I Don Juan To Miss A Thing

As I may have taken pains to note before, the slow drip of bureaucracy in Spain is like treacle in the wheels of life. And not nearly half as sweet.

This week I travelled for two hours, there and back again, return fare, ida y regreso just to rock up at UAM and told to stand in a queue for 45minutes before having my language insulted and made to sign more pieces of paper than a paedophile on day release. And all this because I wanted to pick up another subject. Not because I was failing, or lazy, or deliberately difficult or because things had all gone horribly wrong. In point of fact they had  gone horribly wrong last term but I have come up with the rather fiendishly brilliant plan of patching up credits missed with a shirtload this side of Christmas. Yes you read shirtload correctly. Trying to cut down on gratuitous swearing should Paramount finally acquiesce to buying the rights to A Cautionary Tale and we have to keep this shirt PG13. Flocking difficult though...

Anyhow, the grey and dismal depths of the Law Faculty’s Secretaria. You’d find more cheer in a kirkyard, more human feeling five minutes before the Dower Jones closes trading and more tranquillity in Northern Ireland. On the Shankill Road.  On the 12^th Night.  Disgruntled Spaniards were slamming their hands on the tables and I swear someone slapped one of the Admin staff with a glove over a single credit. I consider myself lucky to have survived with my dignity intact.

Elsewhere in UAM my attempts to “make friends” continue with varying results. I am now in the disappointing position of knowing Spaniards names. “But Aileen!”  I hear you cry “Is this not a glorious step forward in Ibero-Hibernian relations?”  Granted, maybe you didn’t quite put it like that but I never use short words where multi-syllables will do...

The problem is this; in my own head since September I have been in class with Fringe, a chica who cuts her hair with a ruler and a Stanley knife.  Carlton, a jovial chico the spitting image of that beautiful half man from Fresh Prince of Bel Air. The Aviator, because of the jacket. The Suit, because of the suit. Imagine my disillusionment then when they become Anna Maria, Juan, Carlos and Jesús.

At the moment I’m writing this in UAM. In an OBLIGATORY TUTORIAL scheduled for half 4 pee em sharp. It’s ten to five, no one’s here. Well, I say no one, the entire class is here, I’m here but the teacher could be doped to the gills with opium and cavorting in La-La-Land for all we know. Actually at this point I remember my “Mean Girls” and attach a legal disclaimer noting the use of comedic exaggeration and the author’s own sure and certain knowledge Mrs Suarez  is merely having coffee somewhere reassuring herself that  “No pasa nada” and “Mañana, Mañana.” This all sounds very petty of me but when you take into account the fact this has happened nine times in total for various tutorias we were forewarned would bring down the wrath of God to miss you start to see where I’m coming from.

What else is new? Remember those little Marias and Pepes I sought to be paid to teach when my forays into the world of gay erotica went horribly wrong? If that last sentence made you choke on your post-Hall coffee/post-lecture espresso/tay at bedtime then serves you right for not keeping up with developments...

Anywho, have managed to secure gainful employment as a tutor to a lovely child who’s grasp of English far outstrips my Spanish. It is at this point I regress to Aileen the Primary School Teacher who existed in my career imagination circa the years 2004/05. In my own mind I was Miss Honey, the delightful matrice from Matilda. Flora print dress, happy smile, soft cadence of voice, the works.  I was somewhat cheerfully and then again horribly surprised to find out there’s more of the Dickensian Wackford Squeers about my methods of teaching.

“What’s the next word on that list, boy?”

“Ah, cleeeeen...”

“Clean, SEE-EL-EE-AH-EN, verb, active, to scour, to make bright! Next!”

<seated at desk> “Ah, dog...”

<striding womanfully about the room, one hand gesticulating to the Heavens> “Dog, DEE-OH-GEE, noun, domesticated mammal, Latin family canis! Next!

“Ah, hour...”

“’’Ooouuur,  noun, composition two consonants separated by a diphthong , unit of time...why on Earth do you look so confused?”

“Ah, what ees an our? It is said ow-er,  no?”

<Moment of contemplative Northern Irish silence> “That’s it, I’ve had enough!  Write out “I will not correct my teacher” twenty times and that’ll learn ye!”

“Ah, you mean teach me?”

“NOW!”

Oh the joys of the sacred art of imparting knowledge...

And so life goes on in the Wide World beyond the walls of Cambridge. Telefonica people came to install new internet. Well, they said new internet, there was a lot of wire and drilling and cursing going on. I answered the door in fluffy pink slippers and overlarge knitwear cardigan clutching a cup of tea. This poor idiot child image coupled with the necessity to mime a couple of unknown Spanish words (actually his mime for cepilla/brush would have made a great dance move for Kanye West himself) gave them to understand I didn’t speak a word of Spanish. This made for great fun when I wandered into a protracted swearing session and innocently asked what tu puta madre might mean.

These shenanigans aside, its lunchtime and I am off to cook pasta. Yes I am well aware its 5pm and most of your tummies are starting to rumble with the promise of dinner/Hall but I won’t have that glorious meal until half ten tonight. And it will probably be more pasta because in Santa Engracia a meal isn’t a meal unless you are in danger of carbohydrate overdose. You drown the damn penne in tomate frito and pour it from saucepan to plate in a never-ending stream. You lament the ability of spaghetti to fit into your pot. You are in constant fear of NOT COOKING ENOUGH PASTA! Truly the food of kings.  And as for how we are able to eat such quantities of Italian goodness? Well, that’s (with apologies to the Latin purists) where we found the  motto of the House of Erasmus, now engraved above our door, words of wisdom as sage and true for the consummation of pasta as for dealing with our terrible yah abroad curse;

« Marathona est, non est sprintus »

xo