You say mud, I say river, imaginary sports and an incredibly disgruntled green team.

Last week I went to an activities camp in which the students had to speak in English, they were aged 8-11, quite small and wore big smiles. That’s enough description.

 

On my second day there, twenty boy, aged eight to nine transformed the remnants of a stream caused by rain into a fully-blown river. We were supposed to be playing games with them but after having a drink of water they each started working as a team using only their plastic cups and the water tap to create the river. They then got more into it, and some of them became diggers so that the water would run in the right direction and others were supervisors but only a couple. The majority were working hard to make the river. This lasted 50 minutes.

 

The imagination is something we’re taught to use less as we get older but I think it is among the most important parts of our thought process.

 

Without imagination, where do new ideas come from?

 

Anyway.

 

Inspired by their achievement of building a river with a tap and some cups, when we returned to the camp, there was a pair of bored kids by the table football that required one euro to play. (I know, right. One euro). I stood beside one of them and placed an invisible ball on the table before beginning to spin, jolt and throw the players all over the pitch. At first, they looked at me like I was mad. Then they made a bold choice and were mad with me. My team suffered a valiant 9-7 defeat, but that was okay. We played for free.

 

I later lost a game of imaginary ping pong, mainly because every time the ball was on my side of the table it would turn into a steaming boulder or an arrow or bullet.

 

Beware of children. They will cheat and they will laugh at you when they win.

 

On the final morning, we had to walk oh so far (for small legs), to play a game in the woods. There were four teams of four different colours who had a code to decipher. Each of the letters was printed on card that was the colour of their team. Blue, orange, red and green.

Now at this point you may be thinking, this is a good idea. You would be right if they didn’t have to play it in the woods. The woods are green.

 

It was impossible to find the cards. They found half and everyone else had finished. The best thing was, instead of playing the game and deciphering the code, a lot of the children from other teams wanted to help the green team find their cards.

 

The long and the short of it is, nobody won the game but kindness overwhelmed the want for victory so much that it didn’t matter.

 

I think I learned more from the kids over three days than the kids did from me.

The lonely man who had a tan.

*like all good lies this piece of fiction is largely true apart from large parts of it which are false so don’t believe any of it unless you want to but then you might get yourself all in a pickle so you probably shouldn’t*

 

There was a man

He had a tan,

From walking in the sun.

He walked alone,

that lonely road,

because his friends had gone.

He said to them

‘See the sun!’

But they’d already gone.

They said to him

‘We have new friends now’.

So the man then tanned his bum.

His bum turned red,

not brown instead,

Then it began to itch.

He couldn’t wear trousers,

or even his pants*

So he bathed the burn in the bath.

And when he got out,

he started to shout,

‘You’re having a ruddy laugh!’

His bum had been red,

But was now purple instead,

Because he’d put dye in the water.

He’d though it was lavender,

But it wasn’t,

It was dye. **

So the man sat sore and purple,

The man was alone,

and his friends were gone,

No more could the man,

Show his bum to the sun.

He didn’t know what it was he could do,

So he did nothing (which was a shame because I think it’s possible he had a lot to offer).

 

*For Americans, Canadians and anyone else who is confused about pants, this section of the poem will read rather like a thesaurus. Pants is intended to mean underpants, panties or boxers etc.

 

** That’s the last time I put lavender at the end of a line, it won’t happen again.

I wrote blogs, just in my head I promise.

This last week, I have been terrible at writing on here which has made me feel terrible in my head.

 

This week from Tuesday until Friday I will be incapable of writing on here because I’m going to be having fun in the mountains.

 

Maybe I’ll take some paper in case I need to write (which I do).

 

Either way, patience is a virtue and you’ll get your share of blogs when they’ve finished cooking so cool your beans and eat some toast with them.

 

Kind regards.

Two mountains, a dog called thunder, Catalan gun threats and lemons.

This weekend my body has been tested and it has passed. I´m a little sore but considering I have done no exercise since I´ve been here, I´m surprisingly well.

I´ve mounted two mountains.

The first was on Saturday, I´d say there was a 50/50 split between uphill and downhill walking. We were with a dog called Thunder or Tro in Catalan. He was a babe.

