Nerves

Tomorrow I leave for university. This for most 18/19 year old's my age would be a wonderful concept, this has been proven by my girlfriend who for the last week has repeated the phrase 'I wish it was Sunday.' Other students will have packed their bags with a sense of excitement looking forward to those new beginnings that their parents keep on bashing on about whenever a family friend asks how their little darling is doing.

Unfortunately 'new beginnings' probably differ between either age group. To a parent this signifies their son or daughter finally leaping into the cavern of independence. Where their child learns to cook and clean and generally look after themselves whilst acquiring a 2:1 or a first at degree level, which will propel them into the working world.

In contrast, to a student 'new beginnings' signifies raucous drinking games, where to drink your body weight in alcohol is an acceptable challenge, the idea that anything on two legs and has the opposite genitals wants to 'be on you' and the prospect of having the sleeping pattern of a Vampire.

Neither of these 'new beginnings' appeal to me. I have literally; been there, done that, got the t-shirt for most of that list. Am I the worst student to go to university? This time tomorrow I will probably be lost in a remote Welsh village, potentially after having a few beers and most likely after eating a carefully selected food supply (including the only vegetables that I shall see until Christmas) that is meant to last me a week.

Overall, i feel like Eeyore from Winnie The Pooh or Puddle Glum from Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe or Marvin from Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy.

"Life," said Marvin dolefully, "loathe it or ignore it, you can't like it."

Josh! SuperAuPair . . .

The time is currently 1am in the morning, for some reason my Itunes has rather depressingly found its way onto a rather questionable Rod Stewart collection and 'I've Got A Crush On You' is unfortunately blaring its way out of my laptop.

When I first came to Spain it can be easily said that i did not have a single clue of what i was doing or what i was getting myself into. Yes i probably should have done some more research as to the weather climate (today is the fourth day in the row i have attempted to hitch hike in torrential rain, and is also the fourth day in the row that i regretted leaving my hiking boots at a friends house and decided to only bring plimsoles, and not having a pair of breasts.) To be honest a larger understanding of the language could have been a bright idea as well. Today I was surrounded by a crowd of teenagers getting me to say the same word over and over again, to which they would then cackle with laughter every time i said it wrong. Half an hour later and i cannot still say the word boa. Apparently its a lot harder than it seems.

I should probably also have come up with a Spanish compatible name. Josh as it turns out, when said by a posh, private schooled English boy is quickly degenerated into George and hence you become 'George the English guy.'As someone pointed out to me the other day: 'I am sure if someone came to UK and we struggled to say their name, there would some stupid politically correct rule as to why we couldnt change their name.'

First thoughts upon coming here went something along the lines of 'YAY! free holiday.' Upon arrival i had decided i was going to change these kids lives. I was to be Josh! SuperAuPair. Last week I made the decision that I was going to come home and work as an assistant chef on a boat and yesterday I broke the news that I was leaving to Elisa. To this she responded 'I'm going to miss you,' and gave the biggest bear hug a little kid can manage. She then came out with something rather profound for a small kid. 'Josh, its just quite hard. You live in Spain for a while and you really start to miss the friends and family you have in England but then you get to England and you really miss the friends you made in Spain.' This is a kid that when told what shes having for lunch just jumps around chanting the words 'mozorella' and 'pizza' and also likes to play a game that I've started to call selective amnesia.

Most days after lunch we go downstairs to the apartment and just draw and paint whatever. The last picture she did was of the family: Mamma, Fausta, Christiano, Pappa, Olmo and finally me. The night before that she did a 'concerto for George' where she banged her little heart out on her toy bongo drum and sang about the fact that i have a long nose and also a very long body. I might not have gotten her to be able to pronounce her 'h's' or for her to talk the Queen's English, her pictures may not be a work of art and the 'concerto for George may have wanted to make windows shatter' but i might also have given her an older, much taller, English brother and to me, that, is making a difference.

How To Train Your Cat

I come from a long line of borderline crazy, or Alzheimer suffering grandmothers. Two voluntarily through blood, and one not so voluntarily through marriage. The latter of these grandmothers over Christmas attempted to eat the cranberry sauce out of the pot with a lid from the bathrooms air freshener whilst sitting on the toilet. In the past she has also driven the wrong way down the motorway with a broken neck fused together, and won the competition 'how many times can i tell the same World War 2 story at one sitting. The answer is five and she falls into the 'Alzheimer' category. On the other hand the borderline crazy grandmother attempted to give my two man tent as a present to my Uncle whilst thinking she was giving him a gazebo, and also managed to wrap an empty box and label it for my cousin.

