The Long Goodbye Part 2: Finding My Mojo in the UK's Smallest City

This Saturday, I effectively went on a blind date.  I say, 'effectively' because I certainly didn't leave the house with that intention but the effect was more or less the same.  My intention, as such, was to make the most of the fact that I was living in Canterbury during the festival.  My other intention had been to corral at least one other person I knew into going with me.  It wasn't meant to be and, seeing as I am a big girl now,  I decided that I wasn't going to let a little thing like the lack of a dance partner stand in my way.

Going out on my own in Whitstable never proved to be much of an issue and it's something I'm very used to doing there.  Everybody knows everybody in some form or other anyway.  The only time it can be a bit of a problem is if you do, genuinely, want to be alone.  But then, of course, you just don't go out.   However, if you are on the look-out for familiar faces, you only really need to pop along to watch a bit of pub-based rock somewhere.  In fact, you only need to pop out for a loaf of bread (ok, I'm lying, a bottle of wine).

The last time I really socialised on a large scale in Canterbury, however, was when I was living there as a teenager.  This might seem strange, given that Whitstable is only 8 miles up the road - but then they don't call it 'The Bubble' for nothing.   Even in my teens, the Whitstable bubble started to draw me in, a bit like that big balloon thingy in 'The Prisoner'.  The Canterbury scene - or at least 'my' Canterbury scene - dispersed in the meantime.

It was my awareness of this fact, coupled with the size of Canterbury in relation to Whitstable (it's the UK's smallest city, they say, but a city nonetheless) that indirectly led to the unsolicited blind date.  Knowing that I was going to be spending a few months here and knowing that I was likely to want to leave the house occasionally, I thought it might be a good idea to join a new MeetUp group - I'll call them 'Canterbury Culture Vultures' for now (my choice of title, of course, revealing my total lack of culture).

The first meeting of Canterbury Culture Vultures was harmless enough.  I found myself cornered in the 'vintage' section - a very sweet former nurse, with a strong affection for both 1940s dress and Sherlock Holmes, and a swing dance teacher, also with a Sherlock Holmes obsession.  As you can imagine, the conversation was a bit one-sided but at least I know where to go for swing lessons now (having had a  brief introduction to this in the summer, it's probably something I will try again at some point).  During the meeting, a few of us mentioned that we were planning to see Geno Washington.  I was planning to go simply on the basis that I am quite fond of the Dexy's Midnight Runners song 'Geno' but others had seen him in his prime.  Anyway, there was general consensus that it might be a nice thing to do and, really, that was that.

Fast forward a couple of weeks, and I have RSPV'd to the 'invitation' on the Canterbury Culture Vultures website (even though I was going anyway) and am wandering around the Festival 'Spiegeltent' (which, incidentally, is a fantastically fun 1920s construction that started life in Belgium and tours around various festivals - it's name literally meaning 'Hall of Mirrors'), a little bit unsure about where I am going to sit.  Suddenly, a total stranger taps me on the shoulder:

Stranger: 'Melissa - Canterbury Culture Vultures?'
Me: 'Um, yes'

This apparently kindly gentleman, has recognised me from the tiny profile picture that I added when I started my own MeetUp group for Spanish language exchange, and literally made a dash from his seat to the back of the tent in order to invite me over to where the others are sitting.  At first I am quite touched and gratefully follow.  I start to grow a little uneasy when, within the first 10 minutes of our meeting, I have been told where he lives (alarmingly close to my mother's house), his cultural heritage (Scottish, although he is as English as they come), his job (working for lots of very important companies in a vague, life-coachy sort of a way), the fact that he travels extensively around the country (but mainly to Milton Keynes), the fact that he used to live in London, the fact that he grew up in Canterbury, the fact that he misses his parents who live abroad.  He also quizzes me more than once on why I have joined a MeetUp group and, I have to say, I am starting to question my own sanity regarding that decision at this point.  I try to engage with the other members of the group sitting further down the row, but he keeps impeding my efforts.  Finally, the evening's compere takes to the stage and announces the band.  I breathe a small sigh of relief.

Geno, it must be said, is superb, but I spend the first 30 minutes completely on edge, as my unsolicited blind date checks my every response and persists in interrupting Geno's highly-polished, stage patter with his own, less than polished, responses to it.  I find myself thinking 'oh god, it would never work...I'm trying here, but our sense of humour is completely incompatible for a start'.  Then I find myself thinking 'Melissa - YOU ARE NOT ON A BLIND DATE - and, incidentally, for the remainder of your natural life, never actually agree to go on one'.

I wish I could say it ended there.  Half an hour in and, desperately in need of more alcohol, I decide to slip away to the bar.  I leave my coat - I am prepared to sacrifice it, if necessary.  It's quite warm for an October night, after all.

