Wednesday, June 28, 2017

Down By The River

Oh dear! This is getting too embarrassing for words. Yet another month has flown by and, as always, I have done absolutely nothing worth mentioning. So, in the absence of anything remotely interesting to write about, here’s a photo of a bridge:

I took that photo myself on my Samsung A3. Yes, I thought you’d be impressed. And here’s one my wife took the same day on her Huawei P8 before proceeding to share it with all her WhatsApp contacts:

As you can see, I was miles away when that photo was taken – my wife would say I am always miles away –, immersed as I was in Mostly Harmless, the fifth and final instalment of Douglas Adams’s magnificent Hitchhiker’s ‘trilogy’. Whilst struggling to follow the plot – nothing new there –, I wished nonetheless that I were capable of producing such gems as, “The quality of any advice anybody has to offer has to be judged against the quality of life they actually lead.”

Talking of books, I was thrilled to receive a WhatsApp from one of my students earlier this week to say that she had started reading Angela’s Ashes, and that she would gladly strangle any Irishman who dared to cross her path that day. Frank McCourt is another of my favourite writers, and I always recommend him to my students. Amazingly, however, and doubtless for the first and last time, somebody actually took me seriously and followed me up on my recommendation.

Sadly, Douglas and Frank are no longer with us. Fortunately, however, their works, and their words, remain. Whenever I feel down, if there is one thought that keeps me going, it is Frank’s observation that, “You might be poor, your shoes might be broken, but your mind is a palace.”

To be honest, I think my mind is more like a garden shed than a palace, but it's still a reassuring thought. To my mind at least.

Thanks for reading; and never stop dreaming.


dayrealing noun [Uncount.] thinking about something useful and real while engaged in a useless unreal task
I quite enjoy wasting my time on stupid reports and pointless meetings, so I’m not really into dayrealing.

Colin was an incorrigible dayrealer; he spent far more time dayrealing than daydreaming. He would sit through many a useless meeting, thinking, "I could be marking those essays … I could be making a Spanish omelette … I could be doing the shopping … I could be reading Kurt Vonnegut … I could be watching Hill Street Blues …"

dayrealing, Chapter 25, "Dream Catch Me"

Sunday, May 28, 2017

Without Rings

I couldn’t find Michelin Man Don’t Live Here No More on YouTube, so Without Rings will have to do. Back in January, my colleagues and I were asked to pose for a photo, together with our New Year’s Resolutions. Initially, I thought about putting, “Take up smoking” or “Be even nicer to my students”. Then I remembered, however, that I had just hit a 90-kilo high on our bathroom scales, so getting rid of that spare tyre seemed to be an even worthier goal.

I scribbled a simple 4-month “10-kilo plan” on my mobile:

  • ·         Jan 25th, 90k -4
  • ·         Feb 25th, 86k -3
  • ·         Mar 25th, 83k -2
  • ·         Apr 25th, 81k -1
  • ·         May 25th, 80k

And, much to my own amazement, I actually made it!

They don't make feet like that anymore, do they! But I digress... Back home, my achievement has not gone unnoticed: “Are you sure those scales are working properly?”, “You don’t look like you’ve lost ten kilos”, “What you need to do is drink less and get more exercise” ... and similar words of encouragement.

I’ll have to leave you now, I’m afraid. My dear mother-in-law has organised another family reunion because her 47-year-old little boy is going to Germany next week, and we may never see him again; at least for a month or two. When he does come back – in three weeks’ time at a guess – we will obviously have to celebrate his safe return with another banquet.

I think I'll give those scales a miss for the next week or two!

‘Bread, butter, cheese ...’
It was a depressing list.
‘Buns, biscuits, cakes ...’
Then again, all of Mick’s lists were depressing these days.
‘Beer, brandy, chocolate ...’
Why did all the good things in life begin with B or C? And, more to the point, why were all the “good things in life” bad for the body, a burden to burn off and crammed with cholesterol-enhancing calories?
‘Burgers, bacon, chorizo ...’
Summer was approaching fast, and the daily beach inspections were just around the corner. It was time to bring out his trusted “no BBC for me” diet.
‘Brownies, bagels, cream teas ...’
Mick was struggling now. He’d never had a bagel in his life and, let’s face it, “cream teas” was a bit of a cop-out, wasn’t it? He’d be resorting to brand names next.
‘Baileys, Ballantine’s, Cointreau ...’
Thankfully for both Mick and the Spanish wine industry, Rioja began with an R.
‘Bacardi, Beefeater, coffee ...’
Coffee?! No way! Besides, all the klever dicks spelt koffee with a K, didn’t they?
If you kan’t beat them, join them! kontemplated Mick, sipping his ice-kold koffee.

fifty Shades of Spain, Chapter 48, “Food For Thought”

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Ol' '55

So this is Easter, and what have you done? Another year over, and a new one just begun...

