San Francisco is a land-locked city, in a land-locked province, something like fifteen hours from the nearest decent bit of coast-line in any direction, which is pretty hard to imagine coming from our small island in the north Atlantic.  Even to reach a stream big enough for paddling means a trip of a hundred kilometres or so.  And since we’re not exactly well served with swimming pools (one; open to the public sometimes on weekend afternoons during the summer), a pool in the back garden is almost an essential item.  Posh people dig proper swimming pools, the rest of us buy a “pelopincho”; essentially a large paddling pool which we construct in November, and take down again in March.  Ours is the smallest in the range, and is big enough for me n’ the kids to have a good splash while minimising the risk of accidental drowning (or either of them drowning the other on purpose). 

Since even the littlest pelopincho still requires quite a lot of (expensive, metred) water, I went to the shop and asked what people normally do to keep the water clean for a while.  “One of these….” being a white plastic container with a screw top and a few pinprick holes.  Into the container goes a cake of chlorine.  This floats around in the pool and releases chlorine into the water; she reckoned a cake would last a month or so.  In it went and bobbed around for a week or two until I next uncovered the pool, only to discover that it had totally bleached one corner, while the other side was filled with wriggling larvae.  This suggested that coverage hadn’t been as even as one might suppose, and I wondered if the chlorine cake was still alive and active. 

So I took the white container out of the pool, undid the lid and sniffed. 

It was. 

“Chlorine gas is a pulmonary irritant with intermediate water solubility that causes acute damage in the upper and lower respiratory tract. Chlorine gas was first used as a chemical weapon at Ypres, France, in  1915…”    (http://emedicine.medscape.com)

It took the first minute for my respiratory tract to regroup sufficiently to take the next breath; the necessary one with the fresh air in it. Maybe should have gone to A&E at that point, but a flick round the internet suggested that the treatment of choice is humidified oxygen and that most victims of chlorine gas poisoning go on to make a full recovery (apart from those subsequently shot by the Germans), so I figured that I had statistics on my side even if my own common sense appeared to have jumped ship.  As for the humidified oxygen, the air in sweaty San Francisco is about as humid as it is possible for a gas to get without actually becoming a liquid, and probably has around 20% oxygen which is handy for things like supporting life.  Meanwhile my recovering eyes, nose, throat and lungs serve as a reminder that we won’t do that again, will we boys and girls?

(Disclaimer: This is “one for Granny”, so if you are offended by ropy home videos of other peoples’ children, look away now.)

Here is some very rough quality video of our smallest boy’s first attempts to crawl.  His technique is something to behold, feet first, at great effort, and highly pleased with himself.  It looks extremely inefficient, it is extremely inefficient, and yet, turn my back for two minutes and we have variously found him heading out of the front door, trapped behind the fire (unused at this time of year, fortunately), or wedged behind the computer trolley (don’t try this one at home ladies and gentlemen).

Presenting Daniel the Human Caterpillar:

I didn’t realise the local rag had such a wide readership!  Last week was apparently the “day of the immigrant”, and in a polar opposite to coverage in the UK press (“bogus asylum seekers” etc.) the media here positively celebrate the diverse contributions that immigrants bring to enrich the local culture (especially when said immigrant is white, in this aspect we do overlap with the UK gutter press).  San Francisco being an agricultural backwater attracts nothing like the cosmopolitan communities of a Buenos Aires or Cordoba, so “Los Ingleses” were wheeled out to provide official comment for La Voz de San Justo; 

You could probably put it through a translator for the details.  It is mostly accurate apart from various spellings of my name, and I’m not fully certain how How did you come to San Francisco? “we’re working for a mission organisation” managed to become “Martin Frost and Hazle (sic) Cant arrived six years ago looking for a tranquil place to live…”  (in fact one might argue that the two ideas are 180 degrees apart).  Other than that though, it gives a positive account of us, and has us giving a positive account of Argentina, and by the number of people who have stopped us in the street this week it appears that most of the city has read it; all good for public relations. 

Cub camp this weekend.  We were trying out a new (new to us that is) local destination just outside the city of San Francisco; far enough away to feel like you’ve left home, but close enough to be able to pop back for the things we were lacking, far enough away that the parents don’t all show up to visit, but close enough that they can come and collect their own offspring when the event’s over.  It’s a good site for future reference; large grounds, with a perimeter fence, lots of trees, enough indoor space, and a grubby but more or less functional kitchen. It lacks drinking water, but knowing that for next time will save us a journey or two.  Big thunderstorm Saturday afternoon followed by rain till lunchtime Sunday curtailed some activities, but we still managed to make dens, take footprints, and fingerprints, do a treasure hunt, secret messages in lemon juice, some utensil-free outdoor cooking, and of course the ubiquitous football, and I also introduced French Cricket which they really liked. 

