Fatherhood once again. Bluh.

As you may have seen from previous photos, my wife, Nur, is pregnant, not overfed on pies. Proof of this is the pic on the left, done by 3D tomography, of the incipient homunculus. Modern technology - marvellous, innit guv'nor?

This young person, of whom I shall reveal more around the event, is due in November, but because of size restrictions (the baby is BIG, while Nur is tiny) will probably be delivered by C-section on or around October 25th. A welcome sibling for Angus, who is excited by the prospect: A complete family for Nur, the standard model.

You may have noticed by my tone that I do not seem entirely ecstatic at the prospect of fatherhood second time round; This is because I'm not. I dread and/or resent the following:

• sleeplessness and not getting a decent night's sleep for the next 3 years;
• crying, puking, childhood illnesses and nappies;
• five more years of penury - new children are bloody expensive;
• the prospect of trying to find somewhere bigger to live, and not being able to afford it;
• the mind-numbing boredom of playing with young children;
• the terrible Twos phase, followed by the Tiresome threes, Fearful Fours, Feckin' Fives etc etc.
• Having to watch, over and over, until my brain crawls out of my ears and finds somewhere to hide, the same episodes of Teletubbies, Thomas the Tank Engine, Toy Story, Tweenies, Fimbles, and especially, Roly Poly FUCKING Olie (see previous entries)
• Not getting a moment's peace, EVER.

However, a life is a life, and a child is a child, and still precious, and despite all the pety miseries and tribulations that lay ahead, I will still love and cherish the little wotsit.

I'll just have to get a job that means I spend very little time at home.

Who was Ismail Kara?

Ismail: the Mr. Fixit of Dilko. The Guy who was sent to the airport to pick up new teachers, fresh off the plane, they not speaking a word of Turkish, he only knowing a smattering of words - 'Welcome! Hello! Come!' - delivered in a voice that was deep and cigarette-stained. His face was a dark ruddy colour, forged from years of sunlight, fags and way too much raki. When he wasn't pootling round the school, generally avoiding work, or delivering things to the teachers' accommodation, he could be find in the spit-and-sawdust reeking pit of a birahane next door. When you wanted something done, or sorted out, or a bill paid, it was Ismail who would sort it out, one way or another, usually by finding someone else to do the legwork. A cigarette usually dangled from his mouth, which was largely set in a lazy, benign smile. A kind man, by and large, with a good word for everyone. Behind that, though, there had been tragedy in his life; problems with relatives, a daughter killed in a car crash, another one said to have been born with severe disabilities. Yet he ploughed on in a lowly, not very well-paid job, sweating his life by, largely trusted, even though he could be lazy and dishonest to his boss. Someone well-liked, loved even.
I found out when I went to Bakirkoy that he died of a massive heart attack while at work last year. Ruhuna Fatiha.

Bored.

The weather is grey, and threatening rain; I need to wake up early to ferry Nur to work, and wait until the evening, when she is ferried home again; Angus is in constant need of entertainment; Daytime TV has not made any significant strides towards being a more entertaining of edifying spectacle since Easter; And I am twitching around, seeking to keep myself occupied. Yes, it's the joy of the summer holidays, when I seem to spend all my time being chauffeur, entertainer, home repairs specialist, cook and bottlewasher. Oh joy!

Politeness on the bus.

...or in other words, 'get your lazy feckless arse off this seat and let the coffin-dodger rest their bones'.
It's good to see examples of old-fashioned orders disguised under layers of implication and suggestion still around. This from the 197 bus on Saturday night.

I went to Lee and Kate's new gaff. The original plan was to have a Not the Reading Festival Festival, but in the end there were ten of us, hiding from the rain in the conservatory, eating barbie food and listening to loud music, and, of course, getting totally rat-arsed.

yet more pics

How did it feel to be back, after four years?
Well, it was strange, to be honest; in many ways, I felt right at home again, as though I had never left Bakirkoy and Istanbul. It was as if I had tapped into another version of me, one who had stayed behind. I could see myself, walking the same streets, teaching the same lessons, involved in the same humdrum routines. This character, Turkish Paul, descended on me the moment I arrived in the airport. I found my Turkish suddenly sharpened, the way I behaved slightly changed, even the way I walked altered ever so subtly, and this persona departed only on the last day, as I packed him into my suitcase with all my other stuff. On the other hand, I remained observant of things I only half-remembered; the manner in which tired souls walk down hot night streets, with a rocking, rolling gait; the general rudeness of the street - think the way people are on the streets of London, but without the sense of encroaching on personal space; The breathtaking beauty of young Turkish women, their sense of poise or their languid sensuality; And the way that that the eye, amidst all the ugly, soul-grinding tower blocks and new buildings, yearns and strives towards a patch of beauty.
I also noticed the new. Whatever the shortcomings that Istanbul has, it is undeniable that it is making steps forward. The roads were perceptibly better, and there has been a clear attempt to make the general environment much more livable. There is still a long way to go, but it is moving in the right direction.

