Pressing Pause.

There is just so much I can't tell you right now. All of my best stories are about other people: Italian families and fellow English tutors and children and PEOPLE THAT TRUST ME.

It just wouldn't be right if I told you about being invited in to my host familes' martial bedroom to find the host dad stark bollock nekkid on the bed with only the PAPER THIN bedsheet between me and his winking trousersnake.







It wouldn't be fair if I recounted that week off I demanded from my boss, wherin at one point I wore my underwear as outwear whilst directing one man on the finer points of sucking sugar out of another man's bellybutton. Which begs the question: would you listen to a gal who's Victoria wasn't so Secret?



What if I told you about when other people where funny? On piling up old yoghurt pots and carboard boxes for an afternoon camp activity, we invited the kids to race to retreive rubbish to use to make houses. We call it junk house. See what we did there? On shouting GO absolute chaos ensued. So much so that one tutor remarked, "Wow. It is like famine aid after the Pakistani floods." It wouldn't be just for me to claim that one as my own, right?



That's what happens when you travel. It is like a spider's web of story. I'm just trying to get myself untangled.