JULES AND SHELL

Blood test

2012-02-08T17:23:00.000+10:00

Yesterday I visited the nurse for a blood test. We had the usual red herring chat while she took the blood, and all seemed well. But moments later the weight of my head felt oddly unmanageable, like an orange on a toothpick. And then I was unconscious.

I had a dream. It was a momentous and galvanising dream that lasted forever and ever and answered many of life's most frequently asked questions. I can't remember any of it.

I woke up staring at an abstract shape. I knew neither who or where I was, nor what or if I was. The nurse was patting my back. The abstract shape was my foot.

I sat there for quite a while sipping water while she listed some instructions. She said it was very important that I eat something right away:

"When you leave here I want you to go straight to one of the coffee shops at Notting Hill Gate. Buy yourself something to eat — a muffin and a coffee, whatever."

Hold on a second, I thought. I didn't want to get any part of this wrong.

Are you prescribing that I treat myself?

Orange. mocha. frappuccino!

This is the police

2012-01-28T17:57:00.000+10:00

Early Friday morning, in the darkness before dawn, the police rammed-in the door of our upstairs neighbour. We heard a shout, a scamper, a faint tinkling, then what sounded like a large dumbbell being dropped to the floor.

A shouted command: This is the police; if there is anybody else in flat 7, come to the front of the building.

I poked my head out the window and looked to the street below. They had cuffed our neighbour and were guiding him into a waiting van. I saw a member of the Special Operations team holding a machine gun and shield. I saw another policeman standing guard at the end of our street. He saw me and muttered something to his lapel; I withdrew my head in consideration of what this might be.

Our upstairs neighbour had caused us some trouble in the past. We did not share the same needs. For example, he did not need to sleep, whereas we did. He did not need to work, whereas we did. As a man of presumable means, he was living the charmed life.

He was a great lover of music and indulged this passion at every convenience. He owned a stereo (with a formidable capacity for Johnny Cash) which he often played into the early hours of morning. When afforded the opportunity to learn violin, he grabbed it and refused to let go, improvising folk melodies with stereo backing from The Man in Black. Several times I had knocked on his door or rung on his buzzer to request silence, with only a 50 percent success rate.

After bundling him into the van, the police spent several hours making noise in his flat. Stamping, shifting, scraping, dropping, drilling, scuffing. Scrabbling. And I thought this to myself: He's not coming back. I considered catching up on some lost sleep then and there.

* * *

So here I sit, Friday evening, gleefully writing this epitaph, when I hear footsteps upstairs. From beyond the grave, as it were. He's back. I know it's not the police, because I hear the stereo spring to life and a song blare through the ceiling. You might wonder: after a pre-dawn raid, arrest, jailing, lawyering, bailing and whatever else-ing, what is the first song you play? It's this.

And it makes me very happy. Because I know as it plays he must be sipping whisky neat and casting a thousand-yard stare out the window.

Turkey

2011-11-30T09:54:00.001+10:00

Objectively speaking, this is not a great picture. But it's hard to stay objective when you see a turkey in Turkey.

Hare and Tortoise? (Close enough)

2011-11-25T17:25:00.001+10:00

What are the chances? We found these two on the same walk through Cappadocia. The tortoise looked to be struggling, but so it goes.

V&A Museum: Henry VIII

2011-11-21T17:04:00.001+10:00

Henry VIII, flippin' the bird on the sly.

Long-suffering portrait artist: "Ah yes, Your Majesty, you got me. I missed that completely (you big dummy)."

Don't mention the ...

2011-11-17T05:03:00.001+10:00

In Germany, Helen and I visited a coffee roastery for a little a tour and demonstration. The German guy showing us around was extravagantly nice. He smiled almost constantly and was very happy to speak English, despite the odd slip-up.

First, he gave us an overview of the grinding process:

"Depending on the humidity of the day," he said, "you may need to grind the bones differently."

He paused.

"Wait … bones? Bones? No—beans!"

We had a laugh about that. Bones, beans--Yes, we agreed, they do sound similar.

After a few more pointers, we moved out into the roastery. A giant, iron-barrelled monstrosity of a roaster sat in the corner. It was old and from Vienna.

Our German friend pointed to it: "And here is the roaster. It can reach temperatures of 250 degrees Celsius."

Ooh, we said, and he went on:

"Inside the barrel, the people are constantly spinning …"

He stopped and sighed.

"I mean the beans."

From the Archives: Medical advice

2011-10-28T16:15:00.004+10:00

Yr 10 English:

"Sir, why can't girls eat Yorkie bars?"

"Girls can eat Yorkie bars."

"No, I know they can, but ... is it just that they're bad for pregnant women?"

From the Archives: How to be a good listener

2011-10-24T16:20:00.000+10:00

Strangers often mistake me for a good listener. I'm not a good listener; I'm just an exceptionally poor escape artist.

Sensible people excuse themselves from one-sided conversations, but I just don't have it in me. I prefer to go limp and say things like, "Mmm" until it's all over.

Once, a teacher struck up a conversation with me in a classroom between lessons. (He was an older chap, and I'd previously overheard him complaining to another teacher about the school's lack of hide-e-holes -- he had no place to take a nap. "My old school had a cupboard under the stairs," he said. The other teacher nodded earnestly.)

Anyway, this chap was now banging-on to me about his upcoming weekend, about how he had to drive to Wales to visit his poor old mother who was suffering from the onset of dementia; he had to dig a tree stump from the garden, do that to the door, etc, etc. I was nodding, but I was mostly just limp.

"It's hard," he said.

I nodded.

"Last weekend I was down there, after a full day of gardening and what not; I'd just hopped into bed, drifting off, and Mum comes knocking at my door, calling me by my father's name ..."

"Ahh," I said with recognition.

"He's been dead for years …"

"Eee," I grimaced, qualifying that recognition.

"I'd had enough--it had been this and that all day--I just shouted: 'Mum, F**K OFF!"

The words seemed to bounce like marbles down the hallway.

I looked to the side, but the bony finger of Reply was upon me.

"Mmm," I said -- ambiguously this time.

He continued:

"It's tough seein' your parents like that, you know?"

I nodded tentatively.

"Walkin' round like a zombie ..."

I nodded more readily, sensing the pity in his voice.

"Eatin' up your inheritance."

Mmm. Now where's a hide-e-hole when you need one?

Down and out in Queidersbach and surrounds

2011-10-12T16:45:00.000+10:00

A walk through Quiedersbach and surrounds gave us a special view of village life:

Nestled communes.

Overhanging, (free) roadside plums.

And down-and-out Santas. Carvin' out a life on the mean streets.

How and why are you here?

2011-10-11T05:56:00.000+10:00

Between one small village and another in south-west Germany, we found this familiar face waiting by the roadside.

He seemed to manifest all the innocent absurdity of an Cambridge Fellow attempting to hitch-hike.

"Oh, hello there, chaps! It's a good job you found me, what? Devil knows how I got here, but … wait! Where are you going? Come back!"

We drove on.

Secret Sauce

2011-09-28T15:51:00.000+10:00

Helen and I were having no luck with her coffee machine. Helen's frothed milk was often shapeless, and mine appeared as something that a coffee machine had sneezed into.

In despair, Helen arranged a lesson for us at a nearby roastery. There, a nice fellow took us through all the finer points of milk frothing: first you "pull" the milk, then you "swirl" it; you hold the jug at this angle, and then that, etc, etc. Our tutelage was exhaustive and we returned home full of optimism.

Helen was the first to step up to the machine. She took a deep breath, set her arm at a right angle, the milk jug at 45 degrees, and opened the steam valve. The sound of rolling milk filled the room, and nobody moved. At this point, three-year-old Reed entered; he positioned himself next to Helen.

"I peed in that cup, Mama," he said, pointing to the jug in Helen's hands.

Helen paid him no attention, concentrating wholly on the milk.

