prior to coming to lisbon poem, written at 3am...

to lisbon to lisbon that's where i'll go
no reason no reason but that's where i'll go
escaping our winter, hail, rain and snow
to lisboa portugal, that's where i'll go


Where will i go, what will i do
i'll teach, break and surf, that's what i'll do
not in the know, without muchuva clue
where and what, i'll manage to do

i've waited,.. oh i've put off and waited...
.....now is the time, the time has come
to finally,...... yes finally
... become a tefl bum!



......................................................................
first (and possibly last poem)........

Eduardo scissorhands and the 'get him' haircuts

Needing a haircut in a foreign land is always odd. For women, I must say, it has to be easier. The standards are always high. Women are treated well whereever they are. No such luck for guys. For us a barbers can be VERY different, city to city, let alone country to country. And so the dark tale unfolds,....

I needed a haircut, I'd let it grow and it had grown too much, I had to put a stop to it.

Finding a cabeleireiro, was hard, pronouncing it was harder. I spent about 2 hours looking for one, and 2 weeks trying to say the damn word. I sound like a boxer who has broken his jaw trying to say something after drinking one to many,... it's attractive.

So i get directed to one, plodding on in the burning sun. I'm in a tee shirt, others are head to toe covered, I keep forgetting, its 'winter'. I arrive into what can only be described as a, well, my feeble mind can't think of a good description, apart from the fact that it was dingy, dark and looked like it was out of a weird 1970's detective film. The hair cuts, to my shock, matched. No one wanted razors, so they new I was um estrangeiro. Pity, tho i'd much prefer coming out with pride than looking like a 1970s porno reject, sorry detective film reject. Same thing. Back to the story,

I'm sitting there thinking how I can explain it, wishing I'd revised, (or rather learnt) some haircut vocab. My turn in the chair. The dude takes a phone call. Mighty professional there detective Joao Silva. Anyway, a few chuckles later and the spotlights on the dumb dude. I just say um pouco acqui, pouco aqui, and motion the length. I say for him to use, and point to the clippers.

This is when the detective morphs into a superhuman, or rather ageing odd looking. EDUARDO scissorhands. 5 motions of the scissors, with only one chop, his accuracy is shocking (note:bad)
and I'm now sitting in my chair practically saying my prays outloud, who gives a, they wouldn't undestand jake, jack i mean, anyway. So... I try and think of something to say but my limited skills can't be used. I wish I could say something, anything to calm the manic pace at which Eduardo is chopping.

Finale. Good. I'm alive. No. Funk. What's he doing. He goes to get a cut throat razor and motions over my neck, cutting fine hairs around my ears and back of the neck, this actually hurts. Someone get some help; Englishman in pain. 10 euros later and he cut my forehead(aggrevating a lovely spot) and made my hairline as a red as an embarrassed Englishman walking down the road with blood and hair mixed up on his face, sweating buckets in the middle of winter.

Well. Eduardo, despite his lack of the knack for his 'trade', is probably getting rich from his 5 minute quick wrist action, 'get him' haircuts. Another haircut done and dusted. As you can tell from my tone, I'll be seeing Eduardo again, possibly in hell.

The call was answered, by someone else

The call was answered, by someone else

So it was answered. After nights awake thinking about how i could do it, refurbish, rent etc nothing came to fruition as the day my people were to look at it, it sold! This wasn't my soul I'm talking abot, just in case you got confused, it was the under priced gem of a repossessed property on the edge of Bournville, my old stomping ground.

Dreams of property empires have been put on the backburner. Damn right, need a new mp3 player anyway,...... (inadvertently helps to keep the Portuguese economy alive),...........

call of the repossessed

Call of the repossessed

When I was at university, demoralized from projections of rejection when applying for jobs (turned out to be right, how far can one get with a dub standard film degree?) I thought to myself that I needed to find other ways of making some coins,..

I was a bit down, I had plenty of time so started frequenting the living room and watching the golden box. On this golden box, back in 2004ish were plenty of shows about property. This started something in me. I was seeing before my very eyes punks without two brain cells between them making moolah from buying and selling property. That's not too say it's easy, certainly the last 5 years(well 2002ish to 2006/7) any schmuck has been able to turn a profit with the rising tide in prices, not now though. The tide has turned and boats are getting sunk, big time.

