Somewhere, high in our dark flat tower, dwells a mysterious recorder player. I apologise. I've plagurised that line from either Victor Hugo or Disney without any real reason as the mysterious musician is no hunchback but what sounds like a small child desperately attempting to coax beautiful melodies forth. It ain't working. The pobrecito (poor wee one) is either playing the first two lines of Old MacDonald or the very first of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Apparently we need to wait until he gets those down before the big reveal. The suspense is killing me.
Speaking of miniature humans, in the very near future I may be teaching them to speak English. Given my quest for an artsy bookshop to while away the siesta hours encountered unanswerable questions as varied as "We're not currently looking for part time employees, could you rearrange your class timetable?" to "So what first interested you in gay erotica literature?" the next best thing seems to be to bite the bullet, conform to stereotype and pimp my services as a Cambridge educated native speaker.
There is a huge market for this sort of thing in Spain. English is the language of business and everyone, from the ladies in the salons who insist "No, no mira guapa, para los nails? Nails? Yes, good? Yungle rrrrred dahling, it is jur colour!" to sharply suited lawyers jabbering into their Blackberrys on the metro want to speak English.
Skeptical at first; my mind was quickly changed by a giddy vision. Spanish mamas and papas who wish to privately educate their little Maria's and Pepe's will no doubt have full fridges. That amazingly clever kind that dispenses ice for your drink! A TV so huge you almost feel you can high five Andy Dufresne when he escape from Shawshank. A pool with sun loungers and possibly a liquor cabinet for the Sangria! A chance to tak a little sun! And maybe a little light teaching when wee Pepe runs over with the Pimms pitcher again.
"Pimms Pepe, se llama Pimms! In life, a good Pimms is either being served or being consumed. Much as in life people are either giving or taking. Remember that Pepe, it is a parable of our times!" Because I enjoy dispensing unfathomable social commentary with my lesson plan.
Enough of that nonsense, I of course want to teach to enrich the cultural experience of children during this era of great globalisation. Also I believe I would get more out of reading "Charlotte's Web" with suitable voice acting than any two year old. Set it in Jamaica, dress up, make appropriate animal noises. Happy as a clam.
But until someone trusts me with the apple of their eye life goes on and goes on in the form of hotel hunting for relatives who will come to see I'm still alive and bring me delicious things. I know this because the questions "Do you need an adaptor? Sun cream? Spanish phrasebook?" were answered with "Bring me Cadbury's or bring not at all!" I would ask for Ribena but airport security will surely wrest it from their hand luggage in case it's laced with arsenic or a liquid explosive.
Set off into town humming the theme music of Driving Miss Daisy; armed with my abono and a screen print of a Google map covered in Xs. I had but one objective. If at all possible ensure my family are kept well away from prostitutes, sex shops, drug dealers and Carlos in Sol who keeps telling me the end is nigh. This is trickier than it sounds and so locating a hotel which didn't feature "local colour" took two hours, six metro stops, three prozzies and a strange shop conversation with an old Chinese woman about the curious alignment of lines on my hand and what it meant for my prospects of marriage. She couldn't find the "anillito" on the ring finger. "Nunca se casaras!" She looks devastated for me. "You will never marry!" To think I only went in for a Coke...
Ah wait! A fell melody is on the air...
"E I E I O"
There we are, it's Old Macdonald after all. I must go applaud and/or present this maestro with a bouquet of roses. It's only taken him two hours and thirty six minutes after all.
xo
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