Walking down the main drag in Bakirkoy, Angus turned to me and asked, 'Dad, if twit isn't a swear word, then why is twat?'

holiday pics...

...boring to many I know, but irresistable to share. A greengrocer's; Nurel and Nuran; Nurel and Hasan; Angus in the Yesil Cafe, Bakirkoy; View from the roof of Gul and Hakan's villa.

tanned and peeling.

....and letting my liver recover from a frenzy of raki consumption. I have had a fantastic ten days of doing pretty much bugger all, lazing in a friend's 3-story villa overlooking a sparkling Marmara Sea. Just what I needed. I'll post more later, photos included.

Here it is - the first tomato of the crop, and just in time for Lammas, too.
Well, I'm off to Turkey tomorrow, and I suspect blogging possibilities will be limited, as we'll be traipsing round relatives and drinking far too much cay. However, if I manage to get to a cybercafe at some stage I'll post.

sticky.

It's too bloody hot. There are workmen upstairs, drilling through thick concrete in order to install a radiator system. Somebody outside is burning something. A teacher has just come in, complaining that a student's aunt called her on her mobile at 7 this morning, wanting to discuss her niece's academic progress. The cross-college computer network is playing silly buggers. I am waiting for key information regarding fees and courses to come in, without which I can't complete the work I need to do before going on holiday. I feel like crap. Everything is currently stalled.
I am strongly tempted to just pack up and go home.

Habits...

...and what would we do without them? It's a serious idea: How would life be different if we didn't do such-and-such a thing? I was flopped out in front of the TV, glass of wine to hand, a few snacks in front of me, watching some godawful shite, and I that is what came to mind. How much more could I achieve, how much more money would I actually save, if I didn't spend most evenings quaffing and watching bollocks?
Unfortunately, habits are precisely there because they're, well, habit-forming. I don't actually need to drink wine, but I do so because I enjoy it; I don't need to watch tv, but it's because I'm already slightly pissed from the wine and it's difficult to work up the enthusiasm and energy to do anything else. I don't need a cigarette, but it goes nicely with the drink. Bad habits, in short, tend to foster other bad habits. I particularly noticed it this week because I haven't done much exercise; it's been far to hot for starters, and my bloody bike is on its last legs, the rear wheel having more or less become rusted to buggery.
What I want to do is this: where possible, replace my bad, time-consuming habits with new, better ones. The one trouble is, identifying exactly what it is I shall do to fill the time.

pics from 3 peaks.

A rainbow; A view from Ben Nevis; On the top; coming out of Fort William; On top of Scafell - the smile is really a rictus of pain.

Boycott?

From, the CIA world factbook, a list of Israel's main exports:

Exports - commodities:
machinery and equipment, software, cut diamonds, agricultural products, chemicals, textiles and apparel.
So, if you want to boycott Israeli goods, check your fruit and veg and flowers at your supermarket; look at the labels in your clothing; find out where your company gets its software from.
However, direct imports to the UK are minimal, so the effect would not be hugely significant, and even if it were so, its direct impact would certainly be upon the poorest people in the country, rather than the warmongers.
As for direct boycotts of companies that support Hezbollah, I haven't the foggiest.

Loose cannons.

Yep, Israel and Lebanon/Hezbollah once again. Can anyone explain to me exactly the rationale behind Israel's military strategy? They claim they are fighting Hezbollah, but how does destroying a country's infrastructure and forcing hundreds of thousands to flee actually eradicate a terrorist group? If Hezbollah were a large, formal army, deploying large numbers of troops around, then the bombing of roads, bridges and other transport links makes a perverse sense, but as it is, it consists of small, highly mobile units that are not going to be particularly fazed by the wholesale razing of towns. On the contrary, I suspect they welcome it: More willing recruits against an oppressive neighbour.
The Israeli foreign minister has noised about invading and occupying Lebanon. Under what right, apart from the fact that Israel is being allowed to act with impunity? And that is the most sickening, that the US, accompanied by a meek and emasculated UK, is permitting this atrocity in the spurious name of The War On Terror. Even more sickening and cynical is that we are permitting this to happen until the number of civilian casualties becomes unacceptable, after which, presumably, we will swagger in under the auspices of a UN resolution.

Loose end.

I'm in an increasingly lazy mood at present, something that isn't good for me. With the hend of classes, and most of the paperwork done in preparation for september, I'm fairly much left to my own devices. And as each day drags on in the heat, it becomes easier and easier to do little, then slope off early. There are still things to do, like course proposals, research, ordering materials, creating new stuff and templates, but when the sun is shining as it is, and there's a cold pint waiting in a pub somewhere....
The trouble is, it's no good for me. I slink into bad habits and end up feeling shitty and lethargic. I need targets to aim at continually, something that was brought into sharp focus by the 3 peaks. I'm at my most creative, intelligent and skilled precisely when I am busy aiming towards something. When I was younger, I would lope off down the pub almost every night, as I put it to myself and others, in order to think. Of course, I was just fooling myself; beating down the ennui and playing at being creative, and achieving bugger all.