Having just turned 55, I couldn’t resist stealing Tom Waits’ delightful tale about a clapped-out wreck for this month’s blog title. Can it really be 33 years since I abandoned my beloved England for beautiful Basqueland at the tender age of 22? And, for a bonus point, do any of you know what Tom was doing over in California when he was 22? That’s right, he was writing Ol’ ’55 among countless other gems.

When Tom turned 33, he released Swordfishtrombones, to universal acclaim; when I turned 33, I discovered Oasis and bought (What’s the Story?) Morning Glory...

At 44, Tom contributed to Johnny Cash’s Grammy-winning American Recordings; at the same age, I attended an international teachers’ congress in Harrogate...

At 55, Tom starred in Oscar-winning Roberto Benigni’s The Tiger and The Snow; in similar vein, I recently swam in The Whale and The Water, setting a personal best for the season: twenty lengths without drowning once.

So much for similarities. What about the differences? Well, for starters, I’m pretty sure I got better birthday presents than Tom did on his 55th:

Not bad, eh? If you look very closely, you’ll notice that Nikka, the Japanese whisky, didn’t quite survive the photo call, but I’m pleased to report that the other bottles remain untouched. At the same time, it is somewhat worrying that friends and family have such a boozy image of yours truly – the very image that I had always had of dear old Tom until I discovered that he has been teetotal since the age of 43!

A few days after that photo was taken, one of my friends had a last-minute inspiration. At  a guess, a little bird must have told her that, when not teaching, drinking or checking weather forecasts, I also enjoy unwinding with the occasional read. So, imagine my delight last week to discover this waiting for me on my desk:

Richard who?! I hear you asking. No, I had never heard of him, either, but he writes beautiful short stories, believe me. His website also offers some excellent advice to would-be writers:

“Say to yourself, I accept failure as the condition of this life, this work. I freely accept it as my destiny. Then go on and do the work. You never ask yourself anything beyond Did I work today?”

Now here’s a man on my wavelength! Expect the worst from everything you do, but do it anyway. Yes, that sums up my life to date perfectly, I’d say. Richard goes on to say:

Don’t compare yourself to anyone.”

Oh dear! I read this 55 years too late, I fear. That said, it is excellent advice, I’m sure you’ll agree; especially for those of us who stand to lose every time we make our silly comparisons.

By a happy coincidence, today – 18th April – is Richard Bausch’s birthday, so Happy 72nd, Professor! And by an even happier coincidence, today is also The Other Mike Church’s birthday, so I’ve decided to celebrate by updating my “Best Bits” collection:

I’m not sure whether we’ll still be here in seven years’ time, but let’s cross our fingers and thumbs. Thanks as ever for making it this far.


Upon a time once there was a man poor who had thoughts ordering his problems. More often than not, matter this didn’t. “Eggs, bacon and sausages, please”, “Bacon, sausages and eggs, please”, “Sausages, eggs and bacon, please”, “Please! Where are sodding my bacon, eggs and sausages?” . . . – what make did it difference? The result end was always the same: galore cholesterol.

Numbers, however, were the life of his bane. According to his portpass, for example, he was 95 old years already, having born been in 1592. And his wife amused very wasn’t when he came from the supermarket back with 21 eggs and 42 loo rolls.

Day one, his wife an ultimatum issued him with:

‘Of this Brian I’ve had enough! Get help or else.’
What or else, darling?’ he asked, but she meant what he knew.

So an appointment Brian made with his PG, for he loved the world more than anything else in his wife. Unfortunately, he up turned at 20:10 instead of 10:20.

