Dinner Dinner Dinner Dinner Batman


My first proper lesson, planned the night before, delivered on schedule without major hitches. I just don't know how I feel about it.

Having an advanced student is a blessing in that I don't need to simplify my explanations much, but it's also a problem in that 90% of a conventional lesson is old news to him. His knowledge of English is like a large mosaic which is missing many small pieces, the gaps scattered widely and randomly.

My job is to plug the odd little gaps, introduce wrinkles and idiosyncrasies, essentially turn Veli from a highly competent speaker into a native-like speaker. But I have no way of knowing where the gaps are before stumbling over them in conversation.

And today's TV, viewed with the now somewhat overfamilliar accompaniment of mackerel and pasta: The pilot episode of Batman Beyond.

I can just imagine the board meeting.

Suit 1: We need a new cartoon, something cyberpunk like Blade Runner. Dystopian with decaying old high tech and lots of neon.

Suit 2: Nah, what we need is something reliable. Something that's worked before. Something familiar like...Batman!

Suit 1: Batman was old hat even when it was live action. Anime's the new cool.

Suit 2: Batman in anime-land. Batman of the future! Batman reinvented!

Suit 1: The kids don't care about Batman. They want psychotic streetgangs.

Suit 2: The Joker was psychotic. How about a streetgang of psychotic Jokers?

Suit 1: The kids want counterculture! Corrupt governments that are indistinguishable from the mafia.

Suit 2: Batman fought the mafia.

Suit 1: Surveillance and secrets. Creepy mansions.

Suit 2: Batman had a secret identity. And a mansion.

Suit 3: Guys, I've got a great idea. You're both right.


The boss is coming over to "take charge" in two or three weeks. On the plus side, that means we get a pay rise. On the minus side, it fucks everything else up.

I've checked out plane tickets, just in case.

What's up, Chuck?


There's two kinds of office politics. One involves office drones conducting intricate, internecine wars with each other on the basis of "He keeps his stapler on my side of the desk", "She keeps looking at me in a funny way" and "That bloke hogs the photocopier". This kind goes on continuously for years and consumes 73% of office time.

The other kind is all about keeping the boss elsewhere so everyone can do their jobs. This takes up 14% of office time, leaving 11% for going on social networking sites and 1% for the paid work. Which everyone polishes off at the last minute.

Our office politics is of the second kind. The boss has decided he wants the office to have a washing machine (for which there's no room), a second sink (for which there's no need) and a partition with a door (for which there is both no room and no need). The last would cost at least 1000 leva, which he can't spare.

So he wants to fly over to put up the partition himself, on the grounds that it would be marginally cheaper. So we have to find a way to get it done cheaper so he won't fly over and implement any more daft ideas. These are the tactical compromises you make in order to keep the boss out of the country.

We do need a fridge, but he hasn't thought of that.

Tomorrow I get to teach my first proper lesson. I was going to go over the finer points of conditionals, but today I learned a new word - Anankastic.

Anankastic sentences are any with the meaning "To achieve goal X, do action Y". There's several different syntaxes used to express them, for instance:

* If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends.
* If you want it, come and get it.
* To attain enlightenment, you must sit under a tree for seven years, grasshopper.
* To become president, get rich and believe in nothing, passionately.
* All passengers for flight number blah bleeh blom for Burbleblob should go to gate number blurgh.

So I think I'll try teaching that. Elementary students learn forms what functions they have, advanced students learn functions and what form are used to express them.

The Tuesday Feature, with sardines a la pasta followed by chocolate biscuits with instant lemon tea: Seed of Chucky.

Or "Sperm of Chucky", as the title was retranslated back into English. With some prescience. You might have found it amusing if you like the idea of:

* Dolls having sex.

* A doll frantically masturbating to be a sperm doner. Followed by Doll sperm dripping from a turkey baster brush thing.

* Brad Dourif, who might one day not play a non-psychopath, and John Waters, who ought to.

* Britney Spears dying horribly in a blazing fireball.

* "You don't know me but a few years ago I killed your husband, and I am so sorry."

* Lots and lots of "Meta". Stuff like the killer dolls being found at the site of their previous murders and used in the production of a bad horror film about a killer doll called Chucky, and the female Doll Tiffany plotting to place her soul in the body of a slutty actress who can only get work in crappy movies about killer dolls - and who's played by the presumably non-slutty up actress who voices Tifanny. If you see what I mean.

* "If this is what it takes to be human, then I would rather take my chances as a supernaturally possessed doll. It's less complicated."

Meddling Kids


I have now been here a whole month - well, twenty eight days, which was my minimum commitment. And I might actually have an actual student. Actually.

There's a kid who, according to his father, already speaks English at an advanced level, and the father wants him to have more conversational practice. I take this to mean (1) the kid is probably at a low intermediate level, (2) The father wants him to go to America to make lots of money to support the family and (3) The kid himself isn't so keen on the idea.

Cynical? Moi? Well, we'll see.

Update: Veli is eighteenish, personable, eager to learn, and I'd say a mid-intermediate speaker. Very good on grammar and pronunciation, less good on intonation and phrasal verbs.

He also has the most adorable jet black floppy hair that...yes well anyway.

One thing about living in the office - I get to be the one who answers the phone. That's right, I'm the secretary. There can't be many companies that employ someone to answer the phone who can't speak the language. It could be a whole new business strategy.

So this evening I got a call that went a little further than most:

[ring...ring...]
Kapitano: Ahlo?
Caller: [stream of words, but it sounds like a question]
Kapitano: Sori, serm angliiski.
Caller: Ah. Sprechen Sie Deutsch?
Kapitano: Nur klein.
Caller: Ah. Chao.
[click]

The night's movie? Scooby Doo.

A live action version of the cartoon, featuring lots of knowingly self-referential jokes, scarily accurate casting and voices, and a CGI Scooby.

The team are reunited to solve a puzzle, only to find themselves saving the world from ghosts that aren't janitors in masks. Daphne the purple one who's only purpose in life is to be kidnapped by the bad guys so her friends can rescue here gets played by Sarah Michelle Geller - and turns into a kung-fu kicking slayer of supernatural beasts. Vilma, formerly the red clad bespectacled one who solves the crimes and gets none of the credit, gets the credit and a boyfriend.

Fred, the vacuous self-obsessed jock who contributes nothing but self-appointed leadership, gets to do something, and Shaggy the cowardly hippy gets to be brave - and does male bonding with his hallucinogenic CGI Great Dane.

Oh, and the evil mastermind is revealed at the end to be...an incredibly annoying puppy mysteriously convinced everyone loves him. Yes.

I expected to be unimpressed, but I thoroughly enjoyed the whole thing. Does that make me a shallow person?

Double Trouble

Friday night film: Eraser

A 1996 Schwartzenegger vehicle, with Terminator-style guns, Terminatoresque computers, and some POV special effects shots reminiscent of Terminator.

There is a plot. Well, a maguffin. A weapons company have invented a new gun that doesn't use gunpowder or bullets. Instead it shoots aluminium. Yes that's what I thought. But it's okay because it shoots them at the speed of light - though they still take appreciable time to travel.

Still, not to worry. In this movie's universe CDRs can be wiped remotely, and you can set off a sprinkler system by shooting it. And you can open ultrasecure bankvault-type doors by doing the same thing to the keypad.

Anyway, the company boss wants to sell weapons outside America for profit, which makes him unamerican - no I don't understand that bit either - and Arnie stops him and saves the girl by by blowing things up.

There is a completely pointless and lavish scene in a gay bar - the only one with no menace or violence at all. Interesting.

But what's this? A double feature?

The Stepford Wives was a psychological horror movie made in 1975, about how it's hell to live in someone else's heaven. It quickly became regarded as a classic, and spawned several TV movie sequels - Revenge of the Stepford Wives, The Stepford Children (which I thought was okay), and The Stepford Husbands.

Then in 2004 some idiot remade it. As a comedy. With a happy ending. And I can't believe I just sat through it.

The idiot in question is Frank Oz.

Today I bought a tin opener. And...a tin of sweetcorn.

You know, sometimes it's useful to live in a room that's also a storage space for a whole school. Because after I've spent ten minutes failing to open the tin with the correct implement, I can just take into the other side of the room where there's a hammer and a screwdriver.

Next time I emigrate, though, I'll be sure to pack a penknife. Though for preference not one manufactured in Bulgaria, the country where the only sharp edges are on the tin after you've opened it with a hammer.

Different, but the Same


Tonight's TV: Two episodes of The Benny Hill Show from 1974.

* A couple in a hotel bed on their wedding night decide to order drinks. The woman picks up the phone and asks for "the usual".

* A seventeen minute comic version of Carmen.

* A woman swears she's a virgin. On her baby's life.

* Doctor: How are things at work?
Patient: I've been replaced by a younger man.
Doctor: Oh dear. And at home?
Patient: Replaced by a younger man.

* An old man roped to a big heavy rock carries it to a lake, intending to kill himself. He drops the rock on his foot and is so annoyed he gives up the plan.

* Nuns look like penguins. Though they're actually birds of pray.

* You know how cockatoos breed? Yes, through their noses.

Pantomimic, witty, sexist, and occasionally quite sharp. The obsessions with infidelity, frustrated lust and humiliation that most of the world still thinks Britain still has.