"I peed in that CUP!" He repeated.

Then again, and again:

"I PEED IN THAT CUP!"

"I PEEEEED IN THAT CUP!

"I. PEED. IN. THAT. CUP!"

Miraculously, amid all these confidence-shattering denunciations, Helen maintained her concentration and produced some fine frothed milk (as above).

She insisted there was "no chance" that Reed could have peed in the jug. No chance. He didn't know what he was talking about, she said. And I believed her; I drank the coffee.

But as I lay awake in bed that night, the question swirled around my head like ever-expanding hot milk: if it weren't true, why would the little blighter say it? Why?

I just know he's peed in something.

Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch

2011-09-13T16:40:00.000+10:00

Searching in vain for the Europcar office in Metz, I decided this was as good a time as any to practice my French.

I formulated a line in my head — "Can you help me? I'm looking for Europcar"— whispered it to myself a few times, then bounded up to a startled-looking man on his cigarette break. Regrettably, I forgot to say Hello or Excuse me, but just launched in:

"Est-ce que je peux m'aider?"

He looked afraid.

"Je cherche Europcar ..."

And see how the ice melted! Although he smiled condescendingly and went on to direct me in English, I could tell he was pleased with the work I had put in over the summer.

It was only later that I noticed my confusion of pronouns.

So, without warning, and probably looking quite scattered, I had bounded up to this man and asked: "Can I help myself?"

The French are friendly.

Hey kids, let's go to ...

2011-08-25T16:27:00.000+10:00

Next time the kids are knocking about the house with nothing to do, you know where to go ...

Leap of Faith

2011-08-12T16:36:00.000+10:00

I once taught a year 10 RE lesson at a rough school in St John's Wood. After 10 or so minutes, I had everyone sitting in their seats, so I began with a simple starter: Christianity, Judaism, Sikhism, Islam—what is their order from oldest to youngest?

The kids argued it out for a while, and then I gave them the correct answer, writing it on the board: Judaism, Christianity, Islam, Sikhism.

"That ain't right," said one girl.

"How do you mean?" I asked.

"The Koran says there's no prophet after Mohammed."

"OK, I see what you mean," I said, "but Islam and Sikhism are two completely separate religions--so they don't really have anything to do with each other when it comes to prophets."

"But Islam's the last religion, so Sikhism couldn't have come after."

"Well ... I see what you're saying, but that order is actually right. Sikhism—"

"Do you know how many Muslims there are at this school?"

"Well, that's not relevant, the point—"

"Oooooh," said half the class in unison.

"He just said you're irrelevant!" shouted one boy.

"Racist!" shouted another.

In the space of a few seconds the chant had swelled from most of the class: "Racist! Racist! Racist!"

I had apparently stepped into some vast chasm. It was like that scene from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, in which Harrison Ford takes a leap of faith and is rewarded with a hitherto invisible bridge — I was rewarded with no bridge; I just fell into the darkness below.

Eventually, I had to call in one of the permanent teachers to help quell the storm, but the damage was well and truly done.

Anyway, my point is: I'm pretty sure that's how riots begin.

I See

2011-08-04T16:29:00.000+10:00

Last night at the pub, I went to wash my hands in the bathroom. I couldn't find the soap dispenser, so I toughed it out with just water.

I put my hands under the hand dryer. Nothing. Moved them back and forth. Nothing.

"That's the soap dispenser," said the guy next to me.

"Don't worry," he said, "I won't tell anybody."

Time Is On My Side

2011-08-03T16:46:00.002+10:00

In my final year of high school, a guidance councillor told me that I should enrol in a business degree; so, I did.

Fast-forward three years, to the final year of that business degree.

I was working on a group-project with two friends, Kristy and Dave. We had to work with a "real-world" client for this project, and so, attend "real-world" client briefings with "real-world" middle-managers.

Along came the day of our first client meeting, and I was handed the job of taking the minutes.

The meeting ran its course without much to speak of. It lasted close to an hour, and, though I didn't contribute much more than nodding, I felt justified in my role as minute-taker.

As we left the meeting room, Kristy turned to me: "What the hell were you doing in there?"

"What?"

"You were supposed to be taking the minutes. You were just sitting there!"

Such pointed questioning now gave me pause to consider: what value did timing a meeting actually add? I had asked myself the question more than once during the meeting, and had come up with only one scenario:

Person A: "But I discussed the Thompson Report with you in last Thursday's meeting."

Person B: "No, you did NOT! The Thompson Report would require well over an hour to discuss, and here the minutes of the meeting state we only talked for 45 minutes!"

Person A: "Well, I guess I can't argue with the Minutes of the Meeting."

Perhaps I was on the wrong side of this.

The only thing left to do was to admit the inadmissible: I did not know what "minutes" were.

The only thing more awkward than my admission was Kristy and Dave's disbelief. There was not much they could say.

Anyway, kudos to you, Guidance Counsellor, wherever you are--three years is a long time to wait for a punchline, but you had the vision and tenacity to stick it out. I wonder what cosmic jokes you've played on other people since.

Two Fantastic Things From Today

2011-07-24T04:44:00.001+10:00

1. Man sitting next to us in the coffee shop was wearing a monocle.

2. Woman walking past us on the street responded loudly to her friend: "Am *I* wearing a bra? No."

As You Like It

2011-07-18T15:47:00.001+10:00

I'm not sure why our local Chinese buffet went out of business. Perhaps they were a little too innovative with their drinks selection.

"Yes, I'll have the Szechuan Beef aaaand ... a cold soft drink today."

Lindsay

2011-07-11T15:36:00.000+10:00

I had never liked Lindsay Longheath. He was the Head of Year 10 in a rough, east-London school, and he was easily as mean to me as any of the kids were.

Once, during morning break, when all the teachers were discussing the financial plight of the school, he had implied (with stubby-index-finger-pointing) that it was my fault, and that—as a supply teacher—I was "raping the school".

Another time, when I was chatting with another teacher, and they commented that I sounded more English than Australian, Lindsay struck again:

"Yeah," he said, quickly making leave of his own conversation, "that's 'cause ees a Posh-stralian."

And he had meant it to sting.

I never quite got to the bottom of why Lindsay didn't like me, but I had an inkling: early in my "tenure", while teaching a class of year 10s, I had accidentally referred to their Head of Year as, "Mr. Lohan".

He wasn't in the room at the time, but perhaps he didn't need to be.

West Cornwall Pasty Co.

2011-06-24T04:06:00.000+10:00

"Mmm, another delicious foot for old Blackbeard!"

West Cornwall Pasty Co. has not cottoned-on to the fact that, sometimes, pasties look like feet.

Pimping for 'War Horse'

2011-06-20T15:46:00.002+10:00

"Are there any tickets available for War Horse?" Shelley asked.

The man in the ticket booth was the theatrical type; he wore a black sweater that dissolved into the darkness.

"No," he said, "at this stage, you'd have to sleep with a member of the cast to get into War Horse."

He paused, allowing us time to consider.

"OK," said Shelley, "what about The Mousetrap?"

"Oh. I can get you tickets for that," he said, without looking at his computer.

"Alright, and how much would they be?"

"Cheapest is £14," he said.

"And those seats are OK?"

"They're on the second tier, but it's a tiny theatre anyway."

Sensing now the opportunity to be sold something, Shelley pressed on:

"Oh, it's small, is it? So is there any chance it might sell out soon?"

"Oh no, no—that show never sells out."

"OooooK … so, is it actually any good?"

He took a breath.

"It's not thrilling," he said. "It's pretty much just something people see so they can say they've seen it."

By this stage the money in our pockets was glowing white-hot.

"OK," said Shelley, "so if that's a no-go, is there any other 'hidden gem' in the West End you could recommend?"

He shook his head with grim finality: "No."

Then stopped:

"Except for War Horse, of course … but, as I said ..."