That last Thursday was. Another appointment naturally they gave him: this Tuesday at 11:11 dot the on. Or was it next Thursday for? Eh well, learn and live, oh?


fifty Shades of Spain, Chapter 23, “Are We In Trouble Now”

Saturday, March 25, 2017

Logical Song

English is mathematics.’ Well, that’s what I always tell my students, many of whom are top-notch engineers who have no problems calculating in their heads that an object starting from rest with a constant angular acceleration of 2.0 rad/s2 will reach an angular velocity of 1.59 rev/s after 5.0 seconds. These very same eggheads, however, will come unstuck when challenged to explain the difference between “a journey” and “a trip”. Or between their “fingers” and their “toes”, for that matter. ‘How many fingers have you got?’ is a great Plan B to have up your sleeve for a rainy day, with answers invariably ranging from eight to twenty, via ten and eighteen, depending on whether your calculations include thumbs (dedos gordos = “fat fingers”) and/or toes (dedos de pie = “foot fingers”). And you can only imagine the looks on my poor students’ faces when I follow this discussion up with, ‘So how many fish fingers do you have in your freezer, Fernando?’. But I digress...

Fortunately, writing a simple mathematical equation on the whiteboard is all it takes to get everybody back on track:

As my students open their notebooks enthusiastically and jot the equation down even more enthusiastically, everything miraculously falls into place. Now everyone can see that the “journey” is the boring yet necessary part of the trip:

By the same token, it follows that the “visit” is the only reason we took that bleeding plane in the first place:

Now that we are all on the same wavelength, the rest of the class is a breeze, and the hour flies by. Along the way, I’ll throw in a few “percentage discussions” because these always help to clarify concepts with my fellow maths lovers:

‘So, if I say to you, “It may rain this afternoon”, is it going to rain, Luis?’
‘Exactly! So, what are the chances of it actually raining, María? Mathematically speaking, I mean.’
‘Sixty-four percent?’
‘Is that what Meteoblue says?
‘Mateo who?’
‘Never mind. And what if I say, “It may well rain this afternoon”? Am I increasing or decreasing the probabilities, Unai?’
‘Yes what?’
‘Yes please?’...

Well, I won’t bore you with the entire transcript but, suffice to say, we get there eventually:

Yet another victory for common sense, I’m sure you’ll agree. That said, the last thing I want is for my students to relax too much, so the other day, I decided it was time to ruffle a few feathers:

‘Can anybody complete this saying?’ I asked. Unsurprisingly, everybody fell into my little mousetrap by agreeing that, “When the cat’s away, the mice will dance” –  because that’s what all Spanish mice do, apparently. Cuando el gato no está, los ratones bailan. Little did it matter that “dance” rhymes terribly with “away”; for most speakers of English, at least. Nor did my underlining “away” and repeating, ‘When the cat’s aWAY... When the cat’s aWAY...’ make a scrap of difference to the jury’s verdict.

English is music!’ I berated my students. ‘When the cat’s aWAY, the mice will PLAY! Not dance, for heaven’s sake! Since when did “dance” rhyme with “away”?’ On and on I went. But nobody was listening to me.

‘English is music? But didn’t you say English is mathematics?’
‘Yes, that’s right, Elena. English is many things,’ I went on, fully aware that I had just made a dangerous addition to our cosy equation:

‘OK, what about this one?’ I said, ploughing on as if my revelation that mathematics and music are one and the same thing were no big deal:

Opinion was divided on this one. After all, grass can be fresh, long and green, can’t it? Indeed, everybody agreed that all three options were perfectly valid, so I tried underlining “grass” and repeating, ‘The GRass is always... The GRass is always...’ But to no avail.

English is poetry too!’ I declared, throwing all caution to the winds. ‘The GRass is always GReener on the other side. Perhaps it’s fresher and longer too, but who cares?’

The uproar that ensued had to be seen to be believed, so you’ll have to take my word for it, I’m afraid.

‘But English is poetry, or English is music?’
‘Both, Joaquin.’
‘And mathematics also?’
‘And mathematics as well, Laura.’

One of the advantages of speaking English better than anybody else in the room is that I win all the arguments. And this one was no exception.

‘You see, English can be anything you want it to be,’ I explain.

‘It’s maths, it’s music, it’s poetry.

It’s the first, the last, my everything!’

And talking of Barry White, I really can’t think of a better note on which to finish, so let’s leave it here, shall we? Thanks for reading, and see you next month, I hope.


It was one of those breaks. Too short to do anything or go anywhere, yet too long to do nothing or go nowhere without feeling that you had wasted a golden opportunity to do something or go somewhere.