This brings me to the grandmother of the house in Spain: Fausta. It’s hard to know where to start when describing her character. Fausta is the slightly senile, completely deaf, cat lady, which we all have as a relative but never want to admit any relation to. She also finds me incredibly attractive. Our first acquaintance went something along the lines of

“H’ola Fausta. Me llamo Josh”

*garbled Spanish*

“No hablo español”

*continuation of garbled Spanish plus dramatic hand movements going from my head to my feet*

It was at this point that the previous au pair Monica slowly leans over to me and informs me that Fausta is really deaf; and she just told the children that if they want to succeed in life then they should grow up to be tall and handsome and like me. I have never been a fan of 80 year old women making moves on me so i decided to make a quick exit for the door. Unfortunately for me Fausta wasn’t quite finished and or didn’t get the point and continued her babble of Spanish asking for my name.

“His name is Josh!”

“Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?”

“HIS NAME IS JOSH”

“I don’t know that name. I call him Gorge”

This now leaves me as the ‘tall, good looking’ English au pair called Gorge. Fausta is a total keeper and I definitely think a marriage is on the cards. I honestly cannot wait for the wedding and have already picked out some beautiful flowers from the garden, and have a lovely floral pattern in mind for the invitations.

Im not sure what her upper body strength is, but im pretty sure that seeing as most mornings I am woken up to Fausta doing full swings of an axe her height to cut a life times supply of wood, it has got to be pretty fierce. Fausta has also managed to train her cats as dogs. On a visit to the beach she will have 4 black cats following her to heel in a line. She has also managed the commands sit and drop, and can balance a cat on her shoulders perfectly whilst walking around, a talent i think every crazy grandma should be requited to perfect.

Vodka Hands

The moment you shake hands with someone, and immediately after, wish to bathe in pure alcohol.

Once again I am back in 'sunny' Spain. Its always a bit disconcerting when you arrive in Madrid to bright blue skies and enough sun to allow a Scots man's holiday to last a day, immediately fly home, and have a skin red enough to rival a lobster's. Then to step onto another flight and two hours later arrive in a climate much similar to the one you left in England. I.e. Rain, grey skies and enough fog to not allow you to see 10 metres in front of you. Please remind me who came up with this sun, sand and sea stereotype so that I can take them to Galicia; because it really, really isn't true.

Anyway, Mamma has decided that I should broaden my social life from my laptop, a bottle of Galician Baileys and my fan heater and that I should go out and mix with the youth of Spain. This would be a lovely concept if I actually wanted friends out here. Don't get me wrong, I'm very sociable, but the thought that by the time I've been able to stabilise enough friendships I'd have to fly home again doesn't really appeal to me. On the other hand I'm also a pushover, so a man date was arranged for Sunday between me and a Brazilian that potentially spoke English. Normally I would accept this meeting with arms wide open and a smile from ear to ear. Unfortunately this Brazilian was male and 16. If the fact that he was the same sex as me was enough to put me off, the fact that after shaking his hand I wished to bathe in pure alcohol was. It's not every person you meet, that you ask yourself. If you have that wierd yellow stain down one half of your hand should I really be touching it?

So here I am, Baileys on one side, fan heater on the other and laptop on my lap. Bliss.

The Joys Of Mannyhood

‘FIRST I KILL OLMO, THEN WE PLAY SNAP!’

Surely siblings should have some natural bond that makes them want to appreciate the others company and grow up in some form of hippy fuelled harmony of peace love and happiness where they spend the whole of their lives living in tranquillity, without the incessant desire to pinch, scratch, punch, kick, bite, strangle the respective brother or sister. Apparently not.

Daniele seems to think we should get an exorcist for Elisa, the reason being is that Elisa seems to think that ‘Elisa please be nicer to Olmo’ actually means: ‘Go on, kick him a bit harder. You can tell he’s enjoying you kicking him from his screams of pleasure and the stream of blood running from his nose.’ In Olmo’s defence it’s not like he deserves the amount of abuse he receives. He’s just one of those children that has spends more time with his face on the floor than his own two feet. Literally everything he does or touches manages to end with some form of calamity. Yesterday when searching for his coin collection through his drawers, he somehow pulled the full draw out of the dresser consequently spilling his collection of over 200 coins on the floor.

“Olmo you know you really are very special.”

