Insights into my own mentality

It’s all well and good criticizing others, but certain aspects of my own intelligence could, at times, do with a long hard examination. Take this morning, for example.

I determined to do something about my inability on Spanish. So far, I have managed (sort of) with my French: there are a lot of commonalities, especially in basic conversational Spanish, and it’s not too hard to make yourself understood. But, you know, I want to be better than that, especially now I see how well efforts to communicate are appreciated. (In this, it is the opposite of French; unless your French is pretty much perfect, you end up feeling like a piece of dog turd, begging your interlocuter to step in you. The Quebeckers are better, but usually only if separatist: in our region, they just answer in English. I had a friend visit from France, go to a Poutine Stand and order in French, only to be answered in English, a language of which his knowledge is only slightly better than my Spanish.)

Anyway, under the table of the apartment I am in was a Spanish Phrasebook. I started with the basics, the numbers (or Numerós, to we Hispanophiles). They gave the number, and the English, and then a pronunciation guide for the Spanish, which I found very useful. So, I started, and read aloud the Spanish phonetic guide, trying to memorize it as I went. I was impressed with how much similarity there was with the English, it was really sticking. I swear, I got to number 7 before I realized that I was reading out loud a pronunciation guide to the English. (Uán; Túu; Zríì…) I thought it was familiar.

In fairness to myself, and if you have ever read any of these blips you know how keen I am to be fair to myself above all others), it wasn’t at type of phonetic signalling I had seen before AND I hadn’t had my second cup of coffee yet.  I have no idea why this phonetic conversational guide should have Spanish in most parts and yet English for the numbers – but I’m sure there will be a perfect logic to it somewhere and somehow.

Having relegated myself to the intelligence quotient of a table tennis ball, I decided it might be better to go for a walk and see if my hips were any better today. I had a couple of things to pick up—the essentials, bread, coffee, ham and cheese, plus I needed a stamp for my letter to Ottawacker Jr.—so out I popped. Oh my God it was hot. I headed up for the furthest supermarket and by the time I got back I was drenched. It must be at least 28/29 degrees this morning. I had a quick root through a cupboard and found a fan, and I am presently sitting here, showered for the second time today, with the fan pointing directly in my face. AND I AM STILL HOT. My hips, for the record, were sore, but when I got back I found had done 6,000 steps, so there is at least some explanation for it.

I have spent the morning cleaning up after the pig that lives in this place (how the hell can I make so much mess when I do so little?) and am about to call the Ottawackers in Ottawackerland, before settling down to a long afternoon of writing. That is the plan, at any rate. And, unless the debilitation of my mind is permanent (Uán; Túu; Zríì…) I shan’t go out again until the evening cool has arrived.