They may be right of course. The musical numbers are long gone, as are the stares into camera and women as passive but remote objects. The settings may now be living rooms and pubs, but there's still a combination of bawdyness and despair.

And some of the jokes are the same too.

"Sinecure", pronounced "SIN-eh-cyur". Defined as a highly paid job with nothing to do.

Well I've got half a sinecure, because there's nothing to do.

Oh there's plenty of old coursebooks I could read, but (1) they've all be rubbish so far and (b) I can't do anything with them because there's no lessons for me to incorporate them into because I've no idea what lessons are needed because there's no students.

It's like looking at the food in your larder and trying to plan a get together without knowing who's coming or what they'll want to eat.

I could learn some more Bulgarian, but I'd forget it pretty quick because there's no one to practice it with. Not that there's anything I particularly want to say.

"Excuse me, I'm a lonely English homosexual and I haven't touched a man in over a month."..."Greetings sir and/or madam. Could you direct me to the fully functioning language school with lots of students that's around here somewhere? I'm wondering if they need a teacher."..."A old Irishman once told me that enforced inactivity causes insanity."

Speaking of sinecures...Marilyn vos Savant. The woman who, at age ten scored 228 on a IQ test. She was dumb enough to think it meant something, but smart enough to realise other people were dumb enough to think it meant something. So she turned it into a job for life. The job being "Smartest Person in the World".

No one will ever get such a high score again. Because they changed the scoring system a few years later, and now you can't get above about 180.

I read one of her books when I was young - I'd picked up an encyclopedia of philosophy, an encyclopedia of psychology and her "Brain Building" for GBP1 each, in an introductory offer from a book club which went bankrupt immediately afterwards so I didn't have to buy anything else from them. Sometimes timing is everything.

Anyway, "Brain Building: Exercising Yourself Smart" revealed the true esoteric secrets of becoming clever. They were:

1) Don't watch so much TV
2) Read a lot of good books
3) Don't read so many bad books

...and there were others, but number (3) seemed applicable so I stopped reading.

She writes a column in Parade magazine, where her team of researchers split their time between finding logic puzzles that other people have written for her to set, and contacting experts to answer scientific questions sent in by readers.

Questions like: It is possible for a battleship to float on a gallon of water?

The answer turns out to be: If you could construct a container the exact shape of the ship but just a tiny bit larger, and have it and the ship perfectly smooth, and have the ship perfectly balanced in it's "bath", then a gallon of water would spread to be around 1000 molecules thick and the boat could sit on top of it. Provided you did this in an environment with no dust or bacteria, because they'd be large enough to tip it over.

Or as Marilyn summarises it: Yes.

There's a popular site detailing a few of the occasions when her answer is wrong.

Why won't jumping in a falling elevator save your life? According to Marylin it's because you can't jump in falling elevators. Why don't bicycles fall over? It's 'cos of spinning, somehow.

But, as I'm sure I've said before, a great way to get to the truth is to find out why the lies are wrong. Same result, but more fun and more informative.

Oh, why am I writing about this? Simple - my own half sinecure has given me time to spend most of the day reading about it.

Slipup/Slapup


Today's movie is Slipsream

This is how IMDB describes it:
Aging screenwriter Felix Bonhoeffer has lived his life in two states of existence: in reality and his own interior world. While working on a murder mystery script, and unaware that his brain is on the verge of implosion, Felix is baffled when his characters start to appear in his life, and vice versa.


I have a few alternatives:

* A collection of interrelated dreamlike vignettes and plot fragments, loosely clustered around the character of a film writer, played by Anthony Hopkins, who also wrote the screenplay.

* You know in those pop-psychadelic films of the 60s (like "Head" - the film of The Monkees, or Truffaut in "accessible" mode), there were moments when there's a series of rapid jump cuts, or the film runs backwards or freezes in the middle of a line, or the last ten minutes' action turn out to be a film within a film?

Moments of deliberate, vertigo inducing surreality, or of Brectian estrangement where the audiance is forcibly reminded that they're watching an artificial construct.

If, like me, you enjoyed them, you wondered whether an entire film could be composed of such moments...this is such a film.

So, this is either the pile of pretentious wank that my pretentious thirteen year old self dreamed of making, or a brilliant image of a highly stressed but constantly imaginative mind, seen from the inside.

I don't know. You decide.

* When students are learning how to use edit suites, their practice sessions result in something like this.

* It doesn't start having a cohearant plot until 70 minutes in. The film within the film is called "Slipstream". There's several references to "Slipstream" being a "piece of crap" or "written as a joke". The entire film runs backwards under the closing credits.

* A steady stream of arresting images that mean absolutely nothing, bricolaged into a story that means absolutely nothing.

* It annoyed me while it was playing. But when it stopped I wanted to see it again.

Last night's movie was to be Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey. But after fifteen minutes, I couldn't be bothered.

I think to enjoy the Bill and Ted films you need to be either:

1) An American stoner kid
2) Have a crush on either of the lead actors
3) Be capable of supreme ironic detatchment

Have you ever tried chili sardines?

Before today, I'd never heard of them. Now I think it'll be one of the things I miss when I go back to England. Together with enormous tubs of chocolate spread, amazingly cheap vodka, and the healthy-living, strong bodied college types they have around here, with fake-faded knock-off jeans and retro moptops.

If only there were some way I could bring the three together...

I think I'm losing a bit of weight. There's a good reason for this. In this country it's difficult to overeat because, if you eat too much of most of the stuff available, you feel ill.

I call it "The Bad Food Diet".

Speaking of which, the other culinary discovery. Poultry Pate.

That's what's written on the tin. Not pate made from chicken, or goose, or any other specific animal, farmyard or otherwise. Pate made from "poultry". Coming soon, books written by "Author" and alarm clocks that buzz at Time'o'Clock.

The worrying thing is, I quite like it.

The Devil is in the Details


Today's film, viewed with my evening meal of pasta salad with mackerel: The Exorcist.

An old priest, Father Merrin, is working as an archaeologist in Iraq.

A young priest, Damien, working as a psychiatrist in America, loses his faith, He's poor and can't support his aged mother, who dies.

A film actress, Christine MacNeil, works for an asshole director who doesn't know the difference between German and Nazi. She's a single mother with a cutesy daughter, Regan, who can't sleep because "the bed was shaking".

38 minutes into the film, Regan has a psychotic break, predicting a death. Doctors find nothing wrong with her brain despite using lots of big scary equipment.

50 minutes in, Satan starts speaking through Regan. The doctors use more big scary equipment before one suggests exorcism as treatment.

68 minutes in, the man whose death was predicted appears to have climbed into the tranquilised Regan's room, left behind a crucifix, been killed by something and pushed out of the window.

Regan bloodily masturbates with the crucifix, objects fly around her bedroom, and her head rotates 180 degrees. The mother contacts a priest.

79 minutes and 25 seconds - the projectile vomiting scene.

Damien sprinkles "fake" holy water on Regan, who reacts as though it were "real" (supporting a psychosis diagnosis), and speaks backwards (supporting a possession diagnosis), but the words are "I am no one". The words "Help me" appear as marks on her flesh.

The church authorities agree to an exorcism and call in Merrin - who arrives at the house in a shot inspired by a Magritte painting.





At 95 minutes, Merrin and Damien begin the exorcism. At 96 minutes and 43 seconds - the "Your mother sucks cocks in hell" line. The bed levitates. More green vomit. Head goes round 360 degrees this time.

"I cast you out unclean spirit." "Shove it up your ass you faggot."

At 106 minutes, as the priests take a break from their notably unsuccessful first round, Regan imitates Damien's dead mother. playing on his loss of faith and guilt.

At 110 minutes, Merrin has a heart attack and dies. Damien fails to revive him. In a rage he attacks Regan, demanding that the devil enter him instead. For no clear reason, Satan does so, and Damien, for a different no clear reason, retaining some control over his body, leaps out of the window, tumbles down the steps where the other man died, and dies - a friend priest giving him last rites. This, for a third unclear reason, banishes the devil.

Regan goes back to being cutesy.

In all, a rather slow and silly film - slightly less annoying than Leslie Nielsen's "sequel". It reinforces the notion that mental illness is demonic possession, and neither the premise nor the conclusion make sense even in the film's own terms.

On the other hand, it does have the music of Mike Oldfield and the amazing voice of Mercades MaCambridge.

The boss has made some decisions:

* I will have daily meetings at 9am with Tania the secretary/tranalator/organiser/etc./etc./etc. This will increase communication and get things done faster. Even though there's nothing we need to communicate about, and having more meetings will not make the bureaucracy less lethargic, the students more plentiful, or the technology more reliable.

* I will move next door. Into the second classroom, currently used as a warehouse. Exactly how moving a teacher to a room with no electricity or sanitation will help - and indeed what's it's designed to achieve - I'm not sure.

* The rundown house will be renovated and turned into a summer school. In a village with no prospective students, in a country that doesn't have summer schools.

* All problems can be solved by him giving up his job and coming to Bulgaria. So we have one more person hanging around, and no further income.

As a result, I'm not entirely sure I can stick this job for six months.

It's Only a Movie


Today's movie: The Kovak Box, a paranoid thriller.