EFL/Linguistics geek moment

...crikey, a serious post regarding my actual line of work. It's just an idea that came to mind while considering how children acquire language:
Do siblings tend to make far more spelling mistakes and errors of form and pronunciation than first borns? How much are learning styles and their implications for language acquisition influenced by one's birth, i.e. does a first-born have a different learning style from later siblings?
will a sibling tend to be more vocal and fluent than a first born? will a first born tend to be more analytical, and therefore find the grammar of any given language easier to comprehend?
I can't remember where I read it, but apparently first-borns will generally acquire language from adults, giving them a greater range of vocabulary and a more analytical form of language, whereas later children will acquire it from their peers, making them more chatty and able to get on better with people.
Hmm. Comparing myself and my younger sister, there may be something in the idea. I ceratinly have a more analytical approach to language, and she will happily admit to being a mediocre speller. Also, she is much more voluble than me.
Discuss, dissect, drown me with opinions and vituperation if necessary.

killing a country?

What's the word for the deliberate killing of a country? Patriacide? It's happened before of course, or has been attempted, and now the whole sorry cycle is going on again with Lebanon. Hundreds of thousands of people are reported to have fled; the infrastructure of the whole place is being pummelled to dust; warships are evacuating their own nationals; and Israel has promised to grind Lebanon '20 years back'. So, is that back to the shameful massacres at Sabra and Shatila refugee camps then, led by that blood-boltered bastard Ariel Sharon? Is that what you want, Mr. Olmert? To wallow in another people's blood to attract votes like flies?
If Israel is attempting patriacide however, let us not forget that what Hizbullah are doing is the equivalent of self-immolation, or the eating away of a land from within. Each time they fire a Katushya into Israel, they are equally responsible for the deaths of innocents, both Israeli and Lebanese. The moral vacuity that lies at the heart of their actions is reflected and amplified by the cynical and over-the-top reaction of their opponents.

meanwhile, at the BBC's cloning department...

Hmm, we need another BBC Breakfast News Anchorwoman....let's see...first, we'll have a dash of Sian....
...now, Fiona's eyebrows....
....and a soupcon of Natasha's smug grin...
...et voila! Kate Silverton!

An evening full of the joy of raki

Or rather, the first anniversary bash for the Reading Turkish Society, held in the rather wonderful Island Bar on Piper's Island, Caversham. Raki was available (at �3 a shot - ouch!), and the food, created by Burc Tuncel, was mostly classic Turkish dishes, served buffet-style: Stuffed peppers and tomatoes, Icli Kofte, sea bass, Midye Dolmasi, Cilbir, various Aubergine dishes, white cheese and baklava, to name a few. Music was courtesy of a saz player and an organist, and there was a belly dancer, who managed to get most people dancing. Overall, it was a successful evening, inasmuch as the majority had a very good time. Behind the scenes though, there was another story going on. Jealousy, the deliberate spread of misinformation, allegedly missing tickets and money, people not doing the jobs they'd promised to do, mutterings about why were English people allowed to come to a Turkish event, and a late-night visit from some council officials, investigating why the restaurant was operating outside its licensed hours, why the restaurant was open at all, and a flagrant breach of the rules regarding playing live music.
Overall, though, it was a bloody good evening. I think my wife, who ended up doing the most organising, was glad to see the end of it.

Bullies.

You know the type of kid; There he is, in the playground, a bit scrawny and stunted, tie askew: he's probably ginger. His face is scowling or vacant mostly, except when he finds someone younger or smaller than him, and his face lights up with the joy of bullying them mercilessly. He'll punch them in the face for no reason, except to see the look on their faces; He'll trip people up as they come down stairs; he'll stab them in the arm with a pair of compasses, or steal their lunch; most of all, he delights in attacking people when their backs are turned.
Now you would think, considering his size, that he'd be a prime target for bigger, harder bullies. But no - take a step towards him, and suddenly, his brother, the biggest, meanest, brick-shithouse-built bully in the entire school appears from nowhere and leaves you as a bloody spot of ground. So little scrawny goes on, bullying and stealing with impunity, because he can. What someone has forgotten to tell him, though, is that one day, his big brother won't be there at his side any more....
....and that is precisely how I see Israel. A jumped-up, paranoid, ridiculously macho little country punching far above its weight thanks to big bro America. Its over-the-top offensive is vile; its claims that it is targeting only terrorists preposterous; its ongoing persecution of its enemies, dangerous and destabilising. How can it seriously say that it wants peace, when all it does is exacerbate the situation? If people are starving; if people cannot travel to work; if people cannot access their fields; if people have to wait hours for water, while over a fence, their neighbours wallow in swimming pools; if they are fenced in; if all these things, how can you dare to expect them to accept your version of peace?
This is not to excuse Hamas or Hezbollah, or Ahmedinijad in Iran. They are equally bullies - they just don't have the firepower that Israel does.