It's Peru, Baby.

Notting Hill is still looking a bit grubby after the carnival, metal barriers are remain piled up everywhere, and the whole place seems to be coated in a thick layer of ground-in rice and peas, Red Stripe beer, and multi-national vomit. I must say I've been generally bemused by the telly and newspaper coverage of the carnival, showing elaborate costumes and beaming faces, as when Tito and I went on Sunday neither of those things were much in evidence. It was a gorgeous sunny day, and we arrived at about 2pm, generally looking forward to the experience - ever optimistic, us (though I had indeed read descriptions of the event that mentioned the possibility of much warm beer, overcrowding, and unglamourous dancers). Tito and I do pride ourselves on our ability to enjoy things against the odds, but even half a mickey of brandy and a spliff couldn't get me fired up about the straggly bunch of fat t-shirted dancers the parade seemed to offer, so we went off in search of something better. We found it in the form of the Latin Music soundsystem, and had a brilliantly fun street salsa... Tito carrying off the crown for best male hip swiveller in the vicinity; possibly in the UK. This was all very nice and civilised, but we thought we'd better explore what else was on offer. I popped to the skanky male toilets (Tito made me do it when it became apparent I'd be queuing for the ladies for about 7 hours) and then we picked up a plate of scrumptious barbecued jerk chicken and scoffed it double quick. Things, unfortunately, went downhill from that point on. We headed towards a few decent soundsystems, only to be put off by the absolutely deafening levels of sound, bouncing and echoing around the narrow streets. People blew plastic whistles and horns forcefully and indiscriminately. I immediately developed a banging headache and ringing ears. Teens pushed and shoved and occasionally caused organised panic by all starting running in the same direction at the same time. The streets were piled high with rubbish, people skidded around on plastic plates and twisted ankles on discarded beer cans. Children wailed to be taken home, but were consoled with noisemakers whilst mum tried to ram a way through the litter with the pushchair. It was absolutely horrible. We tried in vain to find relief, but it semed that we must have missed the' good bit' of the parade, if there was indeed one. By that time the shadows had begun to lengthen and it became obvious that we were being herded out of Notting Hill by the police. I was jolly pleased. Never again, I tell you, never again. But at least we know now!

The thing about working in a trendy/touristy area of central London (I teach in South Kensington and Notting Hill) is that everybody always seems to be enjoying life more than you. People linger in sunny cafes over a coffee and newspaper, directionless American tourists wander fatly along, carefree English language students gather in laughing groups on the pavement, posh yummy mummies push chubby yummy babies around the park. I scurry to work darting envious looks, ever aware that though I may covet the afternoon pub-goer's lifestyle, I'd better make a penny or two before I start. The teaching work which I wasn't sure if I would get this summer is continuing, you see. This is great, really the last thing I am in need of right now is a holiday... yet I had kinda hoped that I might have some non-optional time off to try and get some journalistic balls rolling, so to speak. I suppose it will all come in good time, with the right effort, but it's still quite a challenge to put that effort forth when I haven't got used to being married, living in London, my new job, or my totally new life yet. Kaveh, my boss, just asked me if I'd prefer to teach 6 or 8 hours a day come September, which adds to my confusion. Do I need to work flat-out at a job which I am pretty sure is fairly short-term? (Yet, he asked again if I'd like to go to China to do teacher training - is this just carrot-dangling?) Or should I use those extra hours to write? We desperately need some financial stability, and realistically, will I just end up whiling away those precious extra hours over a steamy cappucino, watching the increasingly autumnal world go by? Hmm. All I know is that busy people get things done. Sod it, I'm off to read the newspaper in Starbucks. Bye!

Bah... is it only Thursday? After almost two weeks teaching elementary level summer school students, I've almost lost track. Days on end of things like "Do you like cook?" and "Teacher, what means 'does'?" frazzle the brain somewhat. I. Also. Find. I. Am. Now. Talking. Very. Very. Slowly. Even. When. Not. In. The. Classroom. I've got some real characters... a Cameroonian lad with a perpetual snotty nose who bursts into sudden laughter and complicated hand clapping for no discernable reason, a 56 year old French-Morrocan man with a hearing problem which tends to make conversations oddly Malkovich-like, and a spotty, anorexic Iranian girl who is unbearably spoilt and lazy - but whom I have much difficulty disciplining - seeing as her MOTHER is in the class, too! Yesterday afternoon, the non-English-using Saudi Arabian boy came up to me with the word 'MISSION' on his electronic dictionary screen, grabbed his bag, and left. It's action-packed, my classroom, I tell ya. So, when I was asked this morning if I'd rather take the afternoon off, or accompany 20 students to Madam Tussaud's, the choice was easy. And here I am, cappucino in hand... finally blogging. But it's a lovely, sunny day outside, so I think I shall go and make the most of it.

Bah... is it only Thursday? After almost two weeks teaching elementary level summer school students, I've almost lost track. Days on end of things like "Do you like cook?" and "Teacher, what means 'does'?" frazzle the brain somewhat. I. Also. Find. I. Am. Now. Talking. Very. Very. Slowly. Even. When. Not. In. The. Classroom. I've got some real characters... a Cameroonian lad with a perpetual snotty nose who bursts into sudden laughter and complicated hand clapping for no discernable reason, a 56 year old French-Morrocan man with a hearing problem which tends to make conversations oddly Malkovich-like, and a spotty, anorexic Iranian girl who is unbearably spoilt and lazy - but whom I have much difficulty disciplining - seeing as her MOTHER is in the class, too! Yesterday afternoon, the non-English-using Saudi Arabian boy came up to me with the word 'MISSION' on his electronic dictionary screen, grabbed his bag, and left. It's action-packed, my classroom, I tell ya. So, when I was asked this morning if I'd rather take the afternoon off, or accompany 20 students to Madam Tussaud's, the choice was easy. And here I am, cappucino in hand... finally blogging. But it's a lovely, sunny day outside, so I think I shall go and make the most of it.