Leaning on the bar in the Spiegeltent, I start to take in my surroundings.  The place is extremely pretty and I am imagining myself transported back to the 1920s.  Next to me is a very glamorous black lady - kind of Tina Turner-esque but younger.  Basically, I start to do what I do best and drift away with, I suspect, a kind of dreamy, pleased-with-myself-for-having-got-away look on my face.  Suddenly, my eyes catch on to something just over my right shoulder.  It is the slightly accusing stare of my unsolicited date.  I immediately stand bolt-upright and, with my voice pitching up about three octaves, say something positive and meanlingless about how great Geno Washington is.  I'm happy to notice that the Tina Turner-esque woman greets me with a warm smile of agreement at this moment.  My unsolicited date also agrees and says something unconvincing about wanting to get a drink in before the others.  I, meanwhile, stand resolutely next to the woman at the bar.  She is my new best friend for the time it takes him to get his pint and slope away.

After that, thankfully, things start to look up.  I disappear outside for a much-needed dose of nicotine from my trusty vapouriser.  Sitting there, I take in the people outside.  There is the young compere, doing the rounds and making sure everyone is having a good time.  I also notice that there are all sorts of people there.  People of varying ages and nationalities but most of them well-dressed.  It's nice to see.  They all seem pretty relaxed.  I spy a small group of Whitstable folk, including an old friend who spent an evening very loosely and lightheartedly chatting me up in a bar a few months prior to this evening.  I decide I'll go and say hello, after a sending a picture via Whatsapp.  When I put down my phone, he saves me the bother by coming over himself and giving me a much-appreciated hug.   We chat for a few seconds about how amazing Geno Washington is for a man of his advanced years and then he disappears inside to dance.  I decide I should probably follow his example and do the same.

Dancing at the back of the hall is kind of fun.  It's probably what I should have been doing all along.  The women either side of me are clearly enjoying themselves and I start to do the same.  I also realise I quite fancy the young compere, even if he is almost young enough to be my son.  Later on, during another nicotine break, I get talking to a couple outside.  The guy is pretty ravaged by drink and has clearly been 'on one' all day but they are friendly and talk about the tent with enthusiam.  They tell me I should come down for the last night party and I make a mental note to book my ticket.  Earlier in the evening, Geno had talked, somewhat incomprehensibly, about how you can buy a 'mojo' on the streets of Louisiana.  I am starting to feel like I am getting mine back.

This feeling continues as the evening draws to a close.  I seem to have struck up a kind of dancefloor friendship with the woman next to me and I am making jokes with random strangers.  The compere walks past and catches my eye.  Yes, it feels a bit wrong that the only person I am attracted to is a man probably no older than 30 (if that), but I couldn't care less at this stage.  Geno's worked his magic.  That's all that matters.

Although I have already surrepticiously grabbed my coat whilst no one was looking, at the end of the night I decide to hang-around outside for the other Culture Vultures.  My unsolicited date greets me enthusiastically and kind of announces me to the others, even though I have met most of them before.  It makes him happy though, so I go along with it.  It's also nice walking back to the car park with them.  Mojo restored, I even find myself joking with my 'date', even if it is slightly at his expense.  I realise, of course, that I have no choice but to walk home with him and steel myself for the prospect.  'Never mind', I think.  'My mojo will protect me'.  And it does... although I make sure there is a good few metres of physical space between us before I turn and wave goodbye.

The Long Goodbye Part 1: Doing it for the Kids

Well, there's no denying it, it's been an eventful week.  I have given away most of my wordly possessions, sold a house, formally handed in my notice and moved back in with my mother at the age of 43.

Ok, so on the surface that sounds like a recipe for disaster.  However, as those closest to me must surely be tired of hearing by now, this is all part of my 'grand plan'.  My grand plan (in the highly unlikely event that you are reading this and don't already know) is to save some extra travelling funds and, by the end of December/ beginning of January, move to Spain and, er, pretty much do what I'm doing now but for less security and almost certainly less money.

I have lost count of the number of people who have called me 'brave' over the last few weeks.  I am not entirely sure what the subtext of this is.  'Brave' could well be a synonym for stupid, maybe even reckless.  My considered response has been to say that it isn't brave, as I'm simply doing something that I want to do.   Really, it's not as if I have signed up to fight in a war or struggled against any particularly major adversity.  I'm actually extremely lucky to be in this position.  To be honest, though, my own perception changes by the minute - from exhilaration to the kind of generalised panic someone might experience on a boat that has slipped its moorings and is heading out, rudderless, to sea.  The panic doesn't stem from being in Spain itself.  This, without any doubt, is the good part.  What worries me slightly, and what has always worried me when I have considered this process, is how my working life will shape up.  It's not that my job is particularly grand, high status or significant but it is, in it's own small way, important.