City Limits

2011-06-13T15:52:00.002+10:00

Year 9 Geography, south London.

The kids were working on a project in small groups. Each group had to choose a country, research it, then make a display poster, listing important facts like official language, population, major cities, etc.

One group of girls had orchestrated a cunning ruse--they had chosen to research England (and so imagined themselves on a straight course for success). But as I approached, they were experiencing trouble.

"Sir, what are some major cities?"

"Of England?"

"Yeah. Apart from London."

"Girls, seriously, you can't think of any other major cities in England?"

"Um,"

"Just name some other big cities you've heard of."

"Ahhhh …"

"Any."

"Peckham?"

No, not Peckham.

Royal Wedding

2011-06-08T16:51:00.000+10:00

Ah, there's nothing like being there.

Or at least, there's nothing like being in the park, watching it on a big screen at 200 paces via a cardboard periscope.

Still, had we not been there, we wouldn't have seen this guy (who had obviously been staking out his spot since the crack of dawn) :

Turkey: When you have too much fruit to carry

2011-06-03T06:46:00.000+10:00

* * *

And that's how he became the god of fruit.

Is That a Baguette You're Holding?

2011-05-26T15:41:00.000+10:00

[Overheard in the offices of TheTrainline.com]: "Super job on the website, team—I've checked it over and over and over again, and there seems to be absolutely nothing wrong with it."

Turkey: The Motorcycle Diaries, Part II

2011-05-24T16:22:00.000+10:00

Still riding.

Turkey: I Recognise That Man

2011-05-19T15:35:00.000+10:00

As the bar man set our drinks on the table I suddenly had déjà vu; I felt sure I'd seen the man before.

Oh, that's right.

It was in that self-commisioned oil painting above the register.

At Marble Arch: What's For Dinner?

2011-05-16T16:09:00.004+10:00

From an improbable distance, this old man hurled a large stick at a pigeon, killing it instantly.

Moments earlier, the pigeon had resolved to lighten-up and quit worrying so much.

Ma Cherie Amour

2011-05-11T07:55:00.001+10:00

Covering a year 8 French class, the kids were asked to compose a love letter en Français.

The exercise in their textbook was like a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure love letter. It offered the following choice of greetings:

a) Mon Cher/Ma Cherie;
b) Mon Lapin; or
c) Mon Amour;

then a few risqué options for the body of the letter, followed by some saucy farewells. I explained to the class what they needed to do, and they started work.

As I did my rounds of the room, one girl stopped me.

"What does Lapin mean?"

"It means rabbit, or bunny," I said, crushing the problem with all my weight.

Most of the lesson then passed without incident; I answered questions effortlessly, all the while hiding my answer sheet. Towards the end of the lesson, the same girl stopped me again.

"What do these farewells mean?"

I looked at my answer sheet for a moment, as if it were something else that needed doing, then told her:

"Well, this one is 'Hugs and Kisses'; this one is 'My heart is yours forever', and this one is 'You drive me crazy'.

She looked confused.

"What's the trouble," I asked.

"Well, if I'm writing to a rabbit, I don't think I'd say any of those things."

Turkey: Backgammon

2011-05-09T17:06:00.000+10:00

Waiting for our drinks in a café, Shelley and I commented how nice it was to see people playing backgammon; that you wouldn't see such a thing in London cafés, and that, Yes, we were truly in the 'thick' of Turkish culture now.

So, no sooner was a backgammon table free than Shelley and I were on it, swooping-in with a patent enthusiasm for ancient boardgames.

We looked at each other.

"Do you know how to play backgammon?"

"No ... do you?"

We agreed it would be too humiliating to leave the table now (having won it so sharply from those around us), so pretended to play instead.

Still humiliating, but at least privately so.

Turkey: Where None Have Trod

2011-05-07T03:06:00.001+10:00

We climbed this.

And at the top, we found this:

We were kind of feeling like the first ones to have been there in a long, long time.

And then we saw this:

A tip of the hat to you, Sir, wherever you may be; so long as this was done ironically, it's the most ironic thing I've ever seen.

Oh, There He Is

2011-05-05T17:33:00.000+10:00

Turkey: By the Beard of the Prophet!

2011-05-03T04:27:00.001+10:00

The Topkapi Palace in Istanbul contains some truly incredible relics. Almost all of them are completely incredible.

Above is a picture of Moses' staff. Yes, that's right, the staff of Mosheh.

Never, I think, has a stick led so charmed a life, nor been so baffled by its good fortune. (If you look closely through the plate glass you can almost see it mouthing the words: "Can somebody please tell me what the hell is going on?")

Next: Abraham's saucepan (Methuselah's George Foreman Grill was undergoing maintenance work), accompanied by a turban belonging to Joseph (of Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat fame).

Perplexed as to how the Sultans had come into such riches, we endeavoured to learn more. According to a nearby plaque, they picked up most of the stash in Egypt, circa 1500. Ahhhh; that explains it.

[Overheard in an Egyptian bazaar, circa 1500]: "Yes, my friend, see this saucepan—Abraham's saucepan! And see this turban I'm wearing? Well ... do you like musicals?"

The Jackal

2011-04-19T04:02:00.004+10:00

Every time I step into a classroom I am asked where I'm from. Every time. I've grown tired of it—particularly as whenever I reply, "Australia", I'm greeted with disappointment ("All supply teachers are Australian"). So I try to mix it up whenever I can. Here is a list of my favourite guises:

Argentinian
Bulgarian
Polish
Russian
Belorussian (the kid asked if I was Russian, so I thought, I can go one better than that)
Spanish
Portuguese
German

Here are a couple I haven't been able to pull-off:

Panamanian (because they thought it sounded fictitious, like Transylvanian); and
Native American (I was over-confident)

I'm rarely questioned further, though one kid did ask me to say something in Spanish to prove I was Argentinian. I got over that hump easily enough. I said I came from a small enclave in Argentina that spoke only English—problem solved. There's always a small enclave.

With hindsight, perhaps I should have just said, Hola, but deceit comes easier than Spanish.

Samovar: the hunt is over

2011-04-14T21:31:00.000+10:00

Samovar had been calling us for months; last weekend, Shelley, Bryce and I heeded the call and went.

I started with the Kvass, a mildly alcoholic drink that's a favourite of kids in Russia. Kvass translates as "bread drink", which is pretty indicative of its taste. (Yum! This drink tastes like bread! More please!). Actually, it was quite good. Sweet and fizzy with overtones of yeast extract.

We ordered a couple of plates of "Home-Made Dumplings", (which, assuming The Maker slept in China the night before, were true to their name) and a couple of frankfurters.

But the highlight for me came in the form of cottage cheese pancakes (cottage cheese wrapped in a crepe and deep-fried) and cheese cake (the same, but substituting cream cheese for cottage cheese). They could have deep-fried a TV remote in a crepe and it would have been good.

Actually, the cheesecake came "with compliments of the chef"—that's right, the Russians laid it on for free!

See the inner sanctum? Well, that's us inside it.

End of Days

2011-04-06T02:11:00.001+10:00

A year 7 girl looks up from her dictionary: "How come twitter is in here but not facebook?"

"Maybe it's under fb", her friend suggests.

* * *

I'm sure I read about this conversation in The Book of Revelation.

Desert Life

2011-03-31T16:15:00.001+10:00

Yesterday I taught a year 4 class at a very, very Catholic school. I asked the kids to research and write an information booklet on desert plants, and said they could source pictures from Google Images.

This guy probably didn't know he was ruining my morning when he did this.

When Homo Sapiens Roamed the Earth ...

2011-03-30T02:25:00.001+10:00

Year 8 Science class:

Two boys were engaged in heated debate; as I neared them, one appealed to me for support:

"Sir, aren't homo sapiens a kind of dinosaur?"

"No. They're humans."

"What?"

Incredulous, he turned to the teaching assistant.

