Back to work

Shaddap.
Shussss.
Zippit.
Be QUIET!

Think it is glamorous to live and work overseas? Try teaching. By nature one of the most unglamorous, humble, unnoticeable, unappreciated jobs on earth.

(Still don't know how I got here.)

But here I am, finding ever unique ways of telling energetic, bouncy young lads and lassies to engage creatively with music and to shut their mooths while engaging.

I've been back at work for over a week now, and returning after a long Summer holiday is a shock to the fragile system. I can hear some sneering in the background, saying that I should be grateful for such a long break, blah-blah-blah. It's still a shock. Even though I have enough free time in the evenings and afternoons, my thoughts have been consumed with schemes of work, lesson plans, registration rules and daily notices. Teaching is never boring. Every day brings its own little surprise.

My surprise today was B****. He is barely twelve, blessed with the red hair of his unruly forefathers who raped and plundered their way into society, (and, according to a segment in this month's National Geographic, is a dying species) and he is having his first class with me.

'Now, class, after you've all completed the section on....B****, why have you not written anything?' Why I even bother asking is another mystery, but then again, maybe I am blessed with a higher-than-normal ratio of idealismoptimism. (On good days)
'I didnae understand,' he says sulkily.
I frown. 'What I do NOT understand is how YOU don't understand how to draw a picture. Of your favourite instrument. ANY instrument will do.' My voice temperature is rising into the lower red regions.
'I DIDNAE WANNA DO IT!!!!' says B***, with exclamation marks.
And that is only his first lesson.

96% of them are absolutely spiffy, enthusiastic and a boon to the human race. 4% drives me to distraction. 60+ days holiday a year x good salary + short hours.

Not bad, not bad. Maybe I was meant to be here.

Today's history 1

Currently, overflowing on my bedside table together with other unread treasures such as My Traitor's Heart and Dr. Death, I am reading through the history of Mary, Queen of Scots, in a volume of the same name by Antonia Fraser. To purchase, please click here
It is a revelation. Who could have guessed that this minor nation on a rain-sodden, wind-whipped just-about-part-of-a-small-island, could have so much in common with the boere of South Africa? And I am not talking Roman law here, either. (For those who don't know- like me-, Scotland stuck mostly with Roman law, same as in South Africa, and it is different to the 'common law' practiced in England.)

According to my source (and I'm now on page 174 of the 1969 Orionbooks edition, if you want to check), the Scots were regarded as a bit 'backward'. And they were, judging by the fighting, drinking, feuds and dirt of the standard 17th century farmholdings. Stubborn, also, to the point of idiocy, and bent on sticking to their own beliefs and customs in the face of dire opposition. They were known as excellent soldiers, highly valued (or feared, depends which side you were on) for their courage and tenaciousness in war. And not treating women too well, or animals, who had to know their place in the greater scheme of things. If a nation could have a star sign, you could say the Scots were (are?!) a joint Taurus with a rising Aries moon, for good measure.

But substitute 'Scot' for 'Afrikaner' in the above paragraph, and nobody would spot the difference. What really clinched it for me, personally, was the following sentence:
"...a lazy, proud, boastful people who, despite their poverty, were swollen with quite unjustifiable pride about their lineage."

Ok, so us Afrikaanses aren't that lazy, and apart from the Praag bunch, you'd be hard-pressed to find a white Afrikaner in South Africa today who is proud of their lineage.

Well, I am , and I am inordinately proud of my ancestors. Apart from a few facets of apartheid. But let's not go there tonight.

Gaun shopping

The trip through the Highlands confirmed one of my suspisions: it is impossible to find a spot in Scotland that is not absolutely breathtaking.
Look at this. Just look at this:



Although somebody told me Glasgow is really ugly?