   

 

Probationary Period

1. The main purpose of a probationary period is to ensure an individual’s capability, reliability and suitability for permanent employment. Our Probation Procedure will ensure that:

• Performance, conduct and attendance are assessed throughout the probation period
• Team Leaders provide guidance, encouragement and any necessary training to ensure positive development.
• Both individuals and team leaders are fully informed of progress throughout the probationary period and any issues that do arise are discussed at the earliest possible date.

2. All new entrants will be expected to serve a probationary period. This requirement will only be waived for exceptional reasons. The Human Resource Manager will advise in such circumstances.
3. In order to complete the probationary period successfully, the probationer must demonstrate they are capable of undertaking the full range of duties of their post. Their performance will be formally assessed at least twice during the probationary period but feedback must be given verbally on a regular basis.
4. A probationers attendance and conduct records are equally important. Again, conduct will be assessed formally at least twice during the probationary period using the probation review form.
Again, however, if any problems with conduct do arise they should be tackled immediately and not left until the next formal review is due. Attendance will also be closely monitored through a series of checks at strategic points throughout the probationary period.

Courtesy of www.companieshouse.gov.uk

  

Dear Daniel Frost

In recognition of your capability, reliability and suitability, your extraordinary progress made, and your one hundred per cent attendance record over the past six months, Frost inc. are delighted to offer you a permanent contract.  Please can you sign the enclosed in triplicate and return it to the Human Resource Manager at your earliest convenience.  Unfortunately this post does not include holiday entitlement, nor any salary beyond mashed banana.

Yours sincerely

Round up;

• A toxic herbicide manufactured by Monsanto
• To raise to the nearest convenient number
• To seek out and bring together e.g. livestock. 
• Or possibly…
  • A summary of unconnected (news) reports. 

That’s probably the one we’re looking for

News round, round up… I was watching Country File the other week (we watch the BBC sort of semi-legally-ish), and spotted John Craven.  Made me realise just how young he must have been in those 70’s days of the Newsround when I was seven and thought he looked really old. 

So what else is news…

We spent an arm and a leg servicing the car on Monday, and it died in the middle of nowhere on Tuesday, but appears to be fixed again now; it didn’t die today anyway. 

After several weeks, many phone calls, and two trips to Cordoba, Martin finally managed to track down a prisoner he’d been looking for.  The prison service turns out actually to have a computerised data-base, but it appears that it might not be anyone’s job to keep it updated or checked for accuracy, so we were variously told that the guy was in a prison in Cordoba, a prison in Cruz del Eje (three hours beyond Cordoba), or had been released.  A phone call to his family ascertained that he was in fact in the other prison in Cordoba, which is exactly where Martin thought he was in the first place, but not one of the options suggested by the official system.  They managed to meet last Monday.  Another ex-prisoner friend reckons that sometimes people die in custody and simply “disappear” from the system.  I’m not in a position to comment, beyond observing the ease with which “the system” manages to lose even the living, apparently without trying. 

Having finally had my degree certificates returned from the British Foreign and Commonwealth office, apparently the next stage in the marathon confetti chase, is to be revalidated as having finished secondary school.  A check on the Argentinean government website says that this needs to be done in the locality where I am resident.  So off I went to the local ministry of education this morning.  “Why do they need your secondary certificate if you have higher education qualifications?”  Do you know, I have wondered the same myself, but since this is your country’s ministry of education not mine, perhaps you’ll take it up with them for me.  “You’ll need to get an appointment and do this in Buenos Aires”.  Au contraire… luckily I’d printed out the webpage and brought it with me; it says here that I have to do it in the locality where I am resident and that’s here.  “hmm… we don’t see many of these…” No, I’ll grant you that much “so I’ll need to find out what we’re supposed to do, can I get back to you?”  How about I come again on Friday? 

In the interim I’m busy doing stuff with the special school when the kids show up, and when the car doesn’t leave me stranded by the road-side, and when the teachers aren’t cancelling classes in order to have a meeting instead.  Routines seem a lot more precarious here somehow, but I’m enjoying it when it happens, and for now, the school have got me for next to nothing since I’m not officially qualified to do anything! 

Right now I’m planning the programme for cub camp in two weeks time on the theme of detectives, so we’ll be playing with invisible writing and finger printing, all cloak and dagger; or as cloak and dagger as it’s possible to achieve with a bunch of over-excited eight year olds anyway. 

And right right now, it’s bed-time. 

Yesterday we marked our seventh wedding anniversary.  Actually I just turned up an article that suggested that marriage length for a male banker is barely above half the national average; 6.7 years compared to 11.5, so maybe it’s a good thing I changed his career and dragged him off to Argentina after all. (The same article suggested that 23.4% of male bankers wanted custody of the children while 67.3% wanted custody of the family dog instead.  Now, come to think of it…. no, best not go there….) 

We’d planned to go out to our favourite spit-n-sawdust local bar, leaving Joni in the capables of our house-mates, and hoiking Danny along to play gooseberry, but at the last minute the gods decided to smile upon us, and Danny went to sleep, so he was unceremonially plonked into his cot and we ran away for the evening for the first time in six months since he was born; hoorah. 