Plot: A successful science fiction writer takes a flight to Spain to attend a conference. In his youth he was obsessed with "Gloomy Sunday" - the so-called Hungarian suicide song - and wrote his first book inspired by it. In the book the government has implanted chips at birth into the entire population, that when triggered cause suicidal depression. If anyone becomes a threat to society, they just press a button and the individual kills themselves.

At the conference an elderly fan asks for his autograph. At the hotel, the writer's wife gets a call which plays Ella Fitzgerald's version of the song - and she jumps out of the window.

A young Spanish woman also attempts suicide but fails - at the same time as her boyfriend kills himself by crashing his motorcycle, and several other strange deaths occur. In her hotel room, a man attacks her, incapacitates her with ketamine and tells her she is already dead - but before he can do whatever he wanted to do, he is interrupted and flees.

The woman and the writer team up when she begs him to help her, and they both witness another mysterious suicide. The fan reappears, giving a folder of press cuttings and photographs to the writer. They show he was a disgraced scientist working on ways to control human behavior.

The writer discovers a chip embedded in his dead wife's neck, and the woman sees her attacker. They confront him, and gives them a list of a hundred people scheduled to kill themselves - before killing himself when the chip activates as he tries to remove it.

The writer realises they are being led, as though in a novel, pushed by planted clues and planned incidents to follow a narrative. They find the scientist on his island, and his men kidnap the woman, placing her in the caverns where the hundred people will suicide.

The scientist wants the writer to turn what's happened into a novel - including how he saves the girl and kills the bad guy. The list is the passenger manifest of the flight the writer took to Spain. The passengers jump and drown, triggered by "Gloomy Sunday" played over the tannoy, while the woman survives by swimming underwater - so she can't hear.

The writer finds the scientist, who is dying slowly from a brain tumor. The scientist says when the bodies are autopsied the authorities will find the chips, reverse engineer the technology, and use it. He also says if the writer doesn't kill him to provide a climax for the plot, he'll active the chip in the woman's neck. The writer shoots him.

On the plane home, the writer, having no other way to prevent his first novel coming true, starts work on a sequel, detailing his adventure.


Review: A mad scientist with infinite resources on an island. A popular but fantastical story starts coming true. A villain with a Russian name but a British accent. An immense conspiracy to bring about a simple action by one man. A writer has to become like the heroes of his own books.

Maybe the only way to get away with using cliches like this nowadays is to be "meta" about it - present outmoded conventions as outmoded conventions being self-consciously re-created. Like the serial killer who's motive is a fascination with serial killers, or everything in the Shrek films.

The writer's name was David, the young woman Silvia and the scientist Dr Kovak - though I had to check the closing credits to be sure of the first two. So the characters were not what you'd call memorable.

There was no sentiment clogging up screentime, so the writer got over his wife's death with remarkable ease, and didn't have a romance with the girl he was being manipulated to save. He killed the bad guy (only because the bad guy forced him to) but didn't kiss the girl.

In short, it was completely daft, borderline incoherent, an exciting journey with nothing at the end. The kind of film I'll enjoy once, never want to see again, and wouldn't think to recommend.

I think tomorrow's movie will be...The Exorcist.

There's also the complete first five seasons of "Married with Children", but I'm not that desperate.

I was wrong about the fish.

There are not in fact five different species of fish in the supermarket. There is mackerel in five different sauces. For twice the price you can get sardines too.

It took three weeks. Now I'm getting email spam in Bulgarian.

The is a light switch after all. At shin height under a curtain. I was wondering.

I've been looking at phrasal verbs, aka multiword verbs aka compound verbs aka multipart verbs. And there are as many definitions as there are names.

These are phrasal verbs:
Give up (quit)
Take over (assume command)
Break down (stop functioning)
Come out (admit)
Knock off (imitate cheaply)
Pass up (decline)
Set to (begin)
Turn up (arrive)

Some writers treat these as phrasal verbs, and some don't:
Trip over
Pull apart
Pick up
Pass through
Stand up
Come over
Climb across

The first group are figurative, or at least highly metaphorical - there's no way you could work out their meanings simply by knowing the meanings of each component word. In the second group, you probably could.

But there's no clear dividing line. To come out (of the closet) is a metaphor, but not a dead one, and to get up does involve a literal "upping" of posture. So the boundary between "verb-particle constructions where the two form a meaning not derivable from either" and "verb-particle constructions where the meaning of the particle modifies the verb" is not clear cut.

Why does it matter? Because if you draw a line between the two groups, there are about a thousand phrasal verbs for students to learn, and unknown thousands of similar looking constructions that they don't need to memorise because the meaning should be fairly clear when they encounter them. If you don't draw a line...you've got a language no one can learn.

There's the small additional problem that the "literal" phrasal verbs of the second group often have several metaphorical meanings. How many things does "pick up" mean? I count four:

* To lift something in your hand(s) - "Pick up your bed and walk"
* To give someone a ride in your car - "I'll pick you up at six"
* To take someone to your place for sex - "At the disco to pick up boys"
* To learn something by observation - "She picked up the language"

Raining, Cats and Dogs


I got taken to see the house today. That's the house bought a year ago by my boss and since unoccupied. Well, officially unoccupied. Judging by the way one room is full of empty beer bottles, I'd say someone has been there.

I was led to expect a rather large place. It does indeed have two large rooms, plus a toilet, a basement and attic. There's no electricity or gas, it's built on subsiding land, and it's thirteen kilometers from the school, surrounded by derelict factories.

It would cost at least 20,000 leva to renovate...or alternatively around 20,000 leva to knock down and rebuild. Either would take two or three months.

It would cost me 2.5 leva for one of the (unreliable) bus services to or from there - which adds up to 200 leva per month. And the last bus is at 5pm, so I couldn't do evening courses.

Please explain to me why I should live in this place?

Lights have now been installed in the classroom.

There doesn't appear to be a light switch. To turn them off I cut power to the whole building. I'm sure this is just a temporary oversight.

Bulgaria doesn't have a rainy season as such. It has a cold, windy, damp season, which we are now entering two months late.

Very British weather. Except Britain's been having very un-British miniature tornados recently.

As this website shows, cats are not so much pets, as imaginary friends.







Dogs on the other hand...

My parents have a new dog, a Maltese named Harry. Here he is with Dino (fluffier papillion) and Perry (silkier papillion).

Isn't he just adorable?

Night Life


Notes on Friday night:

* Do not mix vodka with blackcurrant juice. The result tastes something like prune juice, something aniseed, and quite a lot like something I never ever want to taste again. Ever.

* Do not attempt to speed dry your laundry after drinking three quarters of a litre of vodka with orange juice. Placing a heater next to your sopping wet jeans and lying down just to rest your eyes for a minute is a good way to wake up wondering vaguely why you can smell burning.

* The smell of charred denim tends to hang around.

* Alcohol makes me hungry. I'm not sure how many boiled eggs I've eaten in the last thirty six hours - it's somewhere between four and eight.

* Plots of CSI: Miami don't actually make a whole lot of sense. Even if you watch four in a row.

* Songs by Electric Six make even less sense, but that's okay because they don't pretend to be serious.

I can't read my email. Yahoo seem to be having problems in that area.

Notes on Saturday night:

Something must have happened on Satuday, but I have absolutely no recollection of it. So either I was kidnapped by aliens, subjected to intensive anal probing, taken to alpha centuri, shown the wonders of the cosmos, married to Prince Varglovile of the Xerokovax Federation, given a message of peace to bring back to all mankind, given another anal probing just to make sure, and then accidentally had my memory wiped when someone pressed the wrong button on the way back...or it was a particularly boring day.

The email's back. Spam.

Notes on Sunday night:

Did you know there are (so far) six films in the Highlander series? The first was an instant classic, the second was rubbish, the third was a stinking pile of crap...and after that they started getting really bad.

However, thanks to the internet, I now have the chance to watch the fifth film, "The Source". Or I could go for the three (or was it four) films loosely based on Knight Rider. Or there's the two Universal Soldier movies, the remake of The Wicker Man, the second remake of I Am Legend, or the "Alien vs Predator" films.

Some say the internet gives us access to an unprecedented variety of information and entertainment. And in a certain horrible sense, that's absolutely true.

I Was in This Prermaturely Air Conditioned Supermarket...


Things I have yet to do in Bulgaria:

* Have a conversation in Bulgarian. It's amazing what can be accomplished with single words, pointing, and the occasional bit of mime.

* Successfully poach an egg. I've tried it in a saucepan over a hot ring, in a boiling kettle, and in a slowly cooling bowl of boiled water. The result has been either pale and watery or hard and lumpy.

* Have sex. Gah.

* Develop a sleeping pattern that doesn't leave me exhausted at 2pm and WIDE AWAKE at 2am.

* Um, teach.

Still, there's hope. Yesterday I drank coffee, got paid and got drunk. all for the first time here. Oh, and this morning I got hungover.

Air conditioning is installed in both classrooms, and one of them has electricity - plus whiteboard and tables. We should start advertising after the weekend.

The going rate to pay for English lessons in Montana is two leva per hour. That's eighty pence, the price of a ten minute taxi (Taksi) ride, or a bar of good chocolate. Most people just don't have large amounts of cash to spare.

So you can see why most schools have a "quantity over quality" approach to things.