"Miss, homo sapiens are a kind of dinosaur, aren't they?"

Miss didn't even pause to consider. Like a sleepy-eyed monarch signalling the executioner, she nodded, Yes.

I was wrong.

Syonynonyms

2011-03-26T02:41:00.001+10:00

I asked a year 3 class to look-up some words in a thesaurus and write five synonyms for each. The words were: find, favourite and selfish.

One girl compiled this list of synonyms for selfish: barnacle, clam, cockle, crab, limpet.

Still, at least she progressed that far down the list; most of the class could not find find. I'm serious. I was demonstrating to one girl how to find it when a crazy-eyed boy popped-up and offered to help. Spying an opportunity to outsource, I said, "Sure".

"It's on page 92", he said, beaming.

Thank you for that. Surely, you have just now planted a seed that will forever bear fruit.

I'm the One on the Horse

2011-03-24T05:11:00.000+10:00

The bad thing about visiting a place like Venice is—because everything is so photogenic—you end up taking billions of pointless, "pretty" photos, and almost none of each other.

So, here's a picture of us in Venice:

I'm the one on the horse.

il Tricolore

2011-03-22T05:40:00.006+10:00

The Venetians have a weird thing for their national flag; flying it from a balcony is one thing, but fervently co-ordinating laundry is something else.

"Mario, I'm doing a national-colours-load; bring me all your shirts!"

I know what you're thinking: why hasn't the red run into the white?

Answer: because Italy is the greatest country ever in the history of the world.

Poor People

2011-03-18T04:25:00.005+10:00

I covered a year 4 class today and got to teach some English history.

I showed them an inventory from the house of Edward Jaxson, a wealthy gentleman who lived in Warwickshire and died in 1571. In Edward Jaxson's house were such highfalutin items as silver teaspoons and goblets, feather beds and pillows, preserved beef and bacon, etc, etc.

I asked the class to write down what they imagined a poor person who lived during the same period might have in their house. The following is a list of my favourite excerpts:

a bucket for a cup;

mud for a door;

grass for a pillow;

a bed made of cardboard;

a rooster;

plastic windows;

ragged t-shirt and jeans;

one sandal only;

no pens, only pencils;

only herbs to eat;

expired food.

This person isn't poor ... they're something, but it's not poor.

The Pagan

2011-03-15T03:40:00.008+10:00

Supervising a year 9 Jewish Studies class, I happened upon a copy of the Jewish calendar. I cast an eye over the months: Nisan, Tammuz, Tishri. Intrigued, I asked one of the girls: "Where do the names of the Jewish months come from?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, for instance, what's the origin of the name 'Nisan'?"

"It's just a name. It doesn't have an origin."

"Everything has an origin."

"The normal month names don't have origins."

"Yes they do."

"Like what?"

"Like March is named after Mars, the Roman god of war ... and January, I think, is named after some Greek or Roman god."

"Oh," she said, and a smile of understanding crept over her face. "See, we only have one God, so I guess that's the difference."

Ouch.

And I didn't even know I was a pagan.

Very Leviticus

2011-03-11T05:00:00.005+10:00

Today I taught at a very nice Jewish school, and brought my own lunch.

Unfortunately, my agent neglected to tell me that the school was strictly vegetarian. And when I say "strictly vegetarian", I mean it. Or, rather, they meant it. When they realised I was packing meat in a tupperware container, they asked me to remove it from the communal fridge, wrap it in a plastic bag and return it to my satchel. I obliged with all the remorse and shame of an exposed cannibal.

When lunchtime came around, however, I found myself in a pickle. I had no change in my pocket, and I was quite sure the school would not accept card payment for a lettuce sandwich.

So that's how I found myself eating cold spaghetti bolognese on a park bench outside the school gates.

Very Leviticus.

The Confidence of Youth

2011-03-08T03:42:00.002+10:00

I recently presided over a year 2 Show-and-Tell.

Usually, these gatherings aren't nearly as funny as they ought to be; I've learned the hard way that children can be sinfully boring. I think the following is a fair sample of a year 2 Show-and-Tell:

Kid stands up and shows a plastic dog;

Class asks, What is it?

Kid answers, It's a dog;

Class asks, Where did you get it?

Kid pauses then answers, It's a dog.

Wonderful! I feel like I've watched a documentary!

Anyway, the other day, things were pretty much abiding with the norm. Then Dinah stepped up. She asked me a question that I didn't quite understand, but I nodded in agreement to move her along.

With that, she launched into the theme from Dirty Dancing:

"I've had the time of my life,

and I've never felt this way before,

and I swear,

it's the truth,

and I owe it all to you"

My eyes were already welling-up with appreciation when she threw the second-half of the chorus out to her friend, who was sitting on the carpet in the audience. Her friend retreated, shaking her head frantically as if she'd been asked to sip horse milk. So Dinah sang Judas's part as well.

I don't think there has ever been a point in my life at which I would have been capable of such a thing.

The Confidence of Youth

2011-03-08T03:42:00.001+10:00

I recently presided over a year 2 Show-and-Tell.

Usually, these gatherings aren't nearly as funny as they ought to be; I've learned the hard way that children can be sinfully boring. I think the following is a fair sample of a year 2 Show-and-Tell:

Kid stands up and shows a plastic dog;

class asks, What is it?

Kid answers, It's a dog;

Class asks, Where did you get it?

Kid pauses then answers, It's a dog.

Wonderful! I feel like I've watched an documentary!

Anyway, the other day, things were pretty much abiding with the norm. Then Dinah stepped up. She asked me a question that I didn't quite understand, but I nodded in agreement to move her along.

With that, she launched into the theme from Dirty Dancing:

"I've had the time of my life,

and I've never felt this way before,

and I swear,

it's the truth,

and I owe it all to you"

I don't think there has ever been a point in my life at which I would have been capable of such a thing.

Not My Specialisation

2011-03-02T02:17:00.005+10:00

In a Maths lesson today:

"Sir, are you a science teacher?"

"No."

"Do you know much about science?"

"A bare minimum. Why, what's the question?"

"Well, I found this lump on my neck ..."

Hhhhhmmm, yeah, you should probably make an appointment to see a real science teacher about that one.

Keepin' It Real

2011-02-25T06:13:00.002+10:00

This is part of a Foot Locker billboard I walk past each day. Featuring perhaps the whitest girl known to man, it has become one of my all-time favourites.

Say My Name, Say My Name

2011-02-22T04:30:00.001+10:00

I've never been good at saying my own name.

The lack of any strong plosives or gutturals in "Julian" doesn't combine well with the muted tone of my voice. Upon introducing myself, most people ask me to repeat my name or, better still, take a crack at it themselves. Like the primary school receptionist who asked, "Julia, is it?" (That's right, you half-wit, my name is Julia; the only reason I'm wearing this necktie is to throw the fellas off the scent.)

Anyway. Last week I had a long enough conversation with another supply teacher to warrant an introduction, albeit at the end of the conversation.

"I'm Julian," I said, shaking her hand.

"Justine."

"No—Julian," I enunciated a little more forcefully, and leaned in.

"Yes. My name is Justine."

Ah, good; I'm glad we understand each other.

Not Squid, Not Happy

2011-02-21T06:46:00.007+10:00

Shelley was cutting up the squid we bought at Billingsgate Market yesterday when she discovered something altogether un-squid-like.

We assumed he'd be pleased to see us, but he just looked angry. I suppose it's a frustrating way to go.

This Summer ...

2011-02-18T02:58:00.013+10:00

Supply teachers are often left with embarrassingly inane tasks for kids to complete. Sometimes the kids actually complete them.

Today I supervised a year 7 Citizenship class in which the kids were tasked with writing the trailer for a movie. They had to conceive of a storyline, protagonist, antagonist, etc, etc—with one proviso: the movie had to focus on cruelty to animals.

