It is weekend!

I have no photos to post, and had I any, they would have been about horses. Today at work I had my first experience of handling an exam. It is quite pleasing to note that the bevvy of young ladies clustering around the door, in a violent clash of clothes and smells (some perfumes and deodorants are fine alone, but combined chemically are quite revolting) seemed pleased that 'Mister Spike' would be sitting at the front. I assumed that this was because I was popular and charming. Turns out it was nothing of the kind. I was a soft touch. The first exam was all about skin care and such. 'When I give you the papers you will be quiet and begin. There will then be no talking, no bags on the table and nothing ear-phony in the ears.' It didn't take long for the first of many attacks on integrity. 'Mister Spike, can we have a window open. The 'eat's causing havoc to me pigment cells what's sitcherated in me adipose layer. I think'. Knowlegable Nerd at the front shakes her head and twenty three ladies change their answers. Lots of dropping of rubbers and coughing that sounded like 'hrrumpffarnserfourteensisaitch splutter bugger me I've gobbed on me paper'. They are allowed to leave the room when they are finished. They then hand in the paper and sign The List of Names. They waited until they had accumulated a small task force and then rushed my overseers desk en masse creating confusion and much noise, scrambling for purposely dropped papers, blocking my view of the class. It was some time before I realised that most of the noise was coming from the rest of the class, now happily swapping answers. One girl deliberately left her gold pen on the desk. I, fool that I am, rushed after her to return it. As I left the room, an answer market quickly got going and was doing brisk business as I returned. One girl had an eyepatch and kept looking up at the lamp for inspiration, or to illuminate whatever was perhaps written on the inside. All great fun. Some of them looked totally confused when given a choice of four answers - A, B, another B of another A. Some of the questions were very simple, on the level of - 'If one group attacks another because of differences in race, religion or colour, is this (a) The Pirates of Penzance (b) A bowl of rice-crispies (c) Two soft-boiled eggs (d) Discrimination . On these socio-political questions, the Muslim girls wrote amazingly knowledgable stuff. But they are generally the brightest and the most hard-working anyway. I am still much enjoying my new career. I try to get to the students through drawings on the wall. I shall scan them in. Mostly concerning the awful mess they make and the rubbish they leave. It is sometimes a battle to deal with huge 18 year old youths (there are a few chaps as well as hordes of girls) who come in, sit down and put their feet up on the keyboard and play loud music. One tatooed, muscular Sylvester Stallone, built like a brick karzy, comes in with just a vest and trousers, greasy fifties hair-style, all gold chains and earrings. He wants to borrow a picture book of fairies and elves. He is training to work with little kids in the creche, and is actually one of the nicest and gentlest people I have met here.

Teacher Remko knows all the words of every Fawlty Towers episode. Each morning I am tested with another small lead. 'Papers arrived yet Fawlty?' 'Thpoons?'. 'Just off to see Mr O'Reilly, dear', and I must respond immediately or fail.

I have been having a lot of golf lessons. Everyone I know who plays golf is working in the week, the time that I can play. I booked a round at Sparnewoude, but you cannot play on your own, it is too busy. You join the next group that makes it up to a foursome. Arriving at the first tee, I see that my partners will be a fit looking chap of about fifty and two fit looking ladies. They are tanned and have expensive equipment, with hats that have 'Ping'. And wooly covers for the drivers and woods. And the golf bags have hundreds of pockets for all the stuff they need, rows of tees, pencils, umbrella, ball-retriever-out-of-water-thingy. The man is swishing his 500 euro driver and showering all with grass and twigs. They are a couple and the wife's sister and are an entity. They are not pleased to see me. I apologise for being foisted upon them and hope that I will not slow them down. Having arrived last, I will be first to go. On the range, you have a bucket of balls and you can afford a few mistakes. On the course you have ony one, of course. The first ball is a nervous one. With the 3 watching me, together with another 8 who are waiting for us to move ahead, I make my first shot. Not paricularly good, but dead straight and bounces along the hard ground for about 160 meters. Matey says nothing, unimpressed. The women are next, and it quickly becomes apparent they are are, despite the expensive clothes and clubs, useless. They both manage about five feet. Matey is next, and with his enormous driver in his hand he studies the far flag, throws grass in the air, squats a few times for a better view, studies the map of the hole on the card and eventually takes his stand. The club goes so far back that the head reappears in front of him. An intake of breath and the club uncoils like a powerful spring and sweeps down towards the ball with the noise of an express-train. And misses the ball. Difficult when the club-head is the size of a saucepan. The momentum carries the club around his body and spins him with it like somebody who has just thrown a discus. He is off-balance and falls, the women rush tutting to help him. Much stifled laughter from behind, followed quickly by irritation and a pantomime of watch studying. The rules dictate that the one whose ball is furthest from the flag has the next shot. I will have a long wait. The next shots of all three are measured in yards, in single figures. We proceed in a leapfrog manner, putting towards my ball in the distance. I tell my partners that we are using too much time and that we should let one of the groups behind us move ahead. This group all put their balls about where mine is, and move away for the second shot. I wish I could go with them. It is a nightmare. By the time we get to my ball, they have each used up around 13 strokes. I get a five. Matey does not want to tell me his score, because it's not about points, it's about playing a noble game with the right attitude. He had an 18, but should have given up at 11. It is bad manners to stop playing a round, but this truly was awful. I gave up afte six holes with the excuse that I needed to get home and the prospect of getting to the ninth before midnight seemed to be remote. By the fourth hole we had let three more flights move ahead. And I shared in the collective guilt and the black looks. And I was late for my dinner. Black Looks in Hunger - John Osborne for those who remeber the 60's . Never again. For Adam's amusement I shall post a story that I wrote in 2004, at the time of the GVB exam in Texel. It is spoof on the complexity of the rules in golf.
Another remarkable episode this week is that of

The Amazing Gyrating Pussy. Too late - come back tomorrow!

PS If you see an advertistement about Golf, this is because I have signed up for Ad-sense, whereby gGoogle inserts advertistments in the text and I will receive huge quantities of shekkels on the post.