But before we start lessons I'm going to have to devise a set of tests to estimate how much English the students already know. Most students (who will mostly be children in early teens) will know 100-200 words and very little grammar. They'll be at the level of "Hello, my name is...", "I come from...", "What is your name?"

Sometimes the packaging on food tells you what's inside. Sometimes the labeling is useful - "Sol" and "Sardin" aren't hard to work out. But sometimes you're faced with a row of five different types of tinned fish, you don't know your picine species well enough to differentiate the photos, and (as usual) you forgot to bring your dictionary.

So tonight's evening meal will be pasta with...some kind of fish. With some clever orange juice. Yes - "Clever" (pronounced as the English word) is a brand name, covering dozens of basic food items.

Update: "Skoomriya" is Mackerel.

Bulge-Area


I've got a big bulge in my jeans today.

Yes, that's right. I've been paid, in cash. Five days late but completely.

The next wodge will be redirected to pay off debts, so this 350 leva will have to last four weeks. That shouldn't be too difficult - I reckon I can live on 300 leva a month, maybe 250.

Assuming of course the boss is frustrated in his mad plan to renovate a falling down house into teacher accommodation. And assuming no other teachers get recruited and need housing. Hmm.

Computer troubles.

I finally remember what should have been obvious - to remove the password from the BIOS...remove the CMOS battery for one minute, then replace.

Which makes the act of putting a password there in the first place even more pointless. If anyone could bypass any other password by unplugging the computer for sixty seconds, no one would bother with passwords at all.

So I try to install XP, and get one of those especially uninformative error messages that Microsoft like to provide. "Error type 4".

So I try to install Windows 2000, thinking I can install XP from inside that, and amazingly it actually works. So I install all the software. Then XP crashes and won't reboot. I bash my head against the wall until there's a dent in the plaster.

Still, nevermind eh? Life's too short to make holes in the wall. I try installing XP again and it works perfectly.

Then the USB keyboard on my laptop stops working.

So now I have a shiny new keyboard, and a night to look forward to of reinstalling all the software I've already installed last night.

Should you be able to cook pasta in the kettle? I'm not sure, but here's my recipie for Pasta a la Kap.

1) Boil 1.5 litres of plain water in the kettle.
2) Put the pasta in.
3) Five minutes later, boil again.
4) Wait 2-5 minutes, then strain.
5) Mix with whatever sauce you like, plus optional salt and cheese.
6) Microwave for 1-2 minutes
7) Eat while watching CSI: Miami.

My parents have a new dog - a small, white, fluffy, short legged bundle of energy called Harry. I'm not sure what breed he is, and every time they try to take a picture to send to me, they get a white blur or disappearing tail.

Surely it can't be significant that as soon as I leave, they buy a puppy? Oh the shame of it - usurped by a yappy fluffball.

1.78GBP for 500ml of vodka. That's quite cheap, isn't it? It's got "Product of Bulgaria" and "Select Premium Vodka" and "Distilled from Grain" written on the label in English and I'm losing the ability to type.

It's moderately horrible but I'm on my third cup of 1/4 vodka 3/4 incredibly cheap orange juice and have I ever mentioned I get drunk really quite easily?

Makes music sound groovier but it's not good to drink alone especially at 7pm. My boss is a twit - nice guy but a twit. We could start teaching tomorrow but he wants to wait until everything's perfect which it never is and wants to employ only the best (that's me folks!) but can't afford to pay them what they're worth and anyway if you're the best why would you want to work in a small town in a poor country where you sleep on the floor of the same damn office where you work, huh? I said I'd stay for seven months and it's kind of nice to be paid to do what I do anyway without doing any actual teaching but if things don't start to come together pretty damn soon I'm gonna have to reconsider. Even sinecures can be boring.

I like this.

Same Old, Same Old


My laptop is now the office computer.

A fortnight ago, I set up the old (and I do mean old) office computer with two XP installations - so if one crashed, the other could be a fallback. This morning, I switched on to find both were corrupted.

Okay, no great problem - all I need to do is use the Xp installation disc to run a repair procedure.

Oh. The computer won't boot from a CD. No problem - I just have to reconfigure the BIOS, and then it'll boot.

Ah. Someone's put a password on the BIOS. No one knows who, or what, or indeed why. Most passwords you can recover if you forget, but passwording the BIOS is like putting a padlock on all the other padlocks - lose one key and you're screwed.

Getting computers for the school may be delayed by another month.

Payment of wages was delayed because...money from the wrong account was taken out to pay for the anticipated computers.

Employment of another teacher who's a native speaker of English is delayed because the boss has no time to look.

Employment of another non-native speaker of English is delayed because there aren't any.

Renovation of the "teacher house" is delayed because there's no money for it at the moment. See above.

I now have six different kinds of tea, the latest being strawberry flavour.

I'm living in a country that makes the worst butter I've ever tasted, and the best sunflower margarine.

It also makes expensive bars of chocolate that taste like cardboard, and staggeringly cheap tubs of nutty chocolatey stuff that I must stop dipping into.

I haven't been able to find any cheese that isn't made from goat's milk. Seeing as they all have "Koze" (Goat) written on the label, one of which shows a farmer and a goat dancing a waltz, I assume there are some non-goat cheeses.

There are two kinds of bread in the markets. One is white and needs toasting. The other is white, pre-sliced and is called "toasting bread".

The only difference I can find between the 0.75L salami and the 5.0L salami is...the price. It's less unbearable when fried - which is why I have a bag full of fried salami slices.

Bad mayonnaise tastes of stale air. Middling mayonnaise tastes of stale eggs. Good mayonnaise costs the equivalent of twice what you'd pay in Britain. Bulgarian people use a lot of mayonnaise.

Yes, my life revolves around computers, food, and waiting for things that have been promised but are delayed.

How could I feel homesick? This place is just like home.

Langomatic


I spent a sleepless night working on an algorithm by which a computer could analyse an English sentence into grammatical blocks. And I have come to the conclusion that it's easy as pie to generate sentences from a grammar, and monstrously complicated to analyse grammar from sentences.

Given a grammatical framework, it's easy to drop in words to make sentences. Here's a framework in BNF notation:

Sentence = Subject clause + Verb clause + Object clause + Complement clause
Subject clause = (Adjective)* + Noun
Verb clause = Present verb | Past Verb
Object clause = "the" + (Adjective)* + Noun
Complement clause = Adjective

This gives you sentences like:
My dad painted the big door red
Happy children ran the old sneakers threadbare
Old Harry sends the lame horse away

It will also give you sentences like:
Telephonic your paper creeps the biscuit reticular
Sideways flat aunt gives the sticky sticky moose deaf
Clout wobbled Marjorie loud

...so it's not the most robust algorithm in the world, but for making sentences of the form "noun performs verb in such a way as to make noun adjective", it works. And if you try, you can make sense out of the last three examples. It's remarkably difficult to make sentences that have no possible interpretation if they are grammatically correct.

But what about doing it the other way around? Providing a computer with a set of frameworks, and a set of tools for it to try to fit any input sentence into one of them?

"Dad paints it red" is, as above, Subject (Noun) + Verb + Object (Noun) + Complement (Adjective). "Dad paints it fast" ought to have the same structure. But "fast" in this position isn't an adjective - it's an adverb which has an identical form to the adjective from which it derives.

"Fast" also has another adverbial sense, with no corresponding adjective, as in "The door won't budge, it's stuck fast".

Sometimes there's just no way to know from syntax alone how to parse a sentence - and computers by definition can only deal with form, not function.

One thing you don't want after a long walk is to find you've dropped your keys somewhere. You've locked yourself out, and you don't have a telephone number to call for help, and even if you did your mobile doesn't work and this country doesn't seem to have payphones. Gah.

So I retraced my steps and miracle of miracles found my keys. So from now on they don't travel on a belt loop - they go in a zipped pocket. Possibly on a chain, surgically attatched to my gall bladder. Or maybe not.

Anyway, there were two pieces of graffiti in English on the way. "Graffiti art for everyone", which was nice, and "Combat 18", which wasn't so nice. Just who in Bulgaria would have even heard of a bunch of British neo-nazi gun fetishists?

Like all languages, Bulgarian takes words from other languages. I've seen some from German (Tanz - Dance), and some from Turkish (Portokal - Orange juice, Chai - Tea), and a few I thought might be French.

For obvious reasons English derived words jump out at me - Taksi, Foto, Resterant, Apartament, Marmalad, Biskvito. But there's also some nice pseudo-angliscisms.

A teller machine is a Bankomat, and a shop where you buy hot sandwiches is a Tosteri. I think that's quite neat.

Fore!


"Prayer is what we turn to when the only thing we have left is hope."
- Johnathan Elias

Sometimes I think I should read the newspapers more. Then I do, and remember why I don't.

In the Telegraph: Israel, instead of retaliating for the murder of eight students by a Palesinian, is nobly continuing with peace talks with its terrorist neighbours.

So remind me which country occupied the other, and has all the weapons? Palestine invaded Israel - that is right isn't it?

Nevermind, underneath are articles on important stuff like how gadgets break marriages, and how Victoria Beckham is on the cover of Vogue.

The Mail...isn't a real newspaper, so ignore it.

The Mirror have more on the latest dead missing schoolgirl. Madeline McCann is so old news now.