One kid came up with a pretty good one (though it was a little shocking for my taste). I'll translate as best I can:

Three maltreated animals meet and become friends in London. The first is a puma who has lost its habitat to bulldozers; the second is a domestic cat who has lost its good looks to a bucket of acid; and the third is a Golden Retriever who has just lost-out in general to a "metal stick".

Together, these three agree to track down their human tormentors, and dole out some justice of their own—Animal-Kingdom-style.

This summer, justice. has. teeth.

What's My Name?

2011-02-14T13:53:00.005+10:00

Xhesika. Say it: Xhesika.

You get some pretty weird student names on class registers, as I've no doubt mentioned before. I'm considering naming my child Döginafinĕjackēt, just to mess with supply teachers of the future.

No matter how ridiculous the name on the register, if I pronounce it with even the slightest of erroneous inflections, my effort is met with consternation, sighs, tuts, laughter, etc, etc.

And it was so when I came to Xhesika's name on the register. Xhesika. Xhesika; I paused, considered, and gave it my best shot (which, I might add, is formidable):

"Zeseeka?" I called.

The class laughed; over the laughter came the incensed reply:

"It's Jessica!"

Indeed; my fault completely. Please forward my apology to your parents, Mr and Mrs Finechoice, who no doubt still reside at 324 Providingforthefuture Lane, Smartsville.

Is This Guy the Dentist?

2011-02-11T21:07:00.011+10:00

I was searching the web today for a dentist in Hammersmith—one that Stacey had recommended—when I stumbled upon this place. I'm not sure if it is the practice Stacey was recommending; regardless, it delivers a pretty succinct argument against sourcing your business images from The Local Data Company.

Abbey Road

2011-02-09T02:43:00.027+10:00

After having their first attempt spoiled by an inconsiderate mother and child, these guys tried again.

It was as though somebody shouted, "Stop! Now, act like you've glued your feet to the ground and are really proud of it!"

A ticking time-bomb of a bus driver waits, and wonders if life in prison would be as bad as life on this route.

Somebody told the guy in red that they were all going to walk like sad penguins. Genius.

Her Little Bitch

2011-02-07T17:00:00.001+10:00

As a pet name, Shelley used to refer to me—in French—as "Little Dog" (Petit Chien). I could tolerate this, as it was reasonably funny and only mildly insulting. However, my opinion changed rapidly when Shelley let the term of endearment slip out in front of our French friend, Fred.

Fred told us that, given the way Shelley was pronouncing it (Petite Chienne), and in light of the whole masculine/feminine thing in French, she was literally calling me her "Little Bitch". This, for me, took much of the blitheness out of the name and replaced it with sting.

For Fred, it was the joyous pinnacle of Anglo-French relations.

The Hunt for Red October

2011-02-04T06:30:00.000+10:00

My attempts to ingratiate myself to the staff of Kalinka, our local Russian grocer, have invariably been met with Cold War suspicion.

Seriously. I might do just as well to slip on a Ronald Reagan mask for my next visit. My smiles are repaid with glares, my English with Russian, and my Hugh Grant-politeness with sleepy-eyed disdain. Still—I don't know why—I persist. I want the Russians to like me. Badly.

A few weeks ago I went in looking for Red October chocolate, having been told something of its deliciousness. However, not being fluent in cyrillic, and not being familiar with the packaging, I was at a loss. I asked the bear-trap of a lady behind the counter if they had any in stock.

"No," she said, "maybe next week, or week after. Next shipment. Maybe."

OK, I thought, I will return. And today, true to that inner resolve, I did.

However, upon examining the stock, I soon realised I was looking at the exact same offering of a few weeks previous.

I asked the woman (a different one this time) if they had any Red October chocolate. She did not understand me. I asked again. Nothing. I asked again (this time with a hint of Russian accent, which no doubt sounded more Italian than anything else). Nothing.

Enough, I thought, I want to try some Russian chocolate. So I bought one of the bars I had seen last time, the one with a peasant girl on the front.

Once home, I searched the inter-web for a picture of Red October chocolate—sure enough, up popped Peasant Girl.

Russians. don't. share. food.

Which is fair enough—I can understand that.

Ponies!

2011-02-02T21:25:00.010+10:00

I recently finished a month-long teaching stint at a post-apocalyptic school in west London. The school was bleak, to say the least, but what it lacked in basic humanity, it made up for in cheerful oddities.

For instance, one day, while supervising a science class, I looked out the window and saw a bunch of ponies on the football pitch.

Ponies! I exclaimed to myself.

I quickly turned my attention indoors, scanning the room for an in-the-know-looking kid. At the adjacent window I found my most likely candidate, hard at work tearing paper into small squares.

"What's the deal with all the ponies?" I asked.

"They belong to the gypsies," he said.

"Really," I persisted, "what's the deal with all the ponies?"

"They really do belong to the gypsies," he said, pausing at his paperwork. "The school's got a deal with them, and they get to graze them on the pitch".

What does the school get in return? I wondered. At this point I pictured the principal in a bare-knuckle contest he was destined to lose, a winner-takes-all pony-grazing agreement waiting ringside.

Anyway, I investigated the matter a little further, talked to some teachers, and the story checked out. Next to the school is a Gypsy—or Traveller, or Irish Traveller, or whatever you want to call them—residence. The kids attend the school, and the parents—among other itinerant pursuits—graze ponies on the football pitch. There you have it.

For the Glory of Rome

2011-01-29T19:45:00.004+10:00

We recently found a treasure-trove of video clips from our 2008 trip to Rome with Kristy and Gerrod. Yes, it's living in the past, but it's nice to remember.

Best Song Lyrics Ever

2011-01-17T17:57:00.001+10:00

One of the year 9 classes I teach was asked to compose some song lyrics for homework—three verses and a chorus. It was a pretty inane task, but this girl really made it her own:

LET THE RAIN FALL,

LET THE RAIN FALL BABY.

LET IT ALL POUR,

JUST LET IT ALL POUR BABY.

The rain gives us energy,

the rain gives us strength.

If there were no rain,

we would not be alive.

LET THE RAIN FALL,

LET THE RAIN FALL BABY.

LET IT ALL POUR,

JUST LET IT ALL POUR BABY.

Although the rain gives,

us a cold it does offer,

energy to our plants.

LET THE RAIN FALL,

LET THE RAIN FALL BABY.

LET IT ALL POUR,

JUST LET IT ALL POUR BABY.

This was my song on,

the rain our planet,

Earth has to offer.

Oh Christmas Tree

2011-01-14T18:03:00.000+10:00

We didn't have the space for a physical Christmas tree this year, so made one out of all of the photos that have been sent to us by family and friends over the past couple of years.

The main problem with this- it was difficult to get in and out of the front door.

On the Road Again

2011-01-11T03:10:00.005+10:00

An unloved Christmas tree, waiting for the next bus out of town.

Disappointing Drinks

2010-12-30T03:53:00.000+10:00

In an attempt to make the most of what London has to offer, we set off to find the 'best hot chocolate' in London. Julian bought the extra-large mug.

Sucker.

Snow

2010-12-21T17:36:00.008+10:00

As the last post suggests, it snowed here recently. (There's a possibility you've heard this news before now.) So Shelley and I went and paddled about in the white for a while.

First stop was the Christmas tree market downstairs. We tell ourselves that all the Christmas trees here are ours. But seeing as we haven't the room for all of them (or any of them) in our studio, we let the man keep them down here. And in exchange, he lets us keep our money. And he may sell them to other people if he wishes.

Next stop was Hyde Park, where I practised some karate. This is what I normally do on a Saturday morning, so I had to remain committed despite the snow.

Oddly enough it was I who suggested playing "William Tell", offering Bryce a free shot at my vulnerable face. Thankfully it turned out really well.

Whamee!

