Madrid By Numbers, Plus: My Brother Is Stealing My Underwear...

Ah Espania. Madrid. How cool eh?

Holidays are great aren't they? Sun, sand (at beaches at least - not so much in cities I grant you, but I did spot some sand filled fire buckets in our hostel which I sat in for a bit...) sangria. For breakfast.

And Madrid is kick ass cool.

Honest.

I have made a list, because lists are also cool. Obviously:

1. At 4am, hopelessly lost, on a Saturday night, there are still bars open in which to "ask directions from the barman"...

2. At 4:30am, having just been pick pocketed, the thief, upon noticing that my wallet was, in fact, empty, returned it with an apologetic smile and then gave me directions.

3. When you buy a round of drinks, you get free food. On bread. Oh yes.

4. They serve incredibly efficient and tiny and powerful coffees. With biscuits.

5.  You are not, in anyway, frowned upon for drinking with breakfast. As long as it's from small glasses.

It was, in short, mostly geet mint, how.

Yes. Mostly.

Except...

Sometimes...

The free food has been stood for a while...

... And has gone a bit funny...

So. On Monday. A very hot and sunny and lovely Monday. I was very. Very. Very. Sick. 

Everywhere.

All day.

I even hallucinated a bit, lay on the bed, drenched in sweat, listening to the sounds from the street... Actually thought myself in a market at one point, everyone in traditional Spanish clothing, small children playing in the square. Bulls running rampant through the streets. Tomatoes hoyed from alleys. Great stuff.

Good job really seeing as the only scenery I got to enjoy that day had tiles...

Ah well.

Still, I did get to see the train station's indoor jungle. Which made it all so worthwhile...

Plus:

My Brother Is Steling My Pants.

Bit odd this I know. And slightly embarrassing. But was informed upon my return my Brother's Girlfriend that, due to extreme lazyness, he has been nicking my undies.

I find this very, very, weird... 

Juggling Without Monkeys, Plus Disco Kettle Packs His Bags

Me and my brother have a dream.

It is  glorious dream.

An ambitious dream.

It is a dream that cold change the world (or at least the service industry)

It is a dream the RSPCA are unlikely to share.

We dream of Monkeys.

Waiter Monkeys. 

Waiter Monkeys who Juggle.

We'd make a Mint.

But more importantly it would help me out. Cos I'm not much of a juggler. I juggle three ok. As long as the stuff isn't breakable obviously.

See, problem is is that maybe. Maybe. I took on too much.

Firstly I'm still working. Suprising I know - people haven't discovered me as yet. Secondly there is the MA, which is fun - but still, it's a lot of work. It is, horribly, more important to me than work.

Lastly there are new and exciting developments in my personal life. This takes up a lot of my time. And I'm not complaing, really I'm not. It is, in fact, priority number one. It's proper mint, how.

And yeah, I know. I said I could juggle three. I remember, it was only a few lines ago. But, see, problem is - they're all breakable aren't they?

I could cope with working breaking - but it would bugger up two and three wouldn't it?

So. 

Me and my brother have a dream.

We dream of Juggling Monkeys. And they could teach us so much.

Plus:

Disco Kettle Packs His Bags

Me and DK got ourselves a new place.

Oh yes, I'll let you know when we can afford the heating to have a warming... see what I did there?

Hey Everybody, Hey Dr Nik - Step One

My name offers two potential jokes to friends and family.

1. Nik (and because I'm bearded and inept) as in Dr Nick from the Simpsons.

2. Jones (and because I really, really want a fedora hat) as in Dr Indy Jones - Yes I know, his real name's Henry, but still.

Now for these jokes to be truly successful I need a better Prefix. Mr is OK. It's fine, really. No offense to all those Misters out there. But I want something more. Because, for these jokes to be really, truly successful. For me to really get the most of my name, what i really need. Is A Doctorate.

Oh yes. Dr Jones.

Of course, I could just buy one. I realize that. And it's not as if I'd ever really use it, so it's an option.

But if a joke is worth doing, it's worth working hard for.  

So that's what I'm doing.

I'm doing my MA.

Then I'm going for a PhD.

Then I'm buying a cape.

And a Fedora. Obviously.

Jokes aside though this can only be a good thing. It's a Creative Writing MA. It is impetus to write. It is pressure to write.

It is an excuse to write.

I. Need. This.

Already I've got my first mini asignment done. Comes in at a nice, neat 500 ish words. In script form. It's a description.

See?

I'm trying new things.

Impressed much?

Thought so. It's proper mint, how.

Sooooooo. This means new work of Disco Kettle - I've descaled him. This means a new role for my Magic Writing Dressing Gown - I've washed it.

This means new and exciting ways to avoid marking - so i've left it all at home.

S'gonna be fun, like. 

Of Getting Nothing Done

So... What? Three weeks into the school year and how many words completed? Oh yes. That's right. About none.

It's tough this. I really try. I really do. I spend break times and quiet parts of lessons mentally jotting down sentences I like, paragraphs that work, chapters that thrill.

But nothing gets done.

Perhaps thats why I'm so desperate to get fired - Too scared to quit, too terrified of committing myself.

Maybe. 

Or not. I love the job, love the kids. Hate, HATE, The marking. 

Ah well. All those scribbled notes in my planner. All those passages etched into my skull from so much refining, so much questioning, so many tried and rejected alternatives. All will be so useful come half term. I'm aiming for 5,000 words over the week. Quite modest I think, but I need it. It will keep me from going a touch mentalist.

Anyway.

Back to pretending to mark...

Of Possibly Being A Bit Mental

Year 11 Boy: Sir? When I'm not at school...

Me: Yes, Year 11 Boy?

Year 11 Boy: When I'm not at school, do you still exist?

Me: Probably not no. You're homework still exists though...

And as bizarre as this was for a conversation starter it did stir up the old grey matter a bit. For the vast majority of the world I do not, in fact, exist. At no point do I cross their minds, at no point do they stumble across me in the street, in a bar, in a gutter. I am not a real person. To people who've never met me, I do not not exist. And, in all fairness, even some people I have met question how real a person I might be.

Which is sort of why I'm grown a bit more comfortable blogging. I started off only talking about the book - cos I wasn't comfortable with anything else. And now look? Philosophy. Sort of.

Anyway - I like this cos most people who read my blog don't know me. Have never met me. Have no idea what I look like, are unaware that I'm typing wearing a Dangermouse T-Shirt and shorts beneath a Big Winter Dressing Gown.

I might live on your street. I might be your neighbour. (Sinister no?) Worse still: I might educate your children (duhduhduhdummmmmmmmm) Terrifying isn't it?

Unless, of course, Year 11 Boy is correct. Unless of course I don't exist. This whole thing could be an entirely randomly selected group of letters accidentally created by some bug in the Blogspot brain.

Would explain a lot...

Oh, me thinks I hear a *Bing*

Or do I?