And an appropriately named singer forgets where her mouth is.

On the BBC news website, we learn there is a campaign to put the faces of the 175 British soldiers killed in Iraq on stamps. Because it honours their sacrifice, apparantly.

I'll happily lick the heads of all the soldiers you want, but how much saliva do they need to become national heroes?

This must be one of those campaigns with no actual people in it - just a journalist saying there is one. A bit like those adverts for films and shows you see on the metro, promoting something no one's heard of yet by saying "everybody's talking about it".

By the way - 175 in 5 years? That's an average of 35 a year. For a war - and a losing war at that - it's a miniscule number.

Socialist Worker talks in it's lurid way about what the Telegrah forgot to mention - Israel spent the last week bombing the Gaza strip. While conducting peace talks.

The money is indeed delayed. What a surprise. So I can't repay Mother, because Tania the secretary can't pay me, because Ian the director hasn't paid her, because Scott Ian's employer hasn't paid him, because...he forgot or something.

Some people like to say there are only four stories in the world. The same people like to say there are only seven jokes. The difference is, no one can list the jokes, but a few can produce a list of story archetypes.

So what are the only four stories in the world? A quick google search produces this list:

1) A man goes on a journey
2) A stranger comes to town
3) Star-crossed lovers
4) Of honor and revenge

...and this one:

1) Overcoming adversity
2) Being more than what you are
3) Falling in love
4) Finding revenge

...and this one:

1) Love between two people
2) Love concerning more than two
3) A struggle
4) A journey

...and this one:

1) The city that is defended by brave men but will be destroyed nevertheless
2) The return against all odds after a journey of many years
3) The quest for a very rare treasure
4) The god who sacrifices himself

Well I reckon I can do better than these. So here is Kapitano's list of all the stories you will ever hear, shoehorned into four categories:

1) Solving a puzzle or overcoming an obstacle to win a prize (Examples: the murder mystery, fighting war or revolution, hitting the jackpot, seduction, the quest, engaging in a worthy struggle and failing heroically, finding then losing then regaining love)

2) Growth through pain (Examples: coming of age, making a mistake and learning from it, pilgrim's progress, the book of job, ghost stories and alien abduction, frankenstein)

3) Transformation (Examples: Everyone's lives are disrupted when a stranger arrives, the protagonist goes slowly insane, going to jail, coming off drugs, get rich quick)

4) One damn thing after another (Examples: a sequence of events with no moral message, waiting for godot, pornography, soap opera, tristram shandy)

Note that funny anecdotes, vingettes, and stories about natural justice (eg. most episodes of The Twilight Zone) don't fit into any of the above. Nor do stories about personal sacrifice, missed opportunities, or men turning into insects.

Hair Tomorrow


Awesome Dude is a forum for gay writers, and seeing as I'm gay when I get the chance and a writer when I'm not busy being gay, I joined. I posted a very short story here.

There's some good writers there, so have a nose around.

I have been attempting to study the subjunctive. "What is the subjunctive, uncle Kap?", I hear you ask. Well...

In the present form (which need not indicate the present time), it's when verbs revert to their base form (or "bare infinitive"), producing senteces like these:

She asked that he go away
This is for everyone, wherever they be
A man shall not lose the things that he buy


Nowadays in English, it's used for mainly for rhetorical effect, but different languages use it in different times for all sorts of wierd things. But there's also a past form (which may or may not refer to the actual past), that looks like this:

If she were lying, I could tell
Were I invisible, I could still make noise


And there's a past-perfect form, viz:

If I had known, I would have prepared
I wouldn't be writing if you hadn't encouraged me (=had you not encouraged)


So what's the common theme between these three forms? None that I can see, except they're all called subjunctive. And the second two are in fact irrealis conditionals, used for talking about things that might have been, but aren't or weren't.

So why lump them together? I've no idea. But I suppose it makes as much sense as describing "My" and "Your" as pronouns instead of adjectives.

I'm due to get my first paycheque tomorrow. Though knowing how the banks around here work it'll be (a) cash and (b) late.

It is possible to do business by having cheques chase each other through the system, but it winds up being more practical to get the cash out of the hole in the wall, take the twenty minute walk to the other side of town, and hand over the wad in person. Or if the recipient is in another town, stuff the cash into an envelope, and it'll get there in four days instead of twelve.

I'm not lonely, which is surprising. Well obviously I do get lonely sometimes, but there's none of the terrible lonliness that I feared. Not the kind that makes you stare at the wall wondering whether to do anything about the impulse to hit your head against it.

I've had almost no conversation - except with myself - and have essentially sat here, waiting for something to happen and sometimes trying to understand English grammar.

What? Yes I do talk to myself. But I've been doing it since I was four years old. One day I was bored in the playground and I wondered what it would be like. I haven't stopped since - it's a good way to work things out when there's no one else to bounce ideas off.

I'd been told that only mad people talked to themselves, and I wondered whether I would go mad by doing it, and whether I would be okay to go only slightly mad and then stop. A bit like children who're told masturbation makes their hands hairy, so they decide they'll continute doing it until they start to see stubble.

Not Bread Alone


Today's new experience: A glass of apricot juice. Actually two because it's quite nice.

Seeing as I've been living on cheap tea, cheap eggs, and cheap bacon on cheap bread, I thought I could do with some fresh fruit and/or vegatables. Or failing that, a carton of cheap orange juice.

But what should I find next to the five varieties of orange juice but peach juice, mango juice, lemon juice(!), lime juice and juice from fruits I couldn't actually identify. None of which I've ever tried from within cardboard.

So, with my cheap salami (Salam), cheap biscuits (Biskviti) and cheap chocolate (Choko :-)), I got some Sok of Kaisiya. On special offer.

The BBC can be very useful sometimes. They do four weekly podcasts on aspects of English for learners. In fact, if learners consistantly made use of resources like this, EFL teachers wouldn't have much to do. Fortunately, the live teacher in the classroom still has a mistique about it.

This particular English teacher (who has no mistique at all) is busy studying the details of his own language, and is getting the kind of feeling you get when you look at a familliar room from an unfamilliar angle.

For instance, the sentence "I used to travel" isn't a thing of hidden depths. It's in the present-simple form, with the pseudo-auxiliary verb "used" indicating a current state relating to something in the past - specifically, to action that was habitual but has now ceased.

The emphatic version "I did used to travel" looks clear enough - it's just the implied auxiliary "do" being made explicit, much as happens when the statement "I travel" is flipped around to become the quesion "Do I travel?". But there's a problem.

In English, where there's a string of verbs in a sentence - as in "I regretted to want to start to stop" or "I was able to begin to decide to cease to pretend to act" - the first verb (auxiliary or not) takes the past tense if there is one needed, and all the others are in the present. In these examples the "passified" verbs are "regretted" (past of "regret") and "was" (past of "is/am/are").

But here's there's two verbs in the past form - "did" (do) and "used" (use). And what's more, the present of "did" can't be used - "I do used to travel" is ungrammatical.

So, I'm a bit confused about that.

Being here gives me the chance to do things I'd never do at home. Like...watch lots of episodes of CSI back to back. Um, yeah.

It's one of those shows that's quite enjoyable in its simple formula, non-characterisation and faux high drama. I find I can sit through each episode quite happily, in spite of its risible portrayal of science and its right-wing agenda - messages of "drugs make you murder" and "the end justifies the means but only for the good guys".

But...once I'm done with an episode, there's no sense that I'll ever want to see it again. It's all used up and spent. Which is not the stuff of cult TV, or TV you make time to watch.

Chewing gum for the eyes indeed. So I think I'll just have one more stick.

One of the games I find myself playing a lot is "Supermarket Roulette". This involves trying to ascertain exactly what item is in what packaging, with only the pictures on the packs and a limited grasp of the language.

Bleach and detergent come in the same shaped bottles, and I don't recall the word for either, so I hunt around the brands looking for one with a picture of a washing machine or a shirt, and buy that one.

There's one product called "Ace" with the word "Automat" (both in roman letters) underneath. Which do you suppose it is? Or is it something else entirely? It turns out to be bleach.

Butter and cheese are stored next to each other, sometimes in similar packaging. Sometimes a quick squeeze will tell you which is which, but in this case I cheat and look at the labels - "Maslo" is butter and "Sirene" is cheese.

There's dozens and dozens of products called "Maioneza" - Mayonaise. I select one, thinking it'll go well with the "Klasik Khamburgski" - which isn't a classic hamburger, but a kind of pork salami - only to find it's prawn mayonaise. I'm dipping my bread in it.

And by the way I still can't pronounce the word for bread - "Khlyab".

I Have Done a Mistake


There's a book called "Practical English Usage" by Michael Swan that's the closest thing EFL teachers have to a bible. Most of the time I find it invaluable, but sometimes I think he's just wrong - not about what English forms are correct but about which are incorrect. I think his notion of acceptable English is too narrow.

Here's a list of utterances that he says show mistakes. I've followed the convention of indicating mistaken forms with an asterisk, and given the "corrected" form in parentheses.