So I when I was at uni, I bought a few books on the matter. Delved into them with a fervor that should've been equaled with desire to do well at my degree course........ anywho,..... Realised that this property game was for any schmo, but that schmo needed money, and lots of it. To the eager student, with no cash, a 10k deposit seems to be unsurmountable.

I wanted to get work, earning a decent wage once I'd graduated. Unfortunately the receipts in life (things we add up and inscribe on god awful cvs )meant that my grade (my receipt for the astronomical debt I'd accumulated) was not sufficient for the gleaming, golden graduate scheme. Hmmm.... hard nut to crack.

TEFL! I had developed an interest in languages through teaching some Japanese friends breakdancing, leanrt a bit and thought it a good idea to go bumming around the world for a bit. Fast forward to now and I'm in Portugal, bored at 2am looking online randomly at house prices. I see a very cheap house. 3 beds, 65k. Excited at high yields and everything greedy, I can't sleep (how bad is that?).

This property, it turns out, is in dire state, and has been repossessed, hence the rock bottom price. The ill effects of the harshness of the market system mean that repossessions are possible, unfortunately, and let schmos with no money onto the highly inflated (due to other schmos with money) property market,

Traveling, learning languages, generally larking about in the sun, bboying etc, is what I like doing. I always thought this impossible with the other dream of financial freedom, working for one self and being truly free from all the b/s that dependency on employed work brings. I'm not a big fan of feeling powerless, renting makes me feel like that. Dependency on a job also makes me feel that way. There's always things I know I could do better, and being a schmo at the bottom of the pecking order means I have to ask for permission to do grand magnificent acts like photocopying. Graduate skills shining here.

So. For the chastened poor, repossessed property is the way to go. Cheap, a project (freedom ) and the possibility of financial freedom, clout and a bit of pride at the end of the tunnel. Maybe this house won't work for me, no big deal. I'm patient, well, if forced to be! I'll wait on the sideline, though the call of the repossessed is pretty compelling!

a good day

A good day

Today I was a bit worried as my monthly bus, tram and metro card ran out and a) i didn't know where to renew it on a Saturday b) I didn't want mammoth 5 hour queues like last time c) couldn;'t really be bothered to find the energy to find out what to do.

In the morning the sun was shining. Unfortunately I got up at the slap my wrist hour of 12, midday. With my daily schedule changing everyday, and days off midweek, plus good tv on in the evenings, I find it hard to get up before 11, which I'm told is normal here (if you are an English teacher and don't get home till 11 or midnight everyday).

So, basketball. We couldn't play yesterday as the clouds above looked angry. We went out, but it rained so we came back. Oddly the rain lasted for a whole 20 mins to leave the sky clear and sunny for the rest of the day. I swear that kind of sky in England would cause at least a days rain. I'm still learning things about here.

So we played basketball at our local courts. Then, we came home. I ate some of my spectacular soup (tad biased) and chilled out for a bit. I opened my window/door and sat on the window ledge overlooking Lisbon whilst bathing/reading (John Grisham's 'A Firma' Portguese version)in the sun. Part of the package that allured me to Lisbon was their mellow half-arsed winters (hopes he doesn't tempt fate).

Next we went shopping (new place I've never been to), always fun. Managed to buy the elusive travel card at the local newsagent! Easier than hating my boss, bonus! Then, picked up a watch for the wholesome price of 10E and went on the thrice weekly food shop.

Home. Pull ups, food and some Portuguese chatter. Doesn't sound like much, but for me, today was a good day.

Trouble in Paradise

Trouble in Paradise

Paradise being where I'm living, trouble being where I'm at. Work is piling on the pressure. Saturday observation. Sunday break. Monday work. Tuesday observation, by dickhead dave. Wednesday day off. Thursday observation by delta, higher qualified, teacher (in training).

An observation is a bit like a test for teachers where every task, explanation, behavioural trait, joke, even body language is judged and duly scrutinised. It's about as fun as being unarmed on the front line with a 10ft sign saying shoot me. For those not liking that imagery it's similar to a test for teachers, though it's normally one per month, not three in a week, or five in two, for yours truly.

The effect on this has meant my nerves have gone slightly. Over the past few days and weeks I have had problems sleeping, hands sweaty and dreaming of teaching. A tefl bums' nightmare.

Writing this it's actually been a few days since the pressure and things have slightly improved, but as Monday showed, there may be more n store. (Meticulous)Preparation, as they say, is key. Though paradise is not usually synonymous with hard work.