2010-12-20T19:16:00.003+10:00

Sliding Doors/Sign of the Times

2010-12-17T01:03:00.005+10:00

I stepped off the bus yesterday at a stop called "Hampton School". It appeared to be named after the school I was going to. I walked up the drive, past a well-tended flowerbed and a sign which read:

Hampton School

Founded 1556

Wow, I thought, this is surprisingly nice. Almost unheard of as a supply teacher. I walked into the reception and told an elderly lady that my name was Julian Lewis; I was the cover teacher. She looked at me as if I were a plate of melted cheese for breakfast.

"No," she said, "I think you want the school next door--Hampton Academy."

"Oh. Sorry", I said, and walked out.

I turned out of the drive and into the next one. Hampton Academy's drive was not as nice. There was no well-tended flowerbed, and the sign was different:

Hampton Academy

a Learning School

Yes, they did leave the "a" un-capitalised.

A Thoughtful Gift

2010-12-08T19:13:00.003+10:00

Yesterday, I was approached by a girl in my year 3 class. She walked slowly, her hands cupped together carefully. I thought she might have trapped an insect. No. She had vomited in her hands.

Note to self: never accept gifts from kids.

Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese

2010-11-28T17:45:00.004+10:00

Last weekend we had a lunchtime drink at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese on Fleet Street. We had been there only once before, and felt it was calling us back. I don't know if Cheshire is technically London's oldest pub, but it feels like it. It was rebuilt in 1667, after going down like a sissy in the Great Fire (which, as anyone from medieval London would tell you, was started by the filthy papists).

The downstairs part—where we sat—dates back to the 12th century. Back then it was a cellar, owned and run by an order of monkeys. Or maybe it was monks. No, actually, I'm pretty sure it was monkeys.

The doorways are only as tall as people were back then. Shelley would have been considered Amazonian in stature.

Ridiculous Student Names

2010-11-24T02:14:00.003+10:00

Ridiculous student names from school today: Zamzam and Cherry.

I also encountered a boy named Raheef, which, as far as names go, wasn't exactly off the planet; however, I made the mistake of calling him "Reefa".

This was a simple error that did not warrant as much attention as it received.

Oh Samovar

2010-11-19T17:47:00.004+10:00

We haven't been there yet, but we certainly will. Samovar is a Russian restaurant just around the corner from us. Their flyers boast: "The world might have been battered by the financial crisis, but not us!"

Plucky.

If you'd like to visit their site (and why wouldn't you?), it's:

www.samovarcafe.ucoz.com

I defy you to get that tune out of your head. (Turn your speakers down).

All the Crazy You Need

2010-11-12T19:05:00.011+10:00

Yesterday I had a job interview in the city.

I figured, seeing as I had some time, I would go in early, sit in a cafe and do some work on the laptop. But when I got there all the cafes were full and noisy. I would have to occupy myself in some other way. So I walked around, looking in shops. I went into Banana Republic and pretended to look at clothes—intensely boring clothes. Before long my legs started to ache. I looked at my watch. I was only 15 minutes into this bright idea of mine. I needed to sit. I spied a set of lounge chairs in the corner. One seat was spare. The rest were occupied by disaffected males, waiting for their wives/girlfriends who were downstairs in the women's department.

I have a wife, I thought. She isn't here, but nobody else knows that. So I sat down. Things went swimmingly for a while. But then I started seeing lone males walking around the shop, looking sideways. Were they looking at me? Were they plain-clothes security? Had they seen me walk in alone? I needed to start playing the part more convincingly. I began looking at my watch, then rolling my eyes, then checking my phone, then looking at my watch again, then tutting. You know how they say, "Act how you want to feel"? Well, before long I was really feeling it. I was annoyed with Shelley for taking so long. Though I had not yet slipped completely into the delusion that she was downstairs, I still felt annoyed. I needed to leave.

But wouldn't it seem weird, I thought, if I just got up and walked out of the store, leaving my wife/girlfriend downstairs? I needed to craft a convincing end to this charade. I decided to send her a text, or at least pretend to. I got out my phone. But as I mashed away randomly at the buttons, I became acutely aware that this was not my most convincing performance. So, for the sake of authenticity, I went into Messages and typed a real text:

"Hey, I'm bored, I'm going to go now. I'll meet you at the station."

It was only after I typed the text that I realised I had gone too far. I didn't press send. I did walk out though. As far as I know, nobody followed me.

Crème Brûlée!

2010-10-30T02:32:00.008+10:00

Could somebody please stop me from making the most delicious crèmes brûlées known to man? It's ridiculous!

Ever since Gerrod and Kristy left us their blow torch, it's been nothing but desserty goodness at the Lewis household.

Here's a picture of me with the torch. (Not even I can say what was going on with me—or my hair—at the time.)

The shirt I'm wearing in the picture is actually an old one of Gerrod's too. Yes, Shelley and I might have to leave London soon, as up until now we seem to have been living on a false economy of hand-me-downs from the Thomases.

Face in Hole Update, Part I

2010-10-18T01:56:00.008+10:00

The groundswell of support for the Face in Hole Project has been almost intoxicating. First up we have Dan in Brisbane, proving that beards are a welcome addition to just about any situation.

Next, Peter and Jo in Strasbourg, pulling off the regal look better than most.

Lastly, Az, Halle and Friend as Indeterminate Beings in Japan. Halle might do well to grow a larger head and work herself into character a little more, but it was a fine effort.

Solved!

2010-10-16T07:31:00.000+10:00

Would that it were so easy, Columbo.

The "With Gusto" Get-Out Clause

2010-10-15T04:46:00.001+10:00

The other night as Shelley and I neared a street crossing, I noticed a rapidly approaching moped. After glancing at Shelley, and calculating her speed to be roughly equal to that of the moped, I decided to grab her arm at the curb. This was a poor calculation on my part.

Shelley was indignant. Apparently, she had seen the moped approaching, but was planning to stop "with gusto".

I think this is surely a tool for life: if ever you are pointed out to be doing something remotely unwise, just claim that you were about to do exactly the opposite, "with gusto".

e.g. when found poised over the toaster with a fork, simply say, "I was about to return the fork to the drawer, with gusto".

Saw Froat

2010-10-10T22:32:00.005+10:00

Shortly after being denied the privilege of leaving the classroom for a drink of water, the young lad produced a parental note, the craftsmanship of which I felt privileged to behold.

KEO

2010-10-05T16:30:00.005+10:00

Last night I raided The Athenian Grocer down the street, in search of some peculiarly Greek beer. I came up with these two: Mythos (Greek) and KEO (Cypriot).

I won't lie to you—Mythos was quite terrible, but KEO (and I'm going to go out on a limb here) was probably the nicest bottled beer I've ever tasted. It really was delicious.

If you ever see it, try it. Remember—KEO.

That's K-E-O.

Strangers in the Night

2010-10-01T22:16:00.016+10:00

Friday night, 12 o'clock--Shelley and I were tucking ourselves into bed when we heard, emanating from the street below, what can only be described as a brouhaha. A horde of drinkers had assembled itself on the doorstep of the opposite building, and was showing menacing signs of staying put.

They laughed like the extras in a pirate movie, and found an implausible number of things funny. This did not gel with me. My style of sleeping is best described as 'light'--swashbuckling laughter does nothing for it. Still, I decided to chance my hand at sleeping, employing a mind trick that has served me well in the past: I would pretend I was at a party--a very boring, sleepy party--and that I was falling asleep despite all the noise.

It worked; I was off to sleep in half an half. Unfortunately, half an hour after that I was awake again to the sound of unison singing:

"I LOVE you 'CAUSE you're BEAUT-i-FUUUL … LA la LA la LA … LA la LA la LA … DO be DO be DOO be doooo BEEE! OOOOOoooowwww! [high-pitched group coyote howl]

Things were looking dire. I suffered through three encores of this, telling myself after each that it would be the last, but it never was. What could I do? I couldn't ask anyone in their state to "move on"--that would be tantamount to knocking on the door of a beehive and asking the bees to "take it somewhere else please". Only Steven Seagal does stuff like that. My pulse was rising. I needed to flick the switch from passive to active, to strike out at them, for me, and for everyone else in the world who likes to sleep. So I did something that I have never done before: I called the police.

