Chimeric Sexy Times and Jemmy Politicos: Pal-entine's Day

I had quite a hard time at work last week: another teacher was away, so I had to cover his classes. I was only meant to cover three, but because of miscommunication between various school offices, I was left in a constant state of paranoia as to when I was meant to be taking his lessons and when I was meant to be doing my own. It was terrifying, stressful and thankless- the children certainly didn't appreciate my being there and stopping them from having a lesson off. I planned lessons as best I could, but the same material was way too difficult for one set while being way too easy for another. It was a tightrope walk between lava and icewater and there was killer whales in the icewater and magmars in the lava and they were throwing stones at me and I was blindfolded and my feet were too wide for the rope.
The perfect antidote for this was Pal-entines day. Apparently, 'Palentine's day' is an actual thing (I knew I wasn't gonna be the first one to have thought of it, but I didn't realise there'd be an entire organisation around it) that happens on the 14th August, but screw that noise- I need my distraction from the most cynical day of the year on that day. So, I went to Brussels to see my beloved Bitsy and, wouldn't you know, she'd changed her hair again.

And grown several feet; apparently, she had the spots last time and I'm just unobservant.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You can't see it all that well, but in that picture her hair's dark blue; apparently, her coworkers now call her 'smurfette'- WHICH I TOTALLY FORESAW.

That's not Bitsy (I'm pretty sure...) but she did take that picture just moments after having climbed in that mushroom house herself and looking as natural as a moth in a cloth.
Anyway, Bitsy and I started off with a lovely lunch surrounded by couples having less lovely lunches because they weren't with Bitsy and thus their valentines was subpar and they never even knew. Fools.
After that, we went to the Brasserie Museum in Grand Place, which took about as long to look around as it does to say its name- but you did get a free glass of beer with the price of admission and since Bitsy doesn't drink beer, I heroically got through one-and-a-half glasses of beer before Bitsy stopped me on account of my stomach making really unpleasant noises (I don't really drink beer either).

After this, we went to Autoworld, which would have been perfect if it had just had a few more cars.

I especially liked the cars which bent the boundaries between the inside and the outside of the car,

whereas Bitz felt a particular affinity for the racing car- I mean, if she was a moth in a cloth in the smurf house, then she was a mole in a hole in the race car. She wouldn't get out. She COULDN'T get out. She fit so perfectly into that world that it simply wouldn't give her back, like the unicorns in the garden of Eden (which is why we don't see them anymore). Bitsy looked so comfortable in that car that she wouldn't let me photograph her, lest she look out of place by comparison for the rest of her life, but you can see me enjoying myself immensely (though not fitting in as well) in the pictures below:

"This is the happiest I've ever seen you,"- James Woe

After this intensely satisfying experience, we parted ways at Brussels Midi, where all kiss-offs take place (more on this later), and it was off to meet Jonathan.

I don't remember much of my meeting with ol' Jonno, because on top of the one and a half beers I'd had earlier that day, I chugged down another five or six (or maybe, just maybe, seven) and I REALLY don't drink beer. I know we went for chips. And we talked about brown bears. And he quoted Patrick Stewart. And he drank from possibly the coolest glass ever.

I also know that I found out the answer to a three year mystery, though how we got onto the subject, I don't know. The mystery regards the identity of a hot guy I spoke to at party to which I was invited but at which I was not expected; the host was very drunk and sat us next to one another because we 'had a lot in common' (he then leant in and whispered 'you're both GAY!'). Anyway, from my description, Jonathan managed to identify him and thus something I'd completely forgotten about was finally laid to rest.

I woke up the next day very early because the hostel room didn't have curtains but by some miracle (I suspect the chips) I was not hungover and so went into the world for Palentine's day part 2. Bitsy and I met and exchanged extremely belated birthday presents of sugary delights from one of the many chocolateries which treat candies like fine wines, including blind taster tests and wanky comments about the taste ('paradoxically delicious'- ugh!). After, we went for lunch and then off to a media centre/museum to watch  Toy Story (even French dubbing couldn't destroy the joy of that film) and they also had Victorian 3d Pornography in the exhibitions part. It was educational, to say the least.
After this, we went for coffee, then to Sablon where we found a children's literature shop which had a Tintamarresque which lead to possibly the most horrific and confusing image in the entire modern photographic canon:

Look at that flesh, pink and plump.

Yes, both those faces are mine and no, I won't tell you how that effect was achieved (hint: voodoo). After scaring various French children, we retired to Gare du Midi for one final goodbye coffee and this is where the greatest ever piece of modern detecting took place: the evidence? A plate, some crumbs, a coffee cup and a reciept for one donut cake and one cookie, covered in tears. The verdict? A break up followed by a reconciliation. The proof? A second reciept found, charged to the same card for a share poppy muffin and  latte. And Grace deduced this all on her own while chewing gum like a nineties badass.

I departed, and was back home by ten. Still, it was the best Valentine's day I can remember followed by the best Lupercalia ever (look it up.)

Old Friends

Yesterday, dear readers, I went to Paris to see a couple of old friends: first up was David, whom I met at the Union Theatre 24 Hour Play and who later played Rob in the original Australian production of Rob and Roberta and has also apparently done other things since. In fact, he's travelling around Europe at the moment, with his friend also called David, whom I also met briefly in Melbourne. I asked them if their shared name ever caused confusion between them, realised that that was a ridiculous question and it turned out that it actually does because David 1 (Rob-David) likes to talk to himself and, better yet, address himself by name.
Anyway, they asked me for the 'Rory Tour' of Paris, to which I responded that I knew how to get to Notre Dame (it's near where Dani works), which they'd already seen, but we decided to go anyway to see the indoors and climb the tower. You're not allowed to take pictures of the inside (not that that stopped people), but the view from the top is just amazing:

Those other guys that she could dangle...