Right now, I am a Functional Skills (basic English and maths) teacher at a Further Education college in, what could roughly be called the second-most deprived area in Kent and, incidentally, one that can also lay claim to having the second-worst rate for obesity in England.   I have worked in worse-hit areas (well Thanet, anyway) but, suffice to say, we are not always greeted by model students.  However, when I returned to my current role at the end of this summer,  I knew for a fact that, thanks to some dramatic improvements (and, being a smidge cynical for a second, the proximity of an Ofsted inspection) I would be in for a comparatively easy ride at the start of this academic year. This is mainly due to some scrupulous planning and, for once, a genuine show of commitment by the powers that be.  Absurdly, and for the first time in many years, I am currently focussed on my teaching as opposed to administration.  Nevertheless, it still holds true that most of it is done in the face of collective opposition.  Because you are teaching a subject that they have not chosen to do and because it also makes their shortcomings in English and maths explicit, it is very easy to push students' buttons and tap into their worst behaviours.  You need to be pretty robust at times and definitely 'in the zone' for your powers of persuasion to work.  I had been worried, therefore, about whether  I would be able to apply myself to the job, whilst my mind was, and is, so clearly elsewhere.  I needn't have, though.  If anything, being in class is currently giving me a welcome break from thinking about anything other than the here and now.

Although I have never yet had a year where, at some point, one of them doesn't reduce me to tears of despair (although I have to admit that these times are now few and far between and that last year was exceptionally fraught on many levels), my students are also some of the people most likely to put a smile on my face.  And over the past two weeks, just to prove how much good planning and collaboration can work, two of them have specifically sought me out after a class to say how much they enjoyed it.  This, just to make it clear, is absolutely unheard of.  I really had to work hard today to hide my elation when one student told me that her group are still talking about the maths class they had with me last week.  However, even on an off-day (of which, in an average teaching year, there are many) there are plenty of things about the students I work with that make me smile.  There is nothing better, for instance, than seeing someone's eyes light up with enthusiasm despite themselves.  This, alone, is one of the joys of teaching that no amount of money can buy.  So, sometimes, is knowing that they remember you long after you have forgotten them (although some will always stand out in my memory).  There is so much about them that I have come to admire and respect over the years.  It could be that person who has the guts to make a sincere and unsolicited apology, the one who arrives well-ahead of time in order to sit an exam or the one who literally squeals with excitement at passing it.  A few (and thankfully, it is only a few) 16-18 year olds deal with hardships that I can't imagine having to face now, let alone at their age.  This, to me, is bravery.  The other truly joyful part is watching the switch from childhood to adulthood that occurs in the space of two years.

There is a Jim Carrey video of him receiving an honorary degree at The Maharishi University of Management (and apologies to any alumni of said university, but whatever tin-pot institution that may be) doing the rounds at the moment.  I first saw it a few months ago, just before I left the house for work and someone I know shared it again on Facebook the other day.  It's a little odd in places (as you might imagine), but there were some parts which resonated with me at the time.  In particular, Carrey's assertion that the purpose of his life was to 'free people from concern'.  Roughly speaking, this is what I aim to do in my teaching and it seems like a pretty good aim in life, if you ask me.   It's easy to think that students taking English and maths classes against their express will don't care about what they are doing.  But I don't believe that.  Deep down, I think the overwhelming majority want to do well.  Their concern, in most cases, is the fact that they have to come to classes in the first place.  That this, somehow, places them lower down the pecking order than their peers.  My job, first and foremost, therefore, is to let them know that they are valued, significant and respected in their own right.  My second task is to let them experience some joy in what they are doing - and to see that it is okay, and even desirable sometimes, to be less than perfect in what they do.  My third is to give them room to grow as people, and that includes forgiving them for giving in to their fears and frustrations and celebrating them when they step up to the mark.   I don't always get this right of course.  I can't really believe anyone does 100% of the time.  But I try.  At the end of the day, my real aim is to be an example of an adult in their life that they can trust and, for this reason, with even my most recalcitrant students, I will hang on until the bitter end in an effort to make them see that.

Which is one reason why my current crop of students will not be told about my imminent departure until it is really necessary to do so.  I thought that, with Spain looming on the horizon, that I would be mentally packing my bags and hopping on a plane before the ink was dry on my first register.  It's not the case, though.  If anything, I am more determined than ever to get them off to a flying start so that they are better prepared to cope with any kind of handover.  I have seen students go off the rails with less experienced teachers taking over the reins and it's frustrating.  Luckily, I think we have a pretty solid team on board this year and I am trusting that my colleagues will be able to pick up and run with them, maybe more successfully than me.  If they do, good on them.

All I've got to do now, of course, is free my own self from concern.  I have learnt so much from the last four years in my current workplace, that I don't want to let any of it go.  Like my students, deep down I just want to do well.  And I am worried that I will perceived by my peers as running away from my career responsibilities (even though, in fairness, I am not sure what they are) and somehow placing myself even lower down in the pecking order.  I am, of course, also comfortable.  And, Spain or no Spain, I couldn't let that state of affairs go on for too long.  It's definitely time for a change, whichever way you look at it.  On the whole, I've loved working in teaching so far and don't see any reason why that love won't continue - just in a different context.  And I have always known that a life in Spain was the future I wanted.  Maybe I just need to accept the next year or so as my first, faltering steps to attaining it.  Last time I was in Spain I had the weirdest sense that I was, in fact, growing up.   Maybe that process will continue.  I liked it actually.  And if it turns out that I am less than perfect in what I do, well that's a good thing, right?