Yes, it was a "narky" thing to do, but as soon as I hung up the phone I felt a deep sense of calm rush through me. They could sing all they wanted now. Yes, sing my Pretties, sing! For tonight you sing, but later tonight … POW!

So although I had gained some modicum of peace, I still couldn't get to sleep--I was too intent on witnessing the fruit of my phone call. I waited, minute after minute, willing them to stay just that leeetle bit longer, expecting at any moment to hear that sweet warning siren. They sang, and they sang; still no siren, still no police.

At around 2:30, the tenor of the party changed. One of the drunks took offence at something another of the drunks had said, and was shaping up for a fisticuff.

Hello, I said, what's this then? Do I have front row seats for a brawl? This might actually have been worth waiting up for!

They prodded each other's left shoulders menacingly (OK, they're just warming up, sit tight); they prodded each other's right shoulders menacingly (OK, they like to keep things symmetrical, don't we all?); they hurled abused loudly (OK, they're getting psyched up now); then they got their friends to hold them back (Oh come on! I saw this already in high school!). They were full of talk.

In the end, they managed to patch things up, and in a touching gesture of reconciliation sat down together on a parked car. This, of course, set the car alarm off, which sent them staggering down an alley, never to be seen again.

I sat up in bed and took a quick inventory of Black Eyes and Feathers in My Cap:

No drunks ...

No police ...

But definitely a siren; definitely a constant, high-pitched siren.

Museum of Brands: Fry's Chocolate Spread

2010-09-18T07:30:00.005+10:00

Fry's Chocolate Spread; "Solves the Butter Problem", of which we were hitherto unaware.

Museum of Brands, Notting Hill.

Museum of Brands: Andrews Liver Salt

2010-09-17T07:30:00.001+10:00

Easily the most racist exhibit in the collection, this little girl passes on a hot tip to her golliwog doll. Thanks Mummy!

Museum of Brands, Notting Hill.

Museum of Brands: Have a Picnic

2010-09-16T07:30:00.002+10:00

"Have a Picnic, says Gerry Wilmot on TV".

I imagine the next line in that exchange went something like, "Holy Moly Gerry Wilmot, quit doing that!"

Museum of Brands, Notting Hill.

Museum of Brands: OXO with milk

2010-09-15T07:30:00.002+10:00

Mmm, nothing quite like a quality animal stock cube with warm milk. Thanks again, OXO!

Actually, after chatting a bit with the museum owner, we did soften to the idea. A little. (I'm not saying I reached straight for the milk and beef stock the second I got home, but you know.) He was aghast at our derision of the campaign, informing us that, for many people, OXO with milk was the only way they could get the important nutrients found in meat.

We felt very, very bad. And if you so much as grimaced at the above picture, you should feel bad also. We should all drink OXO with milk as a form of penance. On the count of three . . .

Museum of Brands, Notting Hill.

Museum of Brands: Hartley's Marmalade

2010-09-14T07:30:00.001+10:00

This has to be my favourite piece of copywriting, ever. Hartley's Marmalade, trying to be as honest as is Humanly possible.

Museum of Brands, Notting Hill.

Museum of Brands: Hitler paraphernalia

2010-09-13T00:21:00.004+10:00

I particularly appreciated Hitler scribing 'Mein Rampf' with 'mein ink'. Also, in front of it, you'll see the tea cup with Hitler in the bottom—so when you finish your tea you are reminded of Hitler! Yay! Good until the last drop. (Note to self: must source Hilter teacups as gift for friends.)

Also in the background, 'Adolph in Blunderland'.

Museum of Brands, Notting Hill.

A Friendly, Bearded Skeleton

2010-09-08T00:52:00.004+10:00

A friendly, bearded skeleton offers to help with directions, only to be rudely rebuffed by the pilgrim.

It is only after this sequence repeats itself half a dozen times that he decides everyone can just go to hell.

Buffoons on Bicycle

2010-09-02T17:14:00.008+10:00

Like two Victorian-era buffoons in a revolving door sketch, these two zigzagged their way down Oxford St. Obviously, it was one's job to Zig and the other's to Zag, one's job to avoid the double-decker buses, the other's to allay the concerns of angry taxi drivers. Evidently, they never agreed who was One and who was the Other (nor who had dibs on the seat).

Of course, this is just one of the many fruits of Transport For London's new bicycle for hire scheme, which has seen bicycle bays installed around most of central London. And it has opened the door not only to these two pork buns, but also to adults who haven't ridden bikes in years.

These people are not just riding bikes, they are riding a wave of irrational self-belief that has engulfed the city centre. They truly put stock in the old adage: you never forget how to ride a bike; well I can tell you, based on observation, most people have. When they launch the bike down the street with the same confidence as they would breaking in a young steer, you know they should be wearing a helmet — but they aren't, because it's not the law here.

The real problem comes when you combine this inexperience with a time limit: these bikes are free for the first 30 minutes, after which you get charged. And so, like a man who must solve a rubix cube before he is permitted to address the ticking time bomb, these people hurtle from point A to point B, not completely sure of what they are doing, but certain they must do it fast. Their eyes are filled with all the wonder of the Road Less Traveled, and all the quiet desperation of the Road To Nowhere. Yes, they are riding the wheel of fortune, and they'd best keep it spinning.

CANAL BOATING: The Bell

2010-08-30T16:51:00.003+10:00

In Lagarde our boat was moored near a church with a bell that rang every 15 minutes. That's right, every 15 minutes, 24 hours a day, a deeply resonant gong would check-in to see if anybody had fallen asleep.

Funnily enough the bell never woke me, and I suppose I outgeneralled it in this respect, as whenever it sounded I was already awake and waiting for it.

15 minutes past — ding.

30 minutes past — ding-dang.

45 minutes past — ding-dang-dong.

On the hour — diNG-a-LanG-a-doonGle-diNG-dong, di-DOOong, di-DOOoong ... ... DAAAAAANG! ... DAAAAAAANG! ... DAAAAAAAAANG!

"Oh, I say," said I, propping myself up in bed. "It's good to know we've struck the third hour past midnight, what? I'll just wind my wrist-bound chronometer in accordance with ... hold on a jiff ... that was a hundred, freaking, years ago!"

CANAL BOATING: Odd Signs From France

2010-08-26T08:30:00.000+10:00

This sign prohibits Mel Gibson from smoking in the train station.

Surely an advertisement for bi-lingual schools does not require such nightmarish imagery.

My translation of this is: DIGITAL TELEVISION — the fingers in the nose. But I remain puzzled.

CANAL BOATING: The Dyane

2010-08-25T18:14:00.008+10:00

Having arrived in Nancy by train, we found Peter and Jo waiting with a cloudy-blue-sky Citroen Dyane, ready to transport us back in style to their boat in Lagarde. All our Frenchy dreams had come true.

Now, the romance of the Dyane lies much more in the name than in the driving, just as the fun lies much more in the driving than in the name; so, I will only talk of the driving.

Boasting all the structural integrity of a fresh ginger snap, and laying similar claims with regard to a top speed, riding in the Dyane reminded me of banjo music and alcohol (which, incidentally, are two things the user-manual prescribes in order to drive the car effectively).

As you can see, its interior was comically bare, testifying to an age of austerity that most other manufacturers managed to circumvent, but that France evidently embraced with all the gusto of a fat kid left alone with mini-frankfurters. Yes, France, you have truly produced une automobile unique!

Despite all this, with Peter's deft guidance, this sweet union of tractor and tin foil did manage to get us back to Lagarde in one piece. Kudos to you, Dyane — perhaps I have been unfair.