“Special? Why?”

“Well anything you do, you manage to injure yourself, someone else or break the closest thing to you.”

“No.”

About a millisecond after stating ‘no’, Olmo decides to vault both me and Elisa and lands feet first on Elisa’s fingers.

My personal philosophy is no blood, no bones protruding out of your skin, then no
reason to cry. Of course this isn’t easily explained to a seven year old that doesn’t speak the same language as you which leaves you with the only feasible resolution as bribery. So far slabs of chocolate are the most popular choice of bribery, second place goes to chocolate croissants and thirdly we have lemonade. My parenting technique is obviously one to be admired. If I truly had my own way I would just let them fight it to the death, maybe even with sticks. Daniele agrees with this parenting method. Please remind me why I’m looking after children.

Daniele also seems to think that we should sell Elisa, preferably to some rich Saudis where we could either get some money for her, or some camels. He’d like a camel for the back garden. The reason for this is ‘she’s a bitch, and I hate her.’ On occasions this viewpoint is almost understandable. Yesterday Elisa realised that she was bound to the Spanish education system for the next ten years and that she certainly did not like the concept of this idea. This then means that she employs the ‘I’m going to cry until I get what I want approach.’ Unfortunately for Elisa, her seven her old capacity hasn’t fully comprehended that in this case that probably won’t work. This also means that as she won’t get what she wants, she won’t stop crying. Unfortunately for me, Elisa has the lungs of a drill sergeant and I was woken up at 7.30. Waking up at 7.30 equals unhappy au pair.

The Valley . . .

I feel like I should explain the concept of the ‘valley’ a bit more than it has the ability to snow 364 days a year. The valley is a part of land at the bottom of the mountains near lake Como in Italy which also happens to be Daniele's and Mamma's birthplace. From what I can decipher from Daniele’s occasional reminiscing, the valley is a place where babies come out of the womb as 6ft giants, already dressed in flannel and with a beard that would make Gandalf jealous. Chainsaws are also used as cutlery, and one is an official man when you either cut down your first pine tree, or kill a mountain lion with your bare hands. An example of a true valley mentality can be seen in Daniele’s Uncle Stefan.

Uncle Stefan, was one of eleven children, and had reached a height of 6ft 5 by 16 and a casual weight of 150 kilos, (roughly 23 stone) by the age of 25. In other words he was a man mountain. On a road trip through the valley he happened to be passing over a bridge when he noticed a large group of people leaning over the edge. Out of interest Stefan got out his car and decided to take a closer look. As he gets closer to the scene, he starts to hear loud sobs. Upon reaching the edge of the bridge he sees the spectacle. It is in fact a deer unable to move because of a broken leg. At this point a woman starts crying: ‘HELP THE POOR CREATURE!’ Stefan decided to do just that. He slowly lowers himself down to the deer and then proceeds to slit the animal’s throat; sling it over his shoulders and tie it to the roof of his car, with the words: ‘What! It’s good meat.’

If this doesn’t paint a picture of what the valley is like, Stefan has also at the age of 60 decided to learn English. This sounds like a totally reasonable idea considering it is widely spoken throughout the world. His reason for learning English however, is not because he wishes to communicate with the wider world, Stefan wants to build a silencer for his hunting rifle. Yes, a silencer.

According to Daniele, these are the kind of people that keep cows instead of dogs for pets. The reasoning being that ‘you can’t eat something if you don’t know it by its first name.’ I think I like the valley.

I’m sure I put sun, sand and sea on the Job spec

“Shiiiit, I think it’s raining.”

This phrase is almost becoming a day to day event as we once again sit inside, sip coffee and stare at what can only be described as tropical rain batter Boa’s coastline. Normally this would be okay, if anything, it makes Spain feel more like home. Unfortunately I’m sure that I put sun, sand and sea on the job spec and not 100 days of rain. It turns out that Galicia has the second highest rainfall in all of Europe, and during winter its customary to hear “el tiempo es una mierda” wherever you go.

In Galicia rain is so compulsory, that during the winter last year when the climate decided to be a little reasonable and not rain for a few days the front page of the regional newspaper read ‘Drought hits Galicia.’

Galicia is basically trying its best to destroy the few stereotypes I had envisaged about Spain. I did not imagine, that whilst typing this, to keep myself warm, I would have to be wrapped in a duvet, wearing thermal socks, have the portable heater on full blast and to be looking very favourably at the skiing trousers I had just purchased.