What's in a Name? Soul Searching in Spain

This past year has been personally significant and challenging in such an overwhelming number of ways, it is hardly surprising that one small fact got a bit overlooked in the script.  In the back of my mind, I knew it had happened, but I have hardly had the time or mental space to think about it.   This, therefore, is one of the many reasons why I am so grateful to have had the opportunity to roam in Spain this summer.

I have just returned from a trip, which only took three weeks, but has probably given me at least three years' worth of things to reflect on.  On the way, I caught up with some old friends I think about nearly every day during my life in England.  I also made some fantastic new ones (I hope) and, of course, encountered a number of people who were merely passing through, but nevertheless made some kind of impression on me.  The last of these was an Australian ex-criminal I met in a hostel in Madrid (I didn't say they were all salubrious company).  Having spent five nights effectively running away from my 'hostel family' in Cadiz, I felt duty-bound to take this mildly dejected figure who had just lost his surfboard on a midnight walking tour of the city.  My slightly grudging kindness was repaid the following night, when I caught up with him after a couple of Spanish-measure gin and tonics, and felt like talking.  The Spanish-measure gin and tonics led, predictably, to one of those conversations that you wake up from the next day, thinking 'oh god, what was all that about?'  Nevertheless, after, in a very British way, declining his various offers to 'digitally fuck up' the men in my life ('No, no...that's really not necessary...but thank you'), talk turned to family and, in particular, grandfathers.  During the course of the conversation, it emerged we both had grandfathers who died when we were very young.  I also talked about the grandfather I never knew at all.  His name was Charles (Charlie to his friends and family) Barnes.  He was my father's father and, now that my own father is gone, I have very little, apart from some brief recollections from things my father told me and a few collected writings, to go on.  However, Charlie has been important to me for some time, not least because I think (or hope at least) that a little bit of his spirit lives on in me.

This year I reached the age of 43, which means I have, unfairly it seems, outlived him.  Charlie had hypertension most of his life and died at the age of 42.  He passed this on to his son who, thanks to modern medicine, lived a full and relatively happy 83 years.  In fact, if it wasn't for modern medicine, I might never have been born.  Looking back, I think the fact that I was approaching 42 has been driving me for a while now.  It is this realisation that made me pick up my father's 'memoirs' today and start scouring them for references.  To be honest, I was disappointed.  My father always talked about Charlie with such fondness that I was expecting a bit more.  Although, in a way, what is there is quite revealing.  He starts by comparing the two branches of his family, maternal and paternal.  The maternal side, it seems, were aspirational and liked to think of themselves as, what we might call today, upwardly-mobile.  The Barnes family, however, were, in my father's words, 'almost entirely respectable working class and all the jollier for it'.  Going on my own recollections of my father, I would say he benefitted from both influences and, if anything, was a little more 'Mead' (his mother's side) than Barnes.  As a young adult, however, I was inspired by his descriptions of the Barnes family so much that I used to keep a photograph of the long-deceased Charlie, in his 'later' years, above my fireplace.

One of the best things about Charlie is, he loved a good party.  This is something I have definitely inherited, as people on my latest Pueblo Ingles programme can probably testify.  Unlike me, however, he was also an accomplished musician.  He could play the trumpet very well by all accounts, whilst his two brothers played the banjo and drums respectively.  Christmas nights in the Barnes household were a good-old Eastend riot according to my father, with a whole improvised jazz band going, including his mother on the piano and Charlie's mother on lead vocals.  At this point, there isn't really much more to say about Charlie, apart from the fact that worked for the Post Office and did a good line in frugality, preferring to use cut up telephone directories he got from work rather than toilet paper.  Whereas the partying is a natural inheritance, I could probably learn a thing or two from him here (although my father was no different in this respect, and that had little impact, so perhaps not).

Apart from liking a good party, however, the thing that inspired me most about Charlie was his smile.  I have two photos of him, one as a newly-enlisted teenager, where he is undeniably handsome, and one where he has obviously been living a good life.  I like the first, mainly because he has beautiful eyes (when you look closely, you can see they are full of the honesty and vitality of youth) but the second was always my favourite because of his smile and obvious evidence of having lived life to the full.   In difficult times, particularly in my mid-twenties, I kept that photo as a reminder, not only to enjoy and make the most of life (however short) but also because I knew that, had he known me, he would have loved me.  That doesn't mean my family didn't love me, but I always found myself aspiring to Charlie's apparent warmth and even bravery, and I think this has served me well so far.  I am also inspired by his kindness.  Tellingly, my father's last 'memoir' entry concerns Charlie.  He talks about a treasured, glass post horn that hung above the fireplace in his family home (I'm not entirely sure what a 'post horn' is but evidently it has something to do with hunting).  As a child, my father had broken the horn and, in an act both devious and ingenious, managed to hide the break using a pencil and a piece of tassle.  Years later, during one family party, Charlie decided to take the horn down and play it.  Of course it didn't work, but he passed the episode off with the minimum of fuss and a lot of forgiveness.