Face-In-Hole Update

2010-08-10T08:46:00.001+10:00

With these fine offerings from Ngong Ping in Hong Kong, Gerrod and Kristy have prompted us to update the face-in-hole database.

Other notable (though slackly updated) entries include Dan, as Unusually-Clothed Man at the Greek Festival in Brisbane — Opa!

Halle, as Large-But-Cheap Hotdog in Ikea, Brisbane;

And us, as Bearskin Guard and Paddington Bear outside the British Museum. To tell the truth, Gerrod and Kristy found this one as well, but whose blog is this anyway? The only one we really found by ourselves was this poorly-scaled excuse on Putney High Street:

Disappointing. And moderately confusing.

Apple Genius

2010-08-09T22:12:00.004+10:00

Overheard an Apple "Genius" trying to sell a macbook pro to a helpless woman:

"So here in front of us we have the macbook pro, and over there [two-handed gesture to the other side of the room] we have the white macbook. Can you tell me what the difference is between the two?"

[blank stare from woman]

"No? Well, this silver one here is actually made of aluminium, which is the same stuff that aeroplanes are made of — that means it will be extremely light."

I didn't hang around to hear what pearl he came out with next, but man, that guy knows how to impress a lady!

Waffle House II

2010-08-06T10:33:00.006+10:00

You may be familiar with this compulsion: when you have finally freed yourself from some hopeless entrapment— perhaps you had your finger stuck in a bottle, your hand in a jar, or your head between balustrades — the first thing you want to do is put the released article right back where it was, 'just to see'. Just to see what? I don't know, but this compulsion goes some way in explaining why Shelley and I went back to Waffle House last weekend.

We were very excited to find our very own Waffle House/ House of the Dead on Queensway, just two minute's walk from our new place.

I have written about Waffle House before; we made an ill-fated trip there on our first tour of the Deep South a couple of years ago. My body was not used to the atomic bond they had created between grease and food, and as such, went into some kind of deep, systemic shock that lasted almost 48 hours.

However, the Waffle House on Queensway looked like it was a cut above Alabama's, and thus, a jar worth putting my hand in. It had a timber facade on which "Pâtisserie" was spelled correctly, as well as other things in its favour that I can't remember now.

To cut a long story short: bad, bad, bad. We ordered a waffle with Belgian chocolate and vanilla ice cream, but apparently had our orders confused with somebody who had asked for angrily-served chocolate with milk sorbet on a disused sponge, which was not the same.

Waffle House 2:0 Julian and Shelley.

Hamleys

2010-08-04T08:25:00.000+10:00

(The guy smiling in the background might as well have a thought-bubble reading, Sure you are, Sweetheart; make me some french toast.)

Yes, Shelley and I skipped over to Regent St on Saturday to visit Hamleys, London's 250-year-old, seven-floor, Royally-approved, apostrophe-free toy store.

It was a Saturday, and it was hot and crowded; thus, I can't say I enjoyed it all that much.

I did, however, come across some excellent dolls, like the rocket scientist above, and this one below. I believe these are reproductions of old Barbies (?).

At least their statements were aspirational — some others were straight-out delusional and creepy.

Curry Place/ Palace

2010-08-03T18:06:00.000+10:00

I love this place. On the back wall it reads, Curry Place; on the awning, Curry Palace; on the menus, Curry Place; on its web site, Curry Palace.

Apparently this doesn't matter.

Farewell, North-Siders

2010-08-02T19:12:00.006+10:00

After six years of globe trotting (three-and-a-half of which were in London) the Thomases'es are going home.

Ah, sadness of sadnesses. Last night, Shelley and I joined a host of others to farewell "Gerrard" and Kristy at The Jolly Gardeners, our local pub from Lacy Rd days. With the ghosts of Sticky-Date Pudding and Pub Quiz Defeat haunting every corner, it was a fitting place to take a final self-portrait.

Farewell old friends! We won't ever see you again, as you'll live on the north side of Brisbane, but good luck with all your Northerly endeavours.

Athenian Grocery

2010-08-01T03:17:00.008+10:00

Athenian Grocery is right on the corner of our street. Though I'm quite excited to have a Greek grocer so nearby, I've yet to venture inside, as age has done nothing to dull my fear of old Greek men. You know what I'm talking about.

Athenian Grocery faces stiff competition from Olympic Food Centre, which sits directly across the street. Olympic Food Centre, according to a hand-written sign on the front door, sells snuff. Seriously. I wonder if the Scarlet Pimpernel knows about this place.

Buddha, You Did it Again!

2010-08-01T01:50:00.005+10:00

Our friend Liz was trying very hard to take a picture of the giant golden Buddha in Battersea Park, but her camera just wouldn't take the photo. Turned out the blink-detection was on.

Moved!

2010-07-26T22:13:00.007+10:00

We have now moved out of the House of Mould! Hooray for us!

Upon checking out of our old flat, we learned a couple of important facts from the landlord. Firstly, a small underground river runs beneath the flat (✓ — excellent). Secondly, before the recent renovations and addition of a drainage system, the entire area used to "fill up like a swimming pool" every winter (✓✓ — why didn't the estate agent mention this?? This is amazingly good!).

And they prefaced each of these revelations with, "You know", as if they were informing us of the nearest grocery shop.

(The above photo is nothing — it was taken a week after we moved in.)

The Big Swim: Bournemouth

2010-07-05T06:18:00.001+10:00

Mum and Dad are visiting at the moment, and so we've found ourselves doing all the interesting things we've been meaning to do for a long time, but haven't got around to — like using some of the free travel cards we've had for almost two years (three days before they were due to expire). Naturally, we wanted to use them for the longest journey possible, so we headed off to Bournemouth for a day at the beach.

We'd only ever been to Brighton beach before and so were expecting a pebbled beach, not these stretches of golden sand. Being a balmy 23 degrees and only slightly breezy in patches, most of the surrounding townspeople flocked to the beach to soak up as much of the sun as possible.

Julian decided that had to going to go swimming in England at least once, and this was as good a time as any to get in the water. He wasn't alone — there was a surprising number of people swimming.

Our only disappointment for the day stemmed from the lack of 'hole in head' boards. Given that Bournemouth has a giant retro slide, a bouncy castle slide of similar size, a carousel, and at least three arcades, we felt for shizzle that there would be at least one hole-in-head scene. And we spent the better part of the day desperately looking for it, but to no avail. I had to settle for this:

Mum's gambling problem, with captivated onlookers.

Wooley Adam

2010-06-12T17:21:00.001+10:00

Years ago now, Shelley tried to tell me about Subway's customer loyalty program, the Sub Club Card.

"The club club card — oh, no, no — club club — wait! Club ... club."

I was reminded of this at a pub gathering last night, when Shelley inadvertently created a new month, somewhere between June and July, called "Julune". After the laughter died down, she attempted to continue with the story.

"Anyway, sometime in Julune — darn it!"

Later, she told everyone about a "new Wooley Adam movie" (Woody Allen).

ANZAC Day, Hyde Park

2010-04-28T05:48:00.000+10:00

We did something pretty stupid on ANZAC Day.

It was 4.00 a.m. when Shelley, Bryce and I set off on the bus to Hyde Park for the dawn service. A huge crowd had gathered at Hyde Park Corner for what turned out to be a great service. (The organisers even invited some New Zealanders to attend, which I thought was a nice touch.)

When it was over, Bryce suggested we sign the guest book, which the announcer had said was in the bottom corner of the park. We soon found some people signing, so we took our place behind them, chatting while we waited. Pretty soon there were five or six people queuing behind us, and still no progress from the people in front. After a few more minutes we were getting a little impatient, so Bryce peered over the writer's shoulder to see what was going on; he returned with some troubling news:

"I think they're filling out a passport application."

I'm not sure if we told the people waiting behind us, but we got out of there pretty quick.