* He's a difficult to understand person
(He's a difficult person to understand)

* I haven't got some free time today
(I haven't got any free time today)

* He said to me that he was Chinese
(He told me he was Chinese)

* She told me she has a headache
(She told me she had a headache)

* He has much money
(He has a lot of money)

* When you come, take your bike
(When you come, bring your bike)

* I like the 60s music
(I like 60s music)


* I've good knowledge of German
(I've a good knowledge of German)

* All along the centuries, there have been wars
(All through the centuries, there have been wars)

* I nearly wish I'd stayed at home
(I almost wish I'd stayed at home)

* No doubt the world is getting warmer
(There is no doubt that the world is getting warmer)

* Would you follow me wherever I would go?
(Would you follow me wherever I went?)

* I'm thankful for your help
(I'm greatful for your help)

* Stefan can never return back to his country
(Stefan can never return to his country)

* My older sister is a pilot
(My elder sister is a pilot)

* I love that fat silly cat
(I love that silly fat cat)

* This is not the least of the unemployed's problems
(This is not the least of the problems of the unemployed)

* Put the butter at once in the fridge
(Put the butter in the fridge at once)


I think all of these "wrong" forms are actually quite acceptable. Some are inelegant, some may be a little eccentric, but if I heard any of them I wouldn't automaticallacy think "That's wrong".

I wrote that last night and saved for further pondering. Then I made a nice cup of darjeeling to ponder over...and the lights fused - and because of the insane way the electrics in this place are wired up, everything is on the lights circuit.

Humph. So I tried to tidy the place up, and managed to drop the glass jar from the coffee percolator. And spent an interesting half hour finding bits of broken glass in odd places.

Stuck for anything else to do, I went for a walk. And twisted my ankle on one of those potholed pavements I mentioned. And then managed to get lost.

Eventually finding my way back, I made a goodnight cup of tea with the plug-in heating element and a newly discovered plug on a different circuit. Which lasted just long enough to boil the water before fusing.

Fortunately the boyfriend of my host Tania is an electrician, who fixed everything in the morning, ten seconds flat. While shaking his moptopped head sadly that anyone could wire things up like that.

Suspecting that the now partly melted heating element might be the cause of both blowouts, I made my first big purchase in Bulgaria - a kettle.

Now, I could tell you about my several wasted hours trying to connect my laptop to this net line, or my now swollen and painful ankle, or the strange smell coming from the bathroom, but I won't. Except I just have, but nevermind.

Something I've noticed about different types of tea - they actually do taste different when you don't put milk in them! Darjeeling has a smokey flavour, and Earl Gray is almost acrid. Ceylon is smooth by comparison, but with an aftertaste that reminds me of...tarragon, I think.

Odd how most languages come up with words for a hundred different types of foolishness, and as many for sex, but they don't distinguish so much between flavours or smells.

Wash Day


My grandmother washed her clothes in a large tub. It was roughly cubic, half the size of a large office desk, could be set to vibrate or stir the clothes, and had a built in mangle.

She knew about washing machines but refused to use one. She also knew about microwaves and once in a fit of technophillia that amazed everyone, bought the smallest, cheapest mictowave she could find. And then refuesed ever to use it. I did try using it once - it took twenty minutes to reheat some warm milk.

My grandmother's grandmother washed her clothes in a tin bath, and probably didn't have a mangle.

I wash my clothes in a bucket, stirring them with the handle of a mop, using a detergent that I don't know how to pronounce, because I can't decipher the script it's written in.

I then hang the clothes to dry on a long piece of electrical cord strung from the door into the bathroom. Thus there is a curtain of damp clothes seperating my "kitchen" from my "computer room", steaming gently from the portable heater mounted on a chair.

And so I claim the family prize for Slumming It. At least until one of my interpid cousins washes their clothes in a mountain stream and then builds a log fire to dry them.

According to a recent Gallup poll, gay people spend more time online than straight people. which is to say, about a hundred out gay people in a sample a little over a thousand in London said they spent an hour or more per day on Friendster, Facebook or YouTube.

So, how many gay grls and bendy boiz in Bulgaria use OutEverywhere? Erm, none. And none in Albania, Bangladesh or Camaroon. Afganistan manages two.

There's a few dozen on Gaydar - including one from this town. Squirt, which says "Fancy a shag?" when Gaydar says "Fancy going out sometime?", does even less well.

I could check GayM8, SocialButter or GLEE, but I wouldn't expect anything different. It seems that in much of the world, gay folks who are completely closeted where they live can be out online - but around here, they can't even do that.

Some websites will tell you a different story, but you'll notice they only talk about the capital city.

I asked whether I should concentrate on learning English to teach, or on Bulgarian to use - and I was told the former, partly on the grounds that English has a pleasantly simple grammar and Bulgarian has a horrendously complex one.

The thing about Engish's simple grammar is...it throws up forms that are grammatically fine but, well, odd. They make you stop and ask whether what you just said was actually an English utterance.

Things like "English's simple grammar", which should be unproblematic, but seems to be the kind of thing native speakers just wouldn't say - or would say very rarely. They'd say "simple grammar of English".

So here's a sentence progression of four present tense forms, and I want you to tell me whether the final one is (a) a good, clear, well-formed and proper sentence in English, (b) not an English sentence at all, or (c) a sentence that is grammatically possible, but that no native speaker would produce:

I am patient.
I am being patient.
I have been patient.
I have been being patient.


Good Life


All the comforts of home.

* Television (actually legal and not-so-legal video feeds from all over the world)
* Radio (similar)
* A telephone (actually Skype)
* A toaster (with a broken timer so you have to stand and hold the bread down)
* A microwave (connected by an extension lead that's just begging me to trip over it)
* A kettle (a heating element plugged into the mains)
* A cooker (one ring and portable)
* A sound system (actually PC speakers and a collection of mp3s)
* A bed (matresses and duvet)
* A shower (...actually it is a shower...but the drain doesn't, um, drain)

I can keep in contact with most of my friends back home, by email or txt, or indeed skype, but for some reason I can't contact C. His phone doesn't answer and his txts bounce. He does have a knack of disappearing and making me worry about him, but I couldn't do anything about it even when we lived an hour's walk away.

Well, C, if you're reading this, you know my email: kapitano@btinternet.com. Get in touch, when you can.

Some more things Bulgaria has lots of: Car repair shops, FTP sites, and laws.

Montana is one of those towns that's built around two or three main roads. The road nearest me is called "March 31st Street", marking the date in 1971 when Bulgaria (somehow) gained independance after 500 years of Turkish rule.

At one end of the street is a supermarket and a signpost to the nearest town, called "Lom". At the other end, 20 minutes walk away, is another supermarket, some trendy wine bars, five banks that only businesses use, and the park with the statues of obscure local heroes. At the centre of which is a new discoteque, a new gymnasium, and an old fleamarket.

There are at least ten shops in between with the word "Avto" in the title - "Auto". One specialises in car paints, another in spare parts, but most are garages that repair cars that would be considered beyond repair in western Europe. One sells "nearly new" cars.

It may seem surprising that people who drive such clapped out old bangers should be so computer literate. Indeed, that the physical infrastructure of the internet across eastern Europe should be so much denser and more stable than even in America, while a wholly disproprtionate number of hackers and computer innovators should come from a place which is culturally backward in so many ways.

It's no mystery at all really. Germany got some of the best industry in the world by coming late to it, after other countries went through the painful process of early development. China is set to become a political giant partly because it started it's industrial revolution standing on the shoulders of an earlier giant. And it's a similar story here.

There are no end of laws against "misuse" of computers - hacking and innovation, which turn out to be much the same thing - just as there are countless laws about tax and travel, changed every few months. Almost no one understands them, and fewer obey them. It's an attitude that appeals to me, in case you can't tell.

Tomorrow I get to see an old country house. It's a bit remote, it's in need of repair, and I might be living there soon. The idea is that students might be less than impressed to know their teacher lives in the office next to the classroom, and there's a convenient place (fifteen miles away) which no one else wants.

I'll...consider it.

Small Steps


Bulgaria (or at least Montana) has a very large number of very small shops. And an amazing number of these are "Apteka" - a distant cousin of the English "Apothecary". Yes - chemists, drugstores, pharmacies. There are even roadsigns pointing to them, so I can only suspect Bulgarians get ill quite a lot.

I've just managed to complete my first spoken transaction in an Apteka. Yay! I walked in, indicated I was Angliiski (English) and that I had a Glavo-boliye (headache).

The price was five Leva - at least it was to a gullible foreigner like me; I've no idea how much it would be to a native. One leva is roughly 2.5 pounds sterling, so ten leva is GBP4.

You'd expect to pay ten leva for a good resteraunt meal, or an item of luxury food like leg of lamb, or one day's worth normal eating.

A large loaf of bread, 20 teabags, a small block of cheese, 250 grams of butter, a packet of about 25 strips of bacon or a packet of chocolate biscuits would each cost between 1.5 and 2.5 leva.

Other things Montana has a lot of includes large outdoor bins, primary schools, and people walking in the road.

I saw two of the bins merrily blazing away, belching smoke which everyone ignored. They're why I had a headache. Them and the ancient broken-down cars making their own emissions.

Pretty much everyone owns a car but almost no one can afford a new one - and they mostly only drive them on the main roads, because the lesser roads are full of holes. The pavements are also full of holes, which means pedestrians on minor roads walk on the tarmac, stepping aside for the occasional car.