I've been living here for the past 4 months, and I've started thinking how life has changed. Take shopping. All high streets in Britain are similar to the point of nausea. Boots, Tesco, Costa, Asda, Next, Monsoon...one has to travel further than Inverness to escape the manifestation. Not that I'm complaining, since I come from a country where the quality of your shopping experience deteriorates, or rather unravels, as you travel further from the main cities. At least here I know what to expect from a Boots and a Tesco, and to see my favourite range of 'Finest' pizzas brings a warm feeling to the stomach. There are more independent stores up here, or more low streets, with varying degrees and conditions of merchandise. There are also way more Asdas and Morrisons than Sainburys, a pity if one is a label-reader like me. Not for 'Dior' or 'Gucci', don't get the wrong idea, I'm not that type of snob. I analyse contents and Asda's products have more ingredients with shitcolourants, natural and unnatural additives and hydrogenated veggie oil than Sainburys, Tesco and Waitrose put together.

I'm THAT type of snob.

Cycling away

Last week, Duan and I cycled from our house in Fife all the way to Inverness. In three and a half days. Applause, applause - I am mightily pleased!

Cycling tours have so far proven to be one of the best discoveries we have made as a couple. I mean, we could've spend our free time watching dvds of corny old Sci-Fi series like Star Trek and Babylon Five, or waste days reading brainless whodunnits or playing Medieval Total War into the wee hours of the morning. Which are actually also things we have been doing lately. But we balance these passive leisure hours with periods of serious activity, and now we can relax again in front of series two of Lost. We are offsetting our passivity with calorie-burning exercise, like trading in carbon emissions and whatnot. Maybe I should start a company?

We left without incident on Monday, three hours after our planned starting time. I belatedly discovered that Vossie, my beloved furball, has not been innoculated recently enough, and after a deperate dash to the vets, they were dispatched into the kennels. In between we also quickly had to make an offer on a house (again), so we left a bit later. This time Duan did his husbandly duty by towing most of our luggage on a quaint new trailer. I love it, especially the yellow flag.


On Tuesday the weather was atrocious, and as I bore forward against a mighty headwind, I swore under my breath and wondered why I chose to spend my precious holiday time in such a barbaric manner. My average speed dropped to approximately 2,snail km an hour, and it started dripping. Conditions worsened when we saw the campsite don't click here at Pitlochry where we had booked to spend the night. Don't go there, it is horrible and depressing. Crowded, loud music, litter lying around, just not nice.

Everything became lovely again on days three and four with perfect sunshiny days and the most incredible cycling scenery on Route 7 of the National Cycing Network. They don't always get it right, but if they do - and on Route 7 they really, really do - it's amazing. Never a harsh hill to climb, mostly traffic free or on a minor road, and surrounded by the most breathtaking scenery this world has to offer. It was spectacular, and we promptly celebrated by spending a night at the charming Scot House Hotel in Kingussie. (Pronounced King-yoosie).


We saw loads of animals, including red squirrel times three, gazillions of sheep and coos, and, of course, rabbits. We had such a hard time getting one of these highland sheep to stand still and pose for a photo, but Duan ambushed an unsuspecting ram and managed to snap a pic:



My holiday is almost finished, so I have to make the best use of my time and return to the next episode of Lost.

LondonEdinburgh

My very best friend, Ronelle, has come for a visit.



She landed in London and it was great to show her the old place. It is an endless city; its sites and histories are a gaping mouth ready to slobber you up and spit you out exhausted and bewildered, at the other end. A must-see, maybe a must-live, if only for a few months.

The first evening in London the grime stuck to us like an invisible veneer. Ronelle politely mentioned the ubearable heat of the Underground on the second day, and the Circle Line and District Lines were out of service - on a Saturday in the middle of Summer! In the past I've always left London with a feeling of longing, of wanting to stay there and nestle in its vibrant (under)belly. Not this time.

I was happy as a puppy to return to Scotland. Edinburgh!
Ronelle visisted the city on her own the first day, and she was sensibly impressed.


She also found the locals very friendly.


(Thank you, Sporranclan, for the pic)

"Whoore loo auch wee Jhd8e&%p3 hoose wee*^@", says the smiling man.
"I don't think I understand what he's saying?", whispers Ronelle.
"Oh, how do you take your coffee," explain I, proud of my understanding of the burr after a few months.

She also adored the wildlife.







And the neverending beauty of the scenery.






And by the time we hade to bade farwell, Ronelle was converted: Scotland is greaet!