Confusion

Some porgs (people of restricted growth), who, on a good day, are referred to as grandchildren, turned up this afternoon. Owing to possible spillage on the new carpet, they now have to sit at the table with their drinks and participate in grown-up conversation. Today’s topic was Easter:

Shrove Tuesday was when they had the Last Supper. It’s called the Last Supper because they didn’t have any food because they were getting ready for Easter. All they had left was eggs and flour so they made some pancakes.

No. Shrove Tuesday is the day before Ash Wednesday which is the beginning of Lent which is when Jesus went into the wilderness. Why is it called Ash Wednesday? Silence. Something to do with smoking? Adults make a mental note to Google Ash Wednesday

Jesus was put on the cross on Easter Day. No. Jesus was put on the cross on Good Friday. Friday’s lucky. Not if you’re Jesus. So, the Last Supper must've been on Thursday. Thursday's always a good night out. Did they have pancakes?

What are you doing on Easter Day? When’s Easter Day? Silence. Easter Day’s when we have our eggs. Sunday. Yes, but how can Sunday be Easter Day? Jesus rose on the third day and there aren’t three days in between Friday and Sunday. Must be Monday then. No. Monday’s a bank holiday and they didn’t have banks then. Well, they stopped having banks because Jesus turned over all the money tables in the temple.

I think Easter Day is when Jesus descended into heaven. Do you know what descend means? Yes. It’s when he stood on a hill and a big cloud came over him. I saw a rainbow on the way here. Jesus went to heaven at Whitsun. When’s that? Spring bank holiday. We’re going to Dover then.

Why was Jesus born in a stable? Because his dad was a horse? No. Because all the inns and hotels were full up with people. Why? Because it was Christmas.

I’m going to the toilet now.

What problems?

Here we are then blogspotters, back again after a short absence due to a number of problems. Back also is the man-child who, yet again, was transported home from the land of the sheep; although not without some difficulties on my part. You’d think I’d be used to that bridge by now. Not so: a major panic attack on the way over sent my body into melt-down resulting in a small Fiesta being driven at minus two miles an hour down the middle lane with hazard lights flashing. On landing in Wales, I had to park on the hard shoulder and drink a bottle of Rescue Remedy before attempting the rest of the trip.

Jack, of course, had forgotten I was coming, or forgotten not to go out the night before, or forgotten to set his alarm, or forgotten to get up when it went off or some or all of the above. Whilst waiting for him to have a shower, I sat on the edge of his bed and looked around for something to clean. It wasn’t difficult. Once secured in the car, I mentioned the dreadful experience on the bridge and asked him to talk me over it on the way back. He agreed willingly and promptly fell asleep. The bridge loomed so I awoke my companion and instructed him to start talking with a view to taking my mind off things. This he managed. The conversation went along the lines of I don’t know why you’re so scared, why don’t you look at the view and why don’t you hurry up and overtake that lorry. Then he went back to sleep.

A student came to see me with a small problem with some work and told me about a walk she’d taken with her family. The walk had taken some time. First of all, they walked from Rwanda to Burundi. They had quite a nice house in Burundi which was next door to a brand new church. Sometimes, they had visitors. These were rebels who came into the house and sat the children on their laps whilst they rested their guns on the table and talked unpleasantly with the parents. At night, the family lay in their beds and listened to the sounds of people being shot and their bodies dumped in the church next door. One night, one of those who had been shot didn’t die and because they could be heard calling for help, my student’s father went out with water. For this act of kindness, he was reported so the family had to take another trip.

This time, they walked to Zaire. The mother, who was heavily pregnant, had a particularly difficult time. Sometimes, the children had to literally push her just to keep her moving. Part of the journey was taken over mountains which were covered in forestation and always clothed in fog. It was difficult to see other people but they often heard the cries of small lost children who had been abandoned by their parents. Zaire did not welcome them. In fact, my student was poisoned and nearly died. Her mother noticed that all the birds were leaving the country. The mother believed that when birds leave it is because war is coming. So the family left Zaire and the war began two weeks later.

There were other elements to this story but they largely involve dead people. When my student arrived in England she was eleven years old and had never been to school. Now she speaks five languages and has almost completed her law degree.
What bridge?

On the corner

Just been down to the local Turkish shop for some pre-dental Californian red anesthesia. To all intents and purposes, I live in a village so it’s quite a coup to have such a cosmopolitan corner shop. Of course, it’s also known as Spar but the demeanor of the guys behind the counter precludes this as being known as anything other than an ethnic emporium. Naturally, they sell Kingsmill cotton wool bread and Heinz baked beans, but they also offer those really sweet Muslim type affairs whereby you can feel your teeth rot as the honey soaks into your gums. More importantly, when you go in the shop, not only do they greet you, which they never do in the co-op, their salutation is inevitably….hello darling, how are you, without a hint of ulterior inference or meaning. I can do with a bit more of these niceties. No wonder that Istanbul is cultural city of the year.

During my recent excursion to Swansea I met a number of Italians. I very much like the Welsh/Italian lilt. It’s rather attractive I feel. Whilst stood outside the pub, some character, straight out of the pit valleys mafia, called me ‘chick’ as he was lurching past. In amazement, I said to the man-child, he called me ‘chick’. Misinterpreting my pleasure, Signore Dai came back to apologise with much hand-shaking of my oblivious male protector. Not a problem, said I gratefully; at which point, we had to exchange numerous cheek kisses and a handy recipe for Ossobuco.

The boiler packed up today. I’m hoping that because things go in threes, this will be it. So far this week, I’ve had the tyre problem, the printer problem and now the no hot water or heating problem. You might think that I’m freezing. Actually, I’ve got that French fan heater…the one that does an impression of cicadas. I’m boiling!