Colin’s day was full of mini breaks like these, ranging from 10 minutes to 20 minutes in theory, which meant 2 minutes to 12 minutes in practice, as he always lost eight valuable minutes – nearly 500 seconds! – cleaning his whiteboard, gathering his things and thoughts, and seeing off the last lingering students. Haven’t you got a home to go to? he used to think to himself, until it eventually dawned on him that this was precisely their problem and, for all his woes, it was reassuring to know that maybe he wasn’t so badly-off after all. Well, that was the theory. In practice, of course, he was far far worse-off than anybody else in the whole bloody looniverse, even if he was the only person who actually realised this.

So what could he do with his 12 minutes? Find a boss and have a quick “one-minute chat”? Did he really look that desperate for somebody to talk to? Or listen to, rather. How about boiling three eggs, one after the other, just for the hell of it? Why was everybody so obsessed with boiling eggs, anyway? The last person Colin had ever actually seen boil an egg was Granny, and that was about 30 years ago. What ever came of that egg? he wondered. In any case, by the time he’d tracked down three eggs, a saucepan, some water and a cooker, his 12 minutes would be up.

dayrealing, Chapter 20, “Is She Really Going Out With Him?”

Friday, February 24, 2017

Don't Give Up

Got __ ____ ___ __ here
I ___’_ ____ ___ more

Dear Miss Slapper

I am writing to let you know that I have decided to …

To what? 

People deal with depression in different ways …

Some people start eating; some people stop eating; other people go on eating.
Some take to drink; some take to drugs; others take to d- words.
Some people start gambling; some people start ambling; other people start rambling.
Some send texts; some shop in Next; others surf the Net.
Some people can’t forsake their bed; some people can’t face their bed; other people can’t find their bed.
Some accept there’s a problem; some deny there’s a problem; others don’t know there’s a problem.
Some people behave as if nothing were wrong; some people behave as if everything were wrong; other people try to tie a knot in their dick.
Some go crazy; some go cranky; others go quiet.
Some people fight; some people bite; other people write.
Some write wonderfully; some write woodenly; others write whateverly.

Colin was in the last group. He was always in the last group. Writing was Colin’s catharsis. Whatever “catharsis” meant. And whatever “whateverly” meant, for that matter. 

Well, whatever, writing whateverly, wheneverly, whereverly was a wonderful way to wish one’s woes away with words without wasting one’s whatnots by whacking walls or wailing to the wind.

dayrealing, chapter 10, "Don't Give Up"

Saturday, January 28, 2017

When You Say Nothing At All

My wife left me today. Just for a few hours, mind you. ‘It’s now or never!’ I said to myself, retrieving my poor laptop and sinking into my favourite armchair. Just one minor problem, of course: I couldn’t think of anything to write about.

As the minutes ticked away and my blog deadline loomed ominously closer, I could see that urgent action was called for. Thirty minutes and three hundred “Like” clicks later, I realised that trawling aimlessly through my friends’ Facebook updates wasn’t getting me any nearer to my goal. But then I had a brainwave: I would write about... nothing! Just like Ronan Keating.

At this stage, I had two options: I could either google “Ronan Keating” and waste a further half an hour or so checking out Boyzone on Wikipedia... or I could settle down in my favourite armchair and— Hang on a minute! What’s with all this “favourite armchair” nonsense? OK, then, in the absence of anything better to talk about, let’s talk about our favourite chairs, shall we? Here’s mine:

Please note the absence of cushions. And here’s one my wife made earlier (Gosh, I hope she doesn’t read this!):

I used to have a similar battle whenever visiting Mum and Dad at ‘Penlan’ in High Wycombe, but I always made it eventually:

A glance at my relaxed ‘Best Practice’ pose might lead us to a discussion on the relative merits and drawbacks of sitting up straight. Such thoughts, however, would be missing the point: it was quite impossible to sit ‘properly’ in Mum and Dad’s armchairs as they had a mind of their own (the chairs, I mean). Once you descended into one of those big beasts, you could say goodbye to any plans you had made for the rest of your day; even more so if Dad happened to be sitting in the armchair opposite you.

Penlan is up for sale as I write these lines, so I was pleased to see that the man-eating armchairs are being thrown in for the unsuspecting buyers.

