Last month I told a mother I was "settting up all the details." This month I finally named a day, a time and a place. She wrote back that she didn't have a car.
In the same fortnight I paid a college registration fee out of the guitar account — the same account that hadn't earned anything in two months — and when the coordinator asked whether I'd signed up for business or computers, I answered with one word: "Bussiness."
I've gone through that month carefully too. Two stories, side by side. In one I finally stopped being chased and paid. In the other I built a schedule for a team that, by the look of the replies, still had nobody who could get there.
I REGISTERED
The programme coordinator had started chasing me before this window opened. On the first day of the month, before dawn: "I just want to follow up to see if you were able to register yet."
He asked again the next day. Same registration link. Same phone number for the entrance exam. Same "Please register ASAP."
Three days later he sent the whole thing a third time.
I didn't answer any of them.
On a Wednesday mid-month he changed tone: "The last we spoke you sounded really interested in our program. We are coming up on a deadline soon next week and I would hate for you to miss out. Please be in touch if you would still like to come, I really hope you do."
Thirteen minutes later the payment service wrote to the guitar account. You sent a registration payment. Same minute, the college's English registration system wrote that I'd successfully registered — English-speakers track, business administration. Two minutes after that I emailed him: "I registered let me know if there are any problems."
An hour and a half later: "OK I'll check it, business or computers?"
The next afternoon I answered: "Bussiness."
Four months after my CV had already claimed the degree, I had finally paid for it, and misspelled the field.
Accounting wrote the next morning. They'd received the payment. Could I please send a name and ID number so they could attach it to a student. I sent them. The welcome email listed what was still missing: ID, photos, school certificates, an entrance-exam score, a health form. Three weeks later a no-reply wrote: upload the documents urgently, or they couldn't process the request. On the last day of the month I emailed the registration office, subject "Transcript," with two phone photos of what look like a school transcript. Whether the rest of the packet went in, the inbox doesn't say.
EVERY WEDNESDAY AT HALF PAST THREE
The same Thursday I answered "Bussiness," I finally wrote the two mothers who'd asked about flag football.
To the first, who'd had a ten-year-old and a fourteen-year-old back in the spring: "we will be opening a flag football [club] for ages 10-14. We will meet ever wednesday at 15:30 starting next week. The [club] takes place at the field in [the next village]."
To the second — the mother of the ten-year-old who'd "really really love to play in July": same day, same time, "at the soccer field in [the next village]. Your son is more than welcome to play for just the first month."
Twenty minutes later she wrote: "Oh so sad he doesnt get home from school til 4pm and we dont have a car to drive him there."
That afternoon the other mother wrote: "We're away all summer Possibly interested in the fall Thnx!!"
Both of them were out. One by the summer. One by a school day that ended half an hour after practice started, and no car.
A month earlier I'd answered a mother who wanted soccer that I wasn't sure who to contact. This month I knew exactly who to contact. They just couldn't come.
FREE OF CHARGE THE WHOLE SUMMER
Nine days later a third mother answered the town-list post from early June. Her son was fourteen and "very interested."
I wrote back on the Monday: "For now we are meeting up every Wednesday in [the next village] at 5:00 until 7:00. The [club] is free of charge the whole summer so he is welcoame to come join us whenever he wants."
The plan had moved. Half past three had become five to seven. "Just the first month" had become free for the whole summer. "Welcoame."
There's no later message in the window saying whether he came, how many boys showed up, or whether the Wednesdays happened at all. By the look of the outbox, making it free and later was the answer to "we dont have a car."
WHAT THE INBOX ALSO HELD
The evening-programme organiser from last month wrote once more. Any luck finding friends who might also teach, and the school would start on the fifth of September. I didn't answer him inside the month.
The payment service's May summary pointed out there had been no international transactions on the business account. The only money that moved on that guitar account this month was the registration fee going out. Third month running, it earned nothing. It paid for college instead.
On the first day of the window a fan site finally said happy birthday — three weeks late. Drive for the period holds one file: an untitled document created the afternoon I registered, left empty.
WHAT I TOOK FROM THAT MONTH
Deadlines work when kindness doesn't. Four polite reminders did nothing. "I would hate for you to miss out" got a payment in thirteen minutes.
Pay for the thing you already claimed. The CV had been lying in public since February. The guitar money that wasn't coming in from lessons went to make the line true.
A plan that needs a car isn't a plan for the people who don't have one. Half past three at a field in the next village sounds specific until school ends at four.
When nobody can come, change the offer, not the pitch. I made it later and free. Whether that filled the field, the inbox doesn't say. At least the next mother got a sentence that fitted a fourteen-year-old without a ride.
And spell the major. "Bussiness" is now part of the record forever.