When I realised I was approaching the age of Charlie's death, I think panic started to set in.  Now I am effectively living the part of life he never had a chance to experience, I feel that I need to do it well.  Right now, I am not sure exactly what that means but I am fairly sure that I need to start looking at the people around me in Spain.  Over the past year I have been struck by the sweetness of Spanish culture.  That's not to say all Spanish people are sweet (far from it, in fact I love the fact that they can be the opposite of sweet sometimes) but I really respect their sense of community and obligation to others.   And some are just genuinely sweet and lovely.  It's not always easy for British people to understand but I think I am learning.  I really hope that, in the course of time, I develop some close friendships within the Spanish community, and understand more about what makes people who they are.   One reason I still do the Pueblo Ingles programme is because it is an opportunity to meet people and talk to them in a much more meaningful way than you would do normally.  At times, the one-to-ones are almost like having a drunken conversation but sober (although it is quite possible to still be drunk from the night before).   Another important thing about the Pueblo Ingles programme is the belief that everyone can 'bring something to the table', whether that be different cultures, beliefs, experiences or just simply themselves.    This year, we were given a set of group discussion topics, one of which was around belief in the afterlife.  I don't personally believe in an afterlife but one of our group (an Italian, actually, but that's another story), talked about his belief that his grandfather watches over him.  Maybe, in a way I believe that too, simply because of my inheritance.  Maybe the piece of me that is like Charlie is what I currently bring to the table.

In his memoirs, my dad starts off by talking about how much he used to hate his middle name of Sidney and how he used to toy with the idea of changing to it to something more glamorous, like Sinclair or St John.  This made me laugh, not only because of his bizarre preferences, but because I used to hate being called Melissa as a child.  In 1970s Britain I felt this singled me out.  Then I used to hate it being shortened to 'Mel' in case people thought I was called 'Melanie', which was even worse.  More recently, I have clung onto Melissa as my 'Spanish' name and particularly the name for Pueblo Ingles programmes.  As soon as I got on the bus, I had to drop this, in favour of Mel, because I wasn't the only Melissa.  At first this seemed odd, what with Mel being the name adopted by close colleagues and close friends only, but after a few days, it seemed entirely appropriate.  I now love the fact that I have Spanish friends who call me Mel.

For me, one of the themes that ran through this year's Pueblo Ingles, was the idea of 'letting go'.   In my case, it was sensitivity about my name.  In the case of another young Anglo, it was about a pair of shoes.  I realise, of course, that, on a deeper level, this is about letting go of the past and embracing the future.  One thing I have realised, however, is that you can't actually let go of the need for others.  In the early days of my marriage break up, I felt so detached from others and so inhuman, I found it almost impossible to really care about what was going on in anyone's life, even my own.  That's changed now and, if this latest trip to Spain has taught me anything, it is that you need others and you need to be important to others.  That's normal and human.  Apart from a passion for music and parties, I like to believe that Charlie loved others too.  He served in the First World War, got married, raised two successful children and managed to create a happy environment for him and his extended family on very limited resources.  His life was short, but I think he did a good job.  I know what my passions are and that all I need to do now is follow them.  Perhaps what I really need to let go of is fear.   And maybe I need to reclaim the name Barnes.

Sunday Morning Zen

I won't lie.  It's been a strange few months and it doesn't look like there will be much let up in this for next few either.  The best word I can use to describe it is 'limbo' - which, having just consulted Wikipedia on its origins, is the word used in Catholic Theology to describe 'the edge of Hell'.  I don't know if I would go quite that far, but sometimes I do feel a bit like I'm living in Purgatory.  

Out of curiosity, I have also just Google'd this word and, it seems, contrary to my own Philistine (I'm not going to look that one up, just go with it) beliefs, Purgatory is, at least, not a permanent state.  In fact, if I am in Purgatory, then I am undergoing some sort of process of 'purification' before being moved on, which, in some ways, doesn't sound so bad I guess.  And this is one reason why, just to truly mix up my theologies, I have taken up the very Zen practise of swimming on a Sunday morning.

The idea of swimming as a 'Zen' pastime, was actually put to me by the sister of a friend of mine.  To be honest,  I have never seen myself as a spiritual person, and have therefore never put much credence in things like meditation, but I bought into the idea on the grounds that she does yoga and also lived in Japan once, so ought to know something about it.   I was also aware that I should be doing more to maintain my heavily-overloaded cardiovascular system.  Mostly, however, she convinced me of the benefits by telling me that, like myself, she is only capable of swimming a front crawl.

I say I have taken up the practise.  In reality, I do it for about three weeks at a time, forget about it for a few more weeks and then, when I really feel the need, do it again.  Yes, this isn't doing much to improve my general fitness.  It does, however, give my fevered brain a bit of a rest.  Just the process of focussing on your breathing, your strokes, the sensation of being held by the water is, well maybe not spiritual, but certainly a good way to start your day.  Another aspect is the people-watching. This varies depending on the time of day that you go, but there is a certain social microcosm that operates in my local pool which I find quietly fascinating.

