Fireworks

I've always had a knack for indecision, but since getting back from Choco this has been elevated to exhibition standard. Should I buy a house in Bogota? What part of the city is best? Should I buy a house or a flat? What should I do with it once I've got it? Should I get a teaching job at one of the eighty universities here? Or private students? Journalism? Spanish classes? More travelling? What about Christmas? Wassailing?

I'd more or less decided that I was going to hurry up and buy something and then go home for a few weeks of midwinter festivity when I got an unexpected call that changed everything.

It was my former boss, the geezer who opens the dodgy firework shops that spring up all over England on autumn mornings, like so many mushrooms. God only knows how he got the number for the penthouse. "Are you going to work for me this year, or what?" It took me a few moments to work out who I was talking to. "Goodness, well, I don't know. Hello! I've been thinking about it, of course, but, er, no, you see, I'm in Bogota. Colombia. South America. The other side of the world." His response blew away any remaining cobwebs of indecision. "I want you there as soon as possible. Book a flight. I'll pay for it. See you next week." It was said as casually as someone offering to pay for a short taxi ride.

So it is that I find myself preparing for a flight next Wednesday, with a return ticket booked for the middle of November. Then I can come back to Bogota and get back down to some really serious dithering about what to do next.

To be fair to myself, though, I should say that I've been fannying about more than arsing around. My dithering has been of a reasonably proactive nature, and has involved a lot of walking around the city exploring new neighbourhoods. I've found corners of Bogota that look like chunks Oxford that have somehow been transported across the Atlantic. Lovely brick-built houses with leaded lights, tall gables and sandstone lintels around the doors and windows. You can almost taste the cucumber sandwiches and hear the click of croquet balls. The quality of the architecture is one of the most surprising things about Colombia. Le Corbusier built a lot in Bogota, and the Bauhaus architects from Germany set up a school here. But, for me, the best areas are those built in 'estilo Ingles'. There does seem to be an appetite for all things English among Colombia's rich. You often see businessmen in the financial area, not in sober grey suits, but sporting ensembles of tweed, corduroy and Shetland wool. Club-style ties and brown leather brogues complete the look, which is usually carried off with aplomb.

Despite these appearances, the business style here couldn't be more different than at home. A good case in point is that of estate agents. At home you would never dare give one of these people your phone number, for fear of constant harrassment. "Hello? Mr Martin? I've got another place you might be interested in. It's not quite where you were looking, it's in the Outer Hebrides, and it's not so much a house as a fire-damaged abattoir. But I thought you might want to take a look . . . " But here it's a different story. "Hola," I say. "I'm a silly gringo with more money than sense and I'd like you to sell me a house." Ker-ching, you'd think they'd think, but oh no. "Oh, er, right. We'll call you back tomorrow." And, of course, they never do.

I've also been teaching a few private classes recently, and it's felt nice to have a bit of money coming in. On top of this I've been doing rather well with poker, which has become a bit of a weekly tradition. We only play for a tiny amount of cash, but a half-decent win can cover a good night out - with enough left, as my grandad would say about his two-and-six, for a bag of chips on the way home.