…made for three! 

“Mummy, it isn’t good for a young boy to be bored”.  I am sorry if the entertainment isn’t up to scratch; bring on the cabaret (cavalry?)

Friday morning Hazel, dogs, Joni on trike, Danny in pushchair go for a walk.  Joni on trike doesn’t see the step, front wheel stops dead, classic base over apex, spread-eagled face-down in a child-trike tangle.  I let go of both pushchair and dog in order to unravel Joni.  Dog finding herself unexpectedly free, joyfully sets off in pursuit of approaching van, knocking over pushchair on the way.  Score yelling children two.  Picked everyone up, dusted them off, no major injuries, even Joni’s bleeding chin isn’t going to warrant stitches.  Carry on our walk.  Arrive home half an hour later to discover that I probably lost the house-keys at the point where the pushchair fell over.  Retrace steps.  No keys.  Redo entire walk with a toothcomb.  Still no keys.  Having already been broken into twice, decide that there is at least some possibility that someone knows whose keys they have picked up (the English population of San Francisco scoring at one family).  My patient and uncomplaining (sorry honey) husband therefore spends the morning changing three locks. 

Friday 2pm, the phone rings, I ignore it, twice.  Followed up by a loud banging on the front door.  Someone looking for me.  He has advertised his car for sale on the internet, and the person who wants to buy it apparently works in London and only speaks English, so can I come and help him with the phone-call (like I say, everyone knows where the English family live).  So off I go.  The potential buyer isn’t English, he is Nigerian and his accent over a poor telephone line is barely comprehensible.  And I’m not convinced he’s a genuine buyer either.  I speak to him on the phone, get him to agree to send an email, and warn the people at this end to tread carefully. 

Friday 4pm, sling some things into a bag, sling same into car, add a couple of kids for good measure and we’re off to Cordoba till tomorrow.  Wedding this evening (Argentinean weddings are usually Friday or Saturday evenings, start at 9pm and go on until 5 or 6 the next morning).  Good to see some of the church folk from Cordoba, many expressed surprise that they didn’t know we’d doubled our child quota since they last saw us.  Bush telegraph apparently in need of some maintenance.  Wedding weathered; kids loved it, Martin went off to kip in the car for a couple of hours.  We disappear off to the house of friends for a few zzz’s. 

Saturday morning, the plan to have a leisurely breakfast followed by a meander back to San Fran is hijacked as we find ourselves in the middle of a situation.  This isn’t my story to tell, and particularly not as it is still ongoing.  We spent all day seeking resolution, but by 7 in the evening were forced to conclude that even a temporary patch was beyond our means.  If anyone out there has faith to pray for un-named people in an un-defined crisis, then it would be most welcome; and if you hear any useful answers, then do pass them along.  This one is going to run for a while yet, and is probably the reason why we needed to be in Cordoba this weekend, although I had no inking of that when I wrote “wedding” in the diary for Friday evening. 

Saturday 7pm, we begin our four-hour battle home against an electrical storm, not exactly the kind of entertainment I had in mind (me at the wheel and all), but we made it home in one piece, courtesy of a couple of large lorries which I hid behind for the most ferocious bits. 

Saturday 11pm, arrive home to find the house stinks of gas.  Close inspection reveals probable leak in the cooker.  Switch off gas at source, open doors and windows.  T’was on a monday morning… note to self to phone him. 

My dear sweet little boy with the old man’s vocabulary, I do understand your sentiment that the entertainment this weekend has lacked a certain something, but I don’t think boring would be the adjective I’m looking for. 

I’m gathering prayer support for a little boy; Luciano, “Luchi” is two weeks younger than Joni, and is the son of my fellow Scout leader.  While we were away in the UK I received an email to say that a tumour had been discovered in Luchi’s eye and that he was going to be operated on.  We prayed for Luchi in several of the churches and groups that we visited, so for some of you this is an update.  Luchi has now had the eye completely removed and will need a prosthesis eventually.  While the operation was performed for free under the public health service, the prosthetic eye isn’t included, so the family will have to buy that.  Last weekend we held a “venta de pollos” (sale of chickens – barbecued) to help raise money which hopefully has given them a good head-start.  However, this week my friend received a phone call on Wednesday saying “we’ve done the biopsy and we’re going to need to start chemo right now so come on in…” which would be more than enough to put anyone off their breakfast, let alone a young mother of a four year old.  There’s some things that just shouldn’t happen to little kids.  So they’re away over in Cordoba having chemo, I don’t yet know how it is going, but they definitely need as much prayer as they can get, not least because the public health system is largely on strike at the moment; there are presidential elections this month so it is silly season for civil unrest by anyone who wants to make the president look bad. 

Pray for Luchi, it was his 4th birthday last week.  Pray for his mum, Cintia, this is probably harder for her than it is for him.  And if you don’t believe in God pray anyway.