during the conversation about the tower nestling in the corner of the plaza I realised the young man attending to my needs hadn't asked me where I hailed from. He also gave me a map and info in Spanish. Maybe he thought I was Spanish was the first thing to spring to mind but this was all shattered when I returned home and went to the Eroski supermarket and enquired about my thousands of Travel Miles. The nice young girl there told me to get my desired Hoover via the internet as ringing meant getting through to an answer phone and with an accent like mine the machine would never understand. A few days later when entering a lift one of the locals enquired as to where I was from and even tried to help by asking me if I was Romanian.