Dear oh dear! If Microsoft’s word count is to be trusted, I have written a pitiful 400 words in the best part of two hours. And that’s your lot, I’m afraid. I’m off to the swimming pool now to see if I can mend my broken back. According to my swimming notes – yes, “swimming notes”, I know; How sad can you get? –, the last time I went swimming I got wet was on January 10th 2015. I wouldn’t normally go back to the swimming pool in such quick succession, but it will most likely be time better spent than carrying on with this nonsense.

Thanks for reading!


Colin was slouched in his favourite armchair, whisky in hand, laptop on stomach, gazing into space, pondering, wondering, and tapping keys randomly with the other hand. That’s what writers did, wasn’t it? It was a tough life, but nobody had said being the non-thinking man’s Bill Bryson was going to be easy.

dayrealing, Chapter 45, "Wonderful Life"


–Dos para la piscina, por favor.
–¿Son socios?
–¿Cómo vamos a ser socios si acabamos de bajar del avión?

–Two for the pool, please.
–Are you members?
–How can we be members if we’ve only just got off the plane?

–¿Quieren hacerse socios?
–No, gracias. Sólo queremos usar la piscina.
–Aún así, compensa, señor.

–Would you like to become members?
–No, thanks. We just want to use the pool, please.
–Even so, it’s worth it, Sir.

–Así que son sesenta euros, por favor.
–¡¿Sesenta?! ¿Para nadar durante media hora?
–Efectivamente. Le sale el minuto a dos euros. ¿Seguro que no quieren hacerse socios?

–So that’s sixty euros, please.
–Sixty?! For a half-hour swim?
–That’s right. It works out as two euros a minute. Are you sure you don’t want to become members?

–Cariño, ¿No habrás visto mis chancletas por un casual?
–Sí. Las tiré..

–Darling, you haven’t seen my flip-flops by any chance, have you?
–Yes. I threw them away.

–¿Por qué nos están mirando todos?
–No lo sé. Ni caso, cariño.

–Why’s everybody looking at us?
–I don’t know. Ignore them, darling.

–Tienen que llevar gorro.
–No tenemos.
–Haberse hecho socios. Se los regalan.

–You have to wear a swimming cap.
–We don’t have any.
–You should have become members. You get them for free.

–¿Puedo usar el gimnasio?
–Claro que sí, señor. Son treinta euros.

–Can I use the gym?
–Certainly, Sir. That’s thirty euros.

–¿Crees que hay que pagar la sauna?
–¡Rápido! ¡Que no nos vean!

–Do you think we have to pay for the sauna?
–Quick! While nobody’s looking!

–¿Por qué la pista de tenis no tiene red?
–Porque es la cancha de baloncesto, idiota.
–Ya decía yo que algo no encajaba.

–Why doesn’t the tennis court have a net?
–Because that’s the basketball court, you fool.
–Yes, I thought something wasn’t right.

–¿Has visto mi llave de taquilla?
–Sí. Se te cayó en el jacuzzi.

–Have you seen my locker key?
–Yes, you dropped it in the jacuzzi.

Spanglish for Impatient People, Lesson 15, “at the sports centre”

Thursday, December 15, 2016

It Makes No Difference

‘Would you rather be attacked by a lion... or a tiger?’ I asked my students the other day. Beats, ‘Do you prefer tea or coffee?’ for an opening gambit any day, doesn’t it?

Can you tell the difference between a lion and a tiger? Which would you rather be attacked by?

There followed an embarrassing minute’s silence while my students debated whether it was too late to ask for their money back and, if so, who would be the brave soul to lead the way? Much to my relief, however, one of the ladies present took up the gauntlet:

‘I have a friend who can’t distinguish between a lion and a tiger,’ replied Garbiñe the Gauntlet Taker.

One of the greatest things, if not the greatest thing, about my job is that, every morning when I crawl into work, I have no idea whatsoever as to what conversations I can be expecting over the next ten hours or so.

‘A tiger, probably. If I’m going to be killed, I prefer to die as quickly as possible,’ said Jabi the Jungle Watcher.

Fair point, but I was still trying to come to terms with the fact that there are people out there, apparently, who can’t tell the difference between a lion and a tiger.

‘Did you see that video on YouTube?’ asked Lucía the Thread Spinner, as the discussion wove its way in competing directions. And talking of competing directions...