In winter it's different - with three feet of snow which is only cleared from the main roads, the lesser roads are abandoned by everyone.

The schools? Exactly why a town of 35,000 needs three good sized schools for children under ten, I don't know, but it does. The good news for me is: They learn basic English there.

Change


Feelings. Not a reliable guide to action, but often a predictable one.

Saying goodbye to friends I'd already said goodbye to, and wondering why I was obliged to bother.

Making last minute arrangements and last minute changes in packing, being full of doubt over whether to take two pairs of jeans or three.

Trying to get some sleep in the hours before leaving, but being unable to and feeling annoyed at that.

More annoyance as my parents double check things I've already tripple checked, and impatience that I had to wait a few hours or a few minutes before going.

Optimism on the train to Gatwick airport, resignation at the silly ceremonies of "security checks", and apprehension that they might find some fault with my luggage.

Amazement upon looking out of the plane window that we were flying over endless snowcapped mountains.

Feeling hot and bored in the cramped plane seat...and the same heat and boredom on touchdown, mingled with a muted realisation that Bulgaria really does exist - it's not just a line on a map and an entry in Wikipedia.

Resignation as I sat through the two hour coach journey from the airport in Sofia to the school in Montana, comparing cultural notes with Tanya, the secretary, translator, teacher-meeter and the one who generally makes things work.

An odd sense of familarity on finding that, although Montana doesn't have a Lidl's, it has a Billa and an appropriately named Kaufland, which have much the same layout, lighting, products and overall feel as all ultracheap supermarkets everywhere.

Amusement at the somewhat, uh, basic facilities that I have. A matress, a microwave, a hot ring that fries my dinner incredibly slowly, and a computer that barely switches on. There's no kettle - there's an electrical element you plug into the mains and put in a cup of tapwater. Apparantly there's a toaster in one of the heaps, somewhere. On the other hand, there's a nice en-suite bathroom with shower.

And finally...choking back tears that won't quite come. What have I done? How did I get myself in this situation? What actually is this situation? What am I supposed to do?

On one level, I know exactly what I'm supposed to do.

Get this desktop computer working so I can post these words and keep in contact with everyone I'm suddenly missing in Britain. And to let them know I'm missing them, and how sorry I am I didn't take them seriously when they said they'd miss me.

Get familliar with the layout of this town, and pick up some basics of the language.

Fill out an inventory of things the school will need, especially books.

Advise on getting those new computers they want.

Come up with an outline for an English course to teach. Which in one sentence both sums up and obscures a vast amount of work.

I'm here for a month. That's the basic committment. Enough time to know whether I want to stay longer. One month - I can cope with that.

Tea / Off


"Eat, drink and say only good words"
- Bulgarian saying

"If there are no wars there are no heroes."
- Bulgarian saying

"The way back is always shorter."
- Bulgarian saying

"The vinyard doesn't need prayer, it needs a hoe."
- Bulgarian saying

“Hungary is very similar to Bulgaria. I know they're different countries.”
- Kevin Keegan

An afternoon with C, browsing bookshops and drinking tea.

An early evening with Paul T, comparing future plans and drinking tea.

A late evening with parents, marking my departure with roast dinner. And a nice cup of tea.

A night with comrades, dissecting the American elections. No tea.

And in between all the goodbyes, some slightly frantic packing. With teabreaks.

Do you like my new cyrillic logo? I'm thinking I should have a logo appropriate for each country I end up in.

Right. Just off to catch a train at four in the morning. I'll be in touch. See you.

Jen Mia Mondo


"You're gonna be a bad mothercrusher."
- Dialogue from "Robocop", as broadcast on British TV.

More delays, more stupid letters from bureaucrats, more computers to mend...and then mend again when they crashed after the first time. But there's a plane ticket with my name on it for Sofia. I leave Monday.

Or rather, I leave around 3am on what for most people is Sunday night, take a series of trains to Gatwick Airport, stand around for three hours, and spend another three hours getting cramp in the air.

And then take a two hour train journey to the school. Which is when the actual work starts.

The end of the world is nigh. Absolutely right nigh.

I was meant to meet C today, but something must have gone wrong - he hadn't been in contact and his phone seems to no longer exist. I'm a bit worried but there's not much I can do. In the meantime, I spent a happy 45 minutes in the shopping precinct, just in case he turned up.

Happy but puzzled by what was going on around me.

There was a red double decker buss draped with a message about a music festival, and next to that an off-white removals van belonging to the "Solent Dog Performance Team". Near the former a young man sang pop songs of the last fifty years (and some jazz standards) to backing tapes, flanked by a clown with a sockpuppet monkey and a half dozen people dressed for the office.

The style was "easy listening" - so easy as to be unlistenable. The musical equivalent of water that someone's boiled for a couple of months just to remove all troublesome flavour.

Outside the van mingled twenty middle aged men and women in identical blue track suits, half with dogs of various small breeds. Circling around were four cheerful types dressed as a highwayman and three peasants, handing out leaflets, all in whiteface, one spattered with stage blood. They seemed to know the dog owners, and I wondered whether there was an obscure connection between dog agility tests and...seventeenth century zombies. If that's what they were.

There were the usual youngsters in logoed jackets, collecting for one charity or another, all schooled to adopt identical faux-friendly attitudes. The manner is so ubiquitous and uniform now that it's ceased even to be an annoyance and become part of the background - it stopped being successful I'd say three years ago. One collector was teaching himself to whirl his empty clipboard on his index finger, like a fancy 1920s waiter with a tray of drinks.

A newspaper stand blurted today's slightly desperate local headline: Gran Gets Email Death Threat. And around it, groups of teenagers in low slung drainpipe jeans and antifascist badges shared ipods.

Standing in the middle of it all, glaring disapprovingly in the one direction with no people in it, a pretend-policewoman took notes furiously. "Special Officers" they're called - members of the public who get no training, no pay, no powers and no respect, but they do get a uniform that looks a bit like a police outfit, and a remit to stand around looking policey. Some of them misunderstand their role and try to "fight crime", before the relentless ridicule gets them housetrained,

This scene will be my last memory for a while of what Portsmouth grandly calls it's "city centre".

Anyway, I'm nearly gone.

Het Boy, Get Girl


“I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me.”
- Hunter S Thompson

“The intermediate stage between socialism and capitalism is alcoholism”
- Norman Brenner

“Drunkenness is nothing but voluntary madness”
- Seneca

Saturday Morning: Train up to London and not very happy about being asked to do so. The boss of the school in Bulgaria wanted to meet again to (a) check that my certificates look genuine and (b) tell me a lot of things an email could have conveyed quicker.

I'm running out of cash, so spending GBP20 to do things that didn't really need doing wasn't something I did willingly. Plus the weather was freezing cold. And my mp3 player broke down. And I hadn't had enough sleep. And I'd cut my finger shaving (don't ask).

And then because I managed to get lost in central London.

Still, he did reimburse me, and did say he'd buy the textbooks I recommended.

Saturday Afternoon: Sleeping on the train home. Though before that I somehow found myself in the middle of a hundred Japanese schooolgirls on a daytrip. They were greatly impressed that I knew all about Hadu Gei.

Saturday Evening: Noshing good food and mocking bad TV - always a good combination.

Saturday Night: This is where things get a bit blurred. I remember bumping into a university friend in the pub, being introduced to his friend...and the latter French kissing me. At least twice. In a crowded pub full of people who took no notice at all. This is one thing I shall miss about Britain.

I was a little bit drunk. He challenged me to snog him...we snogged...and after a full thirty seconds he recoiled and exclaimed "Oh my God you're gay!". It seems he wasn't. A minute later we snogged again, with full tongues and groping hands. And then he bought me a drink...and went off to chat up some girls. Unsuccessfully.

And I got invited to drink lots of vodka at the home of another old friend. And after seven hours of vodka and philosophy (irreconcilable ethical imperatives, egalitarianism vs leadership, revolutionary theory and practice in an insufficiently analysed world) I finally staggered home.

Sunday Afternoon: Woke up with a hangover. Went back to sleep. Got woken up again by a call from someone for who the sentence "I've got a hangover" is an invitation to tell anecdotes about hangovers, and not a hint to please go away.

I have a French admirer.

(J'ai un admirateur français :-).)

One thing. The post is archived as "Le Nant en Persone". But what is a "Nant"? Is it good or bad?

Nevermind, pretty cool anyway. Less cool though is somehow getting a link from a blog of masturbation links.

Huh? Huh! Masturbation is for wankers. And fellatio sucks.

Others have found me by searching for:

crank that curry souce

homersexul men

pear shape shag

usb masterbation [hmmm...]

do boys masterbate with each other

the great burglar-catching machine

...and three hits for "2 Girls 1 Cup"!

Oh yes, I leave as soon as the plane ticket arrives. Which may even be tomorrow.

Going, Going...


“They spoil every romance by trying to make it last forever.”
- Oscar Wilde

“Romance, like the rabbit at the dog track, is the elusive fake."
- Beverly Jones

“The love that lasts the longest is the love that is never returned.”
- William Somerset Maughan

Sunday: Babysitting while trying to fix a computer.

Monday: Being stood up,

Tuesday: Babysitting while assembling the new computer. And being stood up again later.