I was with the teachers from the school and we walked up the mountain before drinking and eating a lot.

Whilst walking I saw a man running with a horse (as you do), there was a man shouting in Catalan and I later found out that he said he had a gun and he was going to shoot us.

He didn´t.

On the way back I saw a cactus, not in a shop but just hanging out on a hill.

Then I picked lemons. Lots of lemons.

In the evening I went and sat in Mataro, had a fantastic sandwich, watched stars, discussed epilepsy and missed about three different methods of transport so I watched a lot of stars.

Next time I´ll walk home.

On Sunday I walked up another mountain without any warning. The Dad of my host family doesn´t speak much English so he just said ´Leo Messi´(referring to a wonderfully orange pair of trainers I borrow because I have none in Barcelona). So I donned the fruity beauties and we went a-walking.

It was good.

I will put pictures up later.

Later in the day we went to Barceloneta and I climbed up a big rope pyramid thing and then had close to thirty running races with an 8-year old on a scooter.

Every one was a draw. I couldn´t believe it either.

Then I ate noodles and went to bed.

I also started a motorcycle gang this weekend. We´ll be more convincing when the bikes arrive.

Wednesday’s epiphany is Thursday’s freedom.

On Wednesday I sat at a computer in the teacher’s room as I do at any given moment I am not in class, eating, playing games on my phone or going to the toilet (the last two are like salt and pepper if I’m being honest).

 

I sat there, planning a lesson and listening to music.

 

I was minding my own business when.

 

Bam.

 

Out of nowhere, the most obvious idea came into my head.

 

 

Why don’t I do music?

 

‘Doing music’ is something I am yet to define and the last time I asked Oxford, they were struggling for an answer, too. But despite this. It’s the new dream.

 

I’m looking into it. Whether it’s a degree, an a-level or a certificate to prove I can successfully draw a crotchet, I am determined to ‘do music’.

 

It’s a massive work in progress but it’s one that made me realised that for a long time I have been exploring avenues as if by trial and error instead of doing something I love. The main reason I haven’t is because I didn’t want music to become a chore. Which is still a thought I hold but at the same time, the fact I don’t want to study something because I love it to much to learn more about it sort of doesn’t make any sense.

 

Also, I decided if I’m going to spend the rest of my days slowly going mad, which is almost certain, then I might as well make some half-decent tunes to leave behind.

 

As a result of this thought, my daily life has become somewhat a period of time in which I try to research more and sing more and play music more. I’m busy, but I’ll never be too busy for music. And if the dream is to be busy ‘doing music’, then let’s ruddy get down to it and ‘do music’.

 

 

 

As an afterthought to this somewhat self indulgent entry in a somewhat self-indulgent blog. I am going to indulge in a Spanish factoid given to e by someone who thinks they aren’t funny or interesting enough to write a decent blog. I think they are wrong and this is why.

 

‘Friends with benefits in Spanish is translated to ‘friends which rub sometimes’.’

 

Adios.

Extracurricular reading.

‘How do you say this?’

 

*The paper reads ‘gergeous’*

 

‘I think you mean this’

 

*I change the word to gorgeous*

 

‘Is it jorjus?’

 

‘No, you say it gorjus.’

 

‘Ah, thank you.’

 

‘Where did you see the word?’

 

‘On a website.’

 

‘Which website?’

 

‘No’

A Columbian, a French man, and an English man were eating onions in a forest between two mountains.

They were very nice.

 

They spoke in French, Spanish and English. It was very confusing but surprisingly fun.

 

The Columbian did not want her olives so the others helped out.

 

They all drank wine and had a very pleasant afternoon.

The pyjama fish.

There was a dish,

a slippery dish,

like a soapy treat,

with fishy meat,

it´s given name,

was pyjama fish,

and it often granted,

many a wish,

but fisherman fished,

for pyjama fish

and so was granted,

their every wish,

they wished for fish

and a slippery dish

but alas, now nobody,

has heard of this fish.

It lived for love,

and died for honesty,

the pyjama fish was not one

for controversy,

It had its rules,

it stuck to them,

the pyjama fish,

was never again.