Is my wife the only person who can’t tell the difference between an up escalator and a down escalator in a department store? To be fair, they look much the same, though there are usually a few clues to be found if you are paying attention.

Can you tell whether this escalator is going up or down?

Reasoning to herself, I suppose, that she has a fifty-fifty chance, my wife heads for the first gap that she spots within a five-yard radius. Meanwhile, her loyal husband tags along, ready to chip in with, ‘Let’s try the other side, shall we, darling?’ in the event that some idiot has programmed the stairs to be moving in the wrong direction on my wife’s approach.

Interestingly, my wife’s mother adopts a similar strategy every time I give her a lift to or from home: On stepping outdoors, she simply stops at the first vehicle she sees, then waits for her chauffeur to open the door. Mathematically speaking, her chances of success are about one in twenty (of hitting on the right car, I mean; her chances of having the door opened for her are exactly one in one). Well, it’s worth a shot, isn’t it?

Black car or red van? So long as it’s comfortable, who cares?

Incidentally, and irrelevantly, my mother-in-law’s inability to distinguish a Mini from a double-decker has nothing to do with failing sight – she can spot a church, chemist’s or cake shop from a mile off.

‘Hang on a minute, clever clogs,’ I hear you objecting. ‘If you’re so smart, how come you brush your teeth with shampoo and wash your hair with toothpaste?’

Ouch! That was a bit below the belt, wasn’t it? I’m sure you’ll agree that we all have our little bathroom battles first thing in the morning. And I’m not just talking about bowel movements here, you understand.

Would you be able to tell these apart at 5:55 in the morning?
Having showered and dressed, it’s time to hit the road, where I notice that many of my fellow motorists are quite incapable of distinguishing between Stop signs and Give Way signs, red lights and yellow lights, continuous lines and dotted lines...

Once in class, I discover that nearly all my students are prepared to answer, ‘Did you have a good weekend?’, while my follow-up question, ‘Did you do your homework?’, draws blank stares all round. Hardly anyone appears to understand that “eight o’clock” and “ten past eight” do not mean the same thing. One hour later, however, as our class draws to a close, everyone is quick to ask me, ‘Is nine o’clock, no, Mike?’.

To hear my poor prisoners students, you would think they have better things to do with their time than be discussing the relative merits and drawbacks of being attacked by a lion or a tiger. So do I, now that we mention it, so I think I’d better sign off here.



20 Reasons Why I Should Be Allowed To Teach English

1.        I know the difference between singular and plural nouns.
2.        I know what “uncountable” means. I think I know what “countable” means too.
3.        I know all about verbs, tenses, stuff like that.
4.        I even know the difference between a gerund and an infinitive.
5.        I’m not so clear on the difference between a gerund and a gerundive, but I’m pretty confident I could find out if necessary.
6.        I’m well up on prepositions.
7.        I can spell words like “accommodation” and “correspondence” correctly (most of the time).
8.        I can be unreasonably pedantic: anyone who can’t distinguish between “fewer” and “less” should be shot (even if fewer students means less money).
9.        I know my articles and I know my particles.
10.    I can underline the adverbs and adjectives in phrases like, “He’s pretty jolly” or “She’s jolly pretty”.
11.    I can distinguish between idioms and idiots.
12.    I know how to use words like “whom” and “whose” correctly.
13.    I can churn out more phrasal verbs than you can take in.
14.    I can make a coherent statement without using moronic interjections such as “you know”, “like”, “sort of” … that kind of thing, right?
15.    I use commas, full-stops and semi-colons correctly; most of the time.
16.    I know the difference between “I hate English” and “I hate the English”.
17.    I know loads of silly jokes and puns – ideal punishment for silly students!
18.    I can bluff my way out of any difficult language question.
19.    I’m very good at making up ridiculous rules.
20.    I am English.

Numbers 18 to 20 were a bit of a cop-out, but Colin couldn’t stand odd-numbered lists, in much the same way that he would never understand people who, having started a perfectly good sentence, couldn’t be bothered to

In the end, Slapper had relented, even if this was more to do with Looniversal Learning’s resident English teacher having gone down with postphrasal depression, as opposed to any genuine confidence in Colin’s teaching ability.

‘Thanks, Miss Slapper, you won’t regret this.’ (‘You’ll be sorry.’)
‘We’ll see.’ (‘I know.’) 

dayrealing, Chapter 5, “Heart Of Gold”