Many years ago, I used a DOS program called "Langanal" for some linguistics work. It simply takes a text file and produces a list of what words are used in it with what frequency. Well I found the program again and ran it on this here blog.

And the results: Out of 22152 different words, I've mentioned "Sex" 170 times, "Money" 125 times, "Police" 112 times, "Christmas" 99 times and used the word "deglamourised" once.

Here then are 100 words at the bottom of the list:

yuppie
sugars
shedder
carreer
rationalising
lunchboxes
wristwatches
prophylactics
tank
youthful
invert
levitate
disgusting
peeks
netizens
clucked
huddled
luminous
toothache
physician
scraping
recovers
topless
laundering
bribery
overhauls
inspectors
haulage
trucker
flashy
certificates
mauled
conjugal
pissing
correlation
edges
cheek
nail
redneck
nashville
fingerpicking
downloadable
disseminating
sacking
amazement
auxiliaries
politeness
distancing
degeneracy
rituals
buddhists
eightfold
fourfold
gautama
tao
ching
meditated
behaved
clerics
moderation
confucianism
overpoweringly
wicca
jainism
cosmogony
attractions
sparked
stalinesque
elaborately
patented
tuck
ju
jitsu
missionary
sweeping
sufflate
ringtones
flattering
bonk
balloon
tasteful
decorated
mixers
clubbed
slurred
proscribed
aspergers
tourettes
wonderdrugs
pharmaceutical
valium
oppositional
defiance
bureaucracies
genus
fecally
dehydrating
contagious
immunity
stares


I did write several drafts of a post on a slightly more serious linguistics topic - phrasal verbs that usually occur in the passive voice, such as "Fed up". We say "I'm fed up (with him)", but not "He feeds me up".

However, perhaps fortunately, there's six different partial drafts of the post, and writing them has just served to make me more confused.

I'm off to London again on Saturday for "final arrangements" with the boss of the Bulgarian school. I might get to meet the other teacher too. Then on Monday (or possibly Tuesday) I catch a plane.

Before that, meet up with C on Friday (for a late valentine), and then tell my beloved jobcentre why their services are no longer required.

I've been offered another job out of the blue. Assistant Director of Studies for a school in Khartoum. Which, BTW, is a sharia city. Yes, that's what I thought.

A school in Sudan are so desperate for someone to more-or-less run the show, they're offering the post to someone with no experience - of teaching or admin.

No word on what happened to the previous ADOS, but the email mentioned a recent berevement.

The irony is, in Bulgaria I'd be effectively Director of Studies anyway - in the first month there'll be little or no teaching, but lots of designing the curriculum from scratch.

Pear Shaped


"Things get worse under pressure."
- Murphy's Law of Thermodynamics

There are things that annoy me. For instance:

* Having to wait two and a half hours for a shag.

* Having to wait outside, at night, in the cold, with nothing to do except walk around the block - and then do it again.

* The bloke, when he eventually turns up, being too stoned to shag.

...and as an extra added bonus:

* Being unable to summon up the energy to be extremely pissed off. Even when he suggests trying again the next night.

Anyway, it should be an eventful weekend. My last weekend in this sodding country for a while.

Saturday - straighten out flight and accommodation arrangement with the school in the morning, meet up with C in the afternoon for retail therapy and tea, and impose upon a comrade for evening meal and night in the pub.

Sunday - packing by day, babysitting in the evening...and a damn good night's sleep in preparation for Monday's fight.

Assuming of course that nothing goes wrong or gets delayed. Not that I'm being pessimistic. Just...experienced and cautious. Which is like pessimistic, but done by older people.

update:

I missed the call from the school because...I overslept - the plan is to try again later.

I missed the meeting with C because...he overslept - the plan is to try again later.

Update:

There has been a ssmmaallll technical hitch at the school. The rooms rented to house teachers have been repossessed. It seems the owners were not scrupulously honest about their tax. The upshot of this is:

* All the furniture, equipment and paperwork there is now being hurridly relocated to the school's office.

* The temporary accommodation of myself and the lady teacher who's just been recruited will be...the office.

* It'll take a few days to kit the office out for 24/7 habitation, so...plans to go out there are being put back for a week. With the absolutely cast-in-stone signed-in-blood assurance that I will fly out on Sunday week. Or possibly Monday.

In other words:

I Am Delayed!

Again!


Gggaaaaahhh!

Glut


"Hello my good friend .

How are you today? Hope all is well with you and your family? [...] if you do not remember me, you might have receive an email from me in the past regarding a multi-million-dollar business proposal which we never concluded.

I am using this opportunity to inform you about my success in getting the fund released and transferred to Trinidad and Tobago bank....

Due to your effort, sincerity, courage and trust worthiness You showed during the course of the transaction.I deemed it right to compensate you and show my gratitude to you with the sum of $1,200,000.00.

My dear friend I will like you to contact my SECRETARY IN BENIN [...] for the collection of your bank draft.

Thanks and God bless you and your family.
Hoping to hear from you.
Regards
DENIS WILLIMAS.

Email: morrisije14@yahoo.fr
Tel: +22993682297"

- Mr Morris Ije, Financial Consultant

With some computers you know exactly what the problem is, and sometimes that means knowing exactly why you can't fix it.

With other computers you've got no idea what the problem is, because every test you run indicates there shouldn't be a problem. This is the more frustrating of the two.

There's a special subtype of the second category - computers that work perfectly...until quite suddenly and for no visible reason, they don't work at all. Occasionally they start working again, equally mysteriously, and they give you a look as if to say "What me? Dunno what you mean! I've always been exactly like this." This one is like dealing with humans.

I am spending this week staring at three computers - one of each type. And I am more than a little bit sick of doing it.

However, tonight I'm taking a break. Tonight will be spent drinking, gossiping, dissecting philosophical conundrums (conundra?) and eating large amounts of curry. With the owners of the computers,

Oh yes, I'm due to fly out to Bulgaria on Monday 11th. Possibly at four in the morning, if the cheapest flights happen to be then.

I'll be taking:
* Rincewind (this laptop)
* USB mouse, USB qwerty keyboard, USB midi keyboard, USB speakers, and USB memory sticks
* A small stack of DVDs containing software
* A small stack of DVDs containing, um, DVDs
* A large stack of DVDs containing music
* Some books on how to speak the insane language they have in Bulgaria
* Some books on how to teach the insane language we have in the UK
* A big bag of clothes.

And yes, they want me to fix up the computers in Bulgaria when I'm not teaching.

Last night I met a taxi driver who'd given up a career of computer maintenance to drive around the town for half as many hours for twice the pay. We spent a happy journey home comparing frustrations and hating Bill Gates.

Update the next morning: There was indeed too much good food, too much bad alcohol, and in the end too much deep sleep. I consider the night preliminary field research for life in Bulgaria.

Working My Way Back to You


Okay, more or less back on line. With an experimental new setup that was far too many eyestrain headaches in the making. And still a bit unreliable.

Quotes will be at the top again when I get my quotefile back. Yes, I left it round someone's house when fixing their computer.

It's my father's birthday. I'm not quite sure how old he is, but it's probably 72. We marked the occasion with a giant multiflavoured takeaway curry - and three hours later, we're all still immobile with indigestion.

I was supposed to meet up with MK for some amour de bouche, but he'd somehow managed to get sixteen pints of beer down his gorge, so was also incapacitated.

Here's a computer maintenence tip for anyone who, like me, has multiple operating systems on the same computer, on different partitions:

When defragmenting one partition's OS from inside another, delete the first OS's page file first. It's easily done, just like deleting any other file. That way, you won't waste time defragging the page file, and when it reappears when you boot up in the defragged OS, it'll be neat and unfragmented anyway.

And if those two paragraphs meant absolutely nothing to you, you computer could probably do with the attentions of someone like, well, me for instance.

Yes, I now have three versions of Windows XP running on this laptop. One is a third the size of a standard installation, with all the useless guff cleared out to make it run faster. One is stripped down even more, specialised for sound processing. And the third...is a standard installation, just in case the other's fall over later.

Eight days ago I asked the head of the Bulgarian language school when I could start, and he said "Definitely within the next fourteen days."

Yesterday I asked for an update and he said "When the apartment is vacant." So, I'm basically waiting on a tennant to move out, which may or may not be encouraging.

David has sent me a rather lovely book, all the way from across the pond. "Wired Michigan" is a compendium of all that's unexplained, ghostly, or just plain ideosyncratic around his home ground.

Sightings of strange animals, decidedly eccentric local folk, highly personalised architecture, rather a lot of ghosts and the occasional mass murderer.

So that's my bedtime reading - I'm thinking some of it would be good for my students, when the finally appear.

I bumped into Ralph today. Like seemingly everyone else in Britain, he's sick of the way the country's going and is casting around for some clearly identifiable cause - or failing that, someone to blame. And like a lot of people I've spoken to recently, would like to go somewhere else but can't.

His band - the nicely named "Retrobates" - should be recording soon, and I'll be interested to hear what they come up with.

Another technical tip:

If you're typing up a blog entry while your computer is doing something experimental and possibly dangerous in the background, especially if it's turning into a long and thought provoking essay...

...save it somewhere safe, or else you may find it vanishes when your computer crashes and loses all data, And then you'll have to bash your head against the wall for a bit, which no one wants.

I'm just saying.