After we'd drunk our fill of the cityscape (and once the next group had ascended the incredibly narrow staircase) we returned to earth and ate lunch. The amazing thing is, even after eighteen months of radio silence, David 1 and I fell very quickly back into the gentle patter of regular friends. It was pretty much immediate- we met at Gare du Nord, he remarked upon my hair, and then it was just like the olden days. We discussed Marvel and theatre and Australia and uni and films and work and my mum (whose emails I was always relaying in my Melbourne days). I was absolutely delighted to find out that Laura and David 1 are still an item: I was there on day one of their relationship and was indeed the one who gave them their portmanteau couple name of 'Burger' (Barton+Worger). David told me all about a load of people I haven't heard from in years (my own fault, admittedly) and I loved it because apart from the note on my Degree, the stamp on my passport and my ponytail, my life in Australia doesn't really seem to intersect with my European life all that much. It was really nice to hear that it was still there, that my friends from those days still spoke (if only occasionally) and that I am, in some small way, remembered (mainly for my relationship to Vodka, it would transpire).

After lunch, we met up with Dani, who had been looking at unis at which to do postgrad stuff. It was lovely to introduce one of the friends from my Australia life to one of the few remaining friends from my time at Sixth Form: two people who have known me at two completely different times in my life. If only someone from Edinburgh had been there.
The Davids then departed to recouperate at their hostel and I finally got to see Dani's flat- it was exactly what I was expecting meaning lovely and very, very French. She showed me her chandelier and her cuckoo clock and then made the only decent cup of tea I have had in France.

Then, today, I skyped Husnain for seven hours, nineteen minutes and twelve seconds. This is a long time to Skype, in my opinion (maybe I'm weird). We hadn't really planned for it to last that long, after all we'd seen each other less than a month previous- it's just that, when we speak, Husnain and I follow so many rabbit holes and tangents that conversations inevitably become incredibly protracted- fascinating, eloquent, enjoyable- but very, very protracted. Husnain also said something pertinent to the events of this weekend: that old kernel of wisdom that we're different people depending on whom we're interacting with. I definitely think this is true, although obviously the differences that various audiences cause can obviously be extremely subtle (this, to an extent, is what my dissertation was about). Anyway, I was a different person in Australia than to Shrewsbury, who was also different to my identity in Scotland- so, seeing David again obviously brought back Aussie!Rory, but then Dani evoked Shropshire!Rory, and seeing the two of them together created some sort of weird hybrid of the two. I kind of wish I could experiment with bringing together the friends from the different stages of my life and seeing how they affected my manner, but I don't have the resources, patience or self-awareness- I'll just have to settle for the conclusions I drew from my dissertation. Namely, I hate the library and I want to quit.

London Calling

I went to London this weekend. In theory, this was because I had a job interview there; but the interview lasted thirty five minutes and was finished by twenty to four on the Friday and I didn't fly home until ten past three on the Monday, so I wouldn't say it exactly dominated my time there.

The first experience I want to tell you about is showering at King's Cross station. Already quite a shady prospect in and of itself, to my mind, this is made shadier by the fact that to avail yourself of this amenity, you have to go to the Left Luggage and slip them a fiver. They then give you a ticket, which you give to the security guards at the toilets, who hand you a suspect towel and a bottle of shower gel stolen from a hotel. They then lead you to a featureless door and let you into a room with no shower curtain, no raking, no screen, indeed no method at all of keeping the water from going wherever it damn well pleases and a showerhead on one of the walls. There was just a motion detector with which to summon or dispel the flow of water- no control over the volume dispelled, certainly no way to alter the temperature. I asked the security guard if there was a time limit and she blinked at me as if I'd asked where I might go to contract smallpox in this fair city. She left and I got down to the main event- scalding myself, soaking my clothes and getting soap in my eyes; exactly the state you wish to be in when attending a job interview.
I returned the towel, pocketed the shower gel and tried to decide if I actually felt any fresher. And then headed off for my interview.

I won't bore you with the details of a job interview, but I will bore you with the details of my visit to Hamleys. I went there to unwind after the interview, on the suggestion of my mother, and was very disappointed to find out that toy trains are no longer in vogue. How else can you explain the downsizing? When I was young, I remember I loved the Hamleys toy train track- it was massive and ran the length around the two staircases between floors- there were at least four different trains on it, running at different speeds. It was marvellous. There was one track, smaller than what they'd laid out for the Scalectrix (Scalectrix, really, I mean, honestly). I didn't even bother to photograph it. Out of anger, I broke a toy car by driving it straight into a wall (this was an act of defiance and not just sheer clumsiness, I swear) and then left. Well, maybe I stopped by the lego first. And the UFOs. And the bubble machines. But then I marched straight out to meet Patrick.

Normally when I see Patrick a lot of time has elapsed since our last rendez-vous, because, like everyone else in my life, I seem to only be in the same country as him twice a year, but this time we'd seen each other twice within a month and so it felt a lot more relaxed. We retired to the UCL Scandinavian Studies common room with some crisps and cider and chewed the cud. It was lovely.
What was not lovely was the hostel I was staying in, as I discovered after I left Patrick to go there. It was only £29 for three nights, which I accept should have been something of a warning; still, there was no pillow, they hadn't changed the sheet or washed the duvet cover despite the previous occupant apparently having had a