My customary time for going is around 11am, which is primarily given over to kids, their divorced dads (no hot ones - I've checked) and rabid swimming teachers.  I have got quite used to the sound of one as she screams 'kick, Archie, kick' at the ginger-haired kid floundering next to me.  Today though, having woken up early after a particularly sedentary and not very interesting Saturday night, I ended up on the early morning shift.  The early-morning shift is basically, as I discovered, wall-to-wall pensioners.  Apart from one mildly disgruntled teenager, I was the youngest person in there by quite a long way.  I wish I could say the fittest, but I'll just have to content myself with youngest for now.  Anyway, I quickly learnt that this shift operates on a very strict social-code.  For a start, you do not, under any circumstances, use a locker that is in regular use by someone else.  Or at least, you do not, under any circumstances, use one particular lady's regular locker.   This is locker number 55, for anyone planning to be at Whitstable pool at 7.30am on a Sunday morning.  As I went to bundle my bags in there I heard a plaintive cry, "Oh, you're using number 55!"

Me: "Haha...sorry...is it lucky?"
Changing Room Lady: "I come here four times a week...it's good because I come straight from the changing room to the locker.  I always use this changing room."
Me: "That's ok...I'll use number 59...there."
Changing Room Lady: "It's good because I always know where my locker is.  I come here four times a week."

After this exchange, I head towards the pool area where I am met by the sight of all three sections of the pool separated out into lanes.  This brings me out in a bit of a cold sweat as I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, a lane swimmer.  My first instinct is to rush over to the 'Lane Etiquette' signs in front and pretend to study them.   I am immediately approached by the same lady from the changing rooms.

Changing Room Lady: "Don't worry.  We all swim together.  I come four times a week.  You just need to choose a lane."
Me: "Ok thank you.  I will."
Changing Room Lady: "And we usually have a shower before we get in..."
Me: "Oh ok, I will"
Changing Room Lady: "You don't have to"
Me: "No...I will"

Post shower, I glance over all three lanes in a melting pot of indecision.  The first lane, which I believe to be the slow one that I should be taking, is stuffed with pensioners, including, by now, the lady from the changing rooms.  If they are not standing in the way chatting, they are doing a leisurely breastroke up the middle of the lane.  It looks fine, but I know if I get in there, I will be ploughing straight through them with my one choice of swimming stroke.  This seems rude, somehow.  The middle lane, although much quieter, is populated by serious swimmers, still all doing a leisurely breastroke nonetheless.  Again, I will be ploughing into the back of them with my one choice of swimming stroke and probably finding myself ejected on the grounds of bad pool etiquette.  Finally I plump for what is traditionally known as the 'fast' lane, on the grounds that there are only two people in it - one fairly relaxed looking woman and the disgruntled teenager holding a swimming float.

Decision made, I jump in and, feeling the pressure of finding myself in the 'fast' lane, decide to swim two lengths without stopping.  Half-way through the second length, my heart is already pounding and I'm exhausted, so embarrassingly I have to stop and have a quick rest.  I kind of hope the relatively attractive, young lifeguard isn't watching, although as the second-youngest person there, I stick out like a sore thumb and I know he probably is.  Having got that initial burst of activity out of the way, however, I relax and get into something approaching a rhythm.   I have already set my target for the morning - 10 lengths.  Ok, I realise that doesn't sound like much but, when you are restricted to the front crawl, it feels a little bit like doing a race and at least it gets the endorphins going.  I had worked myself up to 12 but, like I say, it's been a while.

On something like length number four, the endorphins start to kick in, and with them the more 'Zen-like' aspect of the morning.  I think, from my own narrow understanding of it, that the act of meditation is supposed to allow your mind to wander.  If this is true, then mine naturally wanders into some fairly dark places, as it casts back to a documentary I saw earlier in the week about the Marchioness disaster of 1989, where 51 people drowned in the Thames.  I imagine what it must have been like trying to swim in the dirty, freezing, tidal water and decide that I would have been dead within minutes.  I also think about the survivors' stories and reflect on one lady in particular, who seems to have survived the disaster with all her snobbery and class values still intact.  And then I wonder if that is just a product of her class; her British stiff upper lip that refuses to be changed in the face of tragedy and personal trauma.  I think about my own personal situation and reflect on the situations of others who impact on it.  Before I realise it, I have completed 10 lengths.

I am just in the process of deciding whether to go for another two lengths, when I am distracted by a voice.  It is the changing room lady again, still standing over in the far side of the pool.  I hear her shout, "You are in the wrong lane".  At first I think she is talking to the gentleman standing next to her but then it becomes clear she is talking to me.  I try to explain as audibly as possible, "I can only do the crawl.  I need to be here or I will bump into people."  "We all swim together", she says, "we come here every week".  She turns to the man next to her, "You go in the middle lane sometimes, don't you?"  I smile.  I don't know what else to say.

I take another few seconds, see the other woman in my lane take her leave, and decide I have got all I can out of the experience for the day.  I was trying to stretch it out to 30 minutes.  I am on about 25.  It's close enough.  I leave the changing room lady in the pool, still enjoying her swim I hope, despite my choice of lane.  She clearly wanted me to join her, and I might have, had I not actually wanted to swim.  I suppose, at the end of the day, we all have our own reasons for doing things.  Walking back through the normally busy Harbour Street at around 8am, I realise I can hear bird song.  Not bad going for the edge of Hell.

¿Qué Quiere Decir? - A Personal Guide to Learning Spanish

Looking back, my desire to learn Spanish, or indeed my love of most things Spanish, stems from my school days.  It started when our drama teacher introduced us to Gabriel Garcia Lorca and, simultaneously, one of my school friends, who was studying A level Spanish and about to embark on a series of trips around Latin America, told me it was an easy language to learn. Foolishly, I believed her, and bobbed along under this misconception for the intervening 'x' number of years, thinking that one day, despite my distinct lack of belief in miracles, I would miraculously just 'pick it up'. 

In fairness, there is a lot to be said for the 'just picking it up' approach to language learning.  To some extent it works, but you need to be constantly surrounded by it and, in any case, you are not going to advance very quickly or meaningfully without a reasonably solid starting point of basic structural knowledge and vocabulary.  My only real experience of speaking another language (and I distinguish this from the various rote-answering, speaking and listening/ reading comprehension activities I encountered whilst learning French at school) is the Albanian I pretty much just 'picked up' via the in-laws and associated friends.  I could get by on some fairly simple conversational structures and set phrases and could sit in a room and guess at the tone and gist of a conversation, as much, if not more, from the cadence and rhythms of people's voices, as the words being spoken.  I am not sure I could really call this either understanding or contributing in any meaningful sense.  Nevertheless, this is one aspect of my Spanish language study which is currently missing - experience and context.  In its absence, I have  to rely on what I can get from all-to-brief trips to Spain, the very rare occasions I can actually convince  Spanish friends to speak Spanish with me, the stilted conversation with my English born-and-bred Spanish teacher (that's not to dismiss his contribution, he does a fine job) and Spanish language films.

Anyway, I diverge, because whilst I could talk in onerous detail about my motivations for and experiences of learning Spanish, that is not very helpful for anyone who has any curiosity about the language.  I always thought of Spanish as 'my' language, even when I knew next to nothing about it.  Now I know next to something, I would like to share some of the things that might get the curious started down the right track.  Call it an alternative, absolute beginners guide to Spanish, if you like.  In reality, it is a very limited and motley collection of things that I think are either kind of cool or just downright funny about the Spanish language.  You might want to look out for some of these next time you are on holiday.

1. The statement as a question

The best thing by far about the Spanish language is that you can turn a statement into a question simply by your tone of voice; or, if you are writing it down, by using question marks.  If writing, you are then supposed to stick an upside-down question mark at the beginning, which is a bit fiddly I grant you.  (I have noticed lately that not everyone seems to bother with this. I'm not sure if this is just an example of a bad habit creeping in on Facebook or a genuine trend).  In any case, a statement such as "Estas cansada" (You are tired) retains the same form in question format - "¿Estas cansada?", which is pretty cool.  Not every question follows this format of course but it's good that it can.

2. No

'No' is also very useful.  Not only is it extremely easy to remember for English speakers but it can be added to the front of any verb to make it mean the opposite e.g. "Tengo dinero" (I have money), becomes the opposite ("No tengo dinero") as quickly as it does in real life.  And, of course, 'no' still means 'no', if you catch my drift.

3. Que/ qué

This is one of those things that I did actually pick up in context. It was right at the start of my recent burst of Spanish learning and I was listening to a drunken conversation between a native and non-native Spanish speaker.  As such, I think they were speaking a little more slowly and deliberately than usual.  It's also possible I tuned into it more easily because I, too, was pretty drunk (believe it or not, drunkenness can play a key role in language acquisition).  As someone who grew up with 'Fawlty Towers', I was of course entirely familiar with the accented "qué" as the equivalent of "what" in English.  However, during the course of this conversation, I quickly deduced that "que" (subsequently I learnt this version has no accent) also means and is used in the same way as "that" or "than" in English.  This may seem like a tiny breakthrough but it has proved extremely useful, in no small part because it leaves me able to make comparisons such as, "Estoy mas borracho que tú" (I am more drunk than you).

4. Punctuation

As someone who makes their living from slavishly reinforcing the use of capitals in every title, acronym and use of the personal pronoun, the lack of capitals in written Spanish is one aspect I find difficult to get to grips with.  Some, however, might see it as liberating.  Basically, apart from starting a sentence, capitals are almost nowhere to be seen.  Even the word 'Spanish' isn't capitalised it seems.  It can be a little confusing at times, especially when you are not sure if you are reading a title of something or not.  However, at least you won't get shot down by the punctuation police for not including them.  Conversely, Spanish people in general seem to be very fond of the exclamation mark.  I'm not just talking about one either - it's not uncommon to see four or five ending a sentence.   Exclamation marks used to be something that I was extremely snobbish about - I virtually had a physical aversion to them.  Now I chuck them in all over the place.  It seems rude not to.

5. Inanimate things can have voices - apparently

I am only basing this finding on an online Spanish course I recently enrolled on.  I never heard anyone actually say this but, evidently, one way of asking what something is or what it does, is to say "¿Qué quiere decir?", which literally means "What does it want to say?"  I mean, how cute is that?

6. If you are stuck, it is possible to guess

For English speakers, one of the beauties of learning a Latin-based language is that, thanks to the tyranny of the Medieval church, we now have a whole raft of vocabulary that crosses over into central Europe and beyond.  This simply means that is possible to guess - or to put it another way, "Es posible que te adivines" (or I believe this is how you would put it anyway - I am just wrapping my head around the subjunctive tense).  Actually the comparison I was making here was with the word 'possible' but, having just looked up the verb 'guess', you can make some connections here too. It is similar to the word 'divine', which in English, apart from an adjective used to describe someone rather fantastic (or holy, if that is your inclination), is also a verb that describes the action of looking for something or making an educated guess.  And, yes, the fact that I can see that probably does make me a bit of a language nerd.

7. It can be very poetic

Of course, one of the dangers of the many 'true friends' (as they are referred to by most language teachers) is their nemesis, the 'false friend'.  The best-known of these is the oft-quoted 'embarazada', which actually means pregnant.  I think we all agree that a mistake here could be embarrassing.  The most recent one I discovered was the word 'trampa', which doesn't mean 'tramp' but 'trap' and the only reason I mention it is because it cropped up during a discussion about art I was having with a Spanish friend of mine.  He was talking about an idea, which he referred to as 'una trampa para los ojos' (literally, 'a trap for the eyes'), less romantically known as an optical illusion.  I know which one I prefer.

8. Vowel sounds and dipthongs

One of the the nicest things about Spanish is that there are very few dipthongs - those horrible things that combine two or three vowels to make a different sound altogether.  In Spanish, for the most part, what you see is what you get - well, at least as far as vowels go.  I won't mention the consonants, except to say that I have been semi-reliably informed that no English person will ever be able to pronounce a 'd' properly in Spanish.  The 'rs' are pretty sexy, though.  Next time you meet a hot, Latin person, get them to roll their 'rs' for you - you'll see what I mean.

9. Cool words

In order to emotionally connect with a language in the early stages of language learning, I think it is important to have your own personal list of 'cool' words.  The first on my list was the word 'naranja' (orange).  Don't ask me why. It just seemed so odd to me at the time, it took on some kind of mythical quality.  Now I think I tend to rate words according to their usefulness and novelty, and the relationship between those two variables.  If it's new and I can see it's going to serve me well in the near future, then I get excited about it.  Maybe even more so than watching a hot, Latin person rollling their 'rs'.

10. Masculine/ feminine nouns and 'hedging your bets'

I find it amusing that there are two ways to say 'I love you' in Spanish ('te quiero';  'te amo').  This once came up as a subject for discussion in a Spanish class, and our teacher informed us that you only tend to use the second in relation to family members or children.   Later on it became the subject of some 'girl chat' with a female, Spanish friend.  Her take was a bit different; that the second only tends to get used when the bloke in question really means it.  I am not sure that hers' is the definitive answer; I think it is subject to debate, or at least that what the internet is telling me - I just like the idea that there is a way of saying 'I love you' that is a bit more open to interpretation.   On the other hand, when talking about a friend, then it is impossible to do this without specifying whether the friend in question is male or female (un amigo/ una amiga).  I have heard a few Spanish friends (entirely male, it has to be said) bemoaning the fact that English doesn't allow for this kind of clarity.  When you also take into consideration the fact that any noun becomes masculine when being discussed in the plural, you can't help thinking that Spanish serves the male of the species quite well.  Ok, I realise that this is potentially quite irritating, but at the moment it makes me smile.  I am looking forward to discovering what other subtleties are out there, and, yes, probably laughing about them...

Coming back to my original misapprehension that Spanish is an easy language to learn, I don't actually think that any language is easy to learn and certainly not out of context.  It is fun trying though and, if nothing else, you can laugh at your own idiocy, as you make feeble attempts to put it into practise.  We all have stories about the ludicrous things we realise we have said to people only moments after saying them.  I also find it funny that, a lot of the time, I still only understand what shopkeepers have said to me after I have walked away and the transaction is complete.  Hopefully, in time, my brain will start to process things a bit more quickly and I won't have to struggle quite so hard to make these connections.  In the meantime, the least I can do is take some joy in the language's little idiosyncrasies.   It would be nice if my list inspired someone else to take up the quest too.  Word of warning, though - if you hear anyone talking about 18 conjugations per tense, cover your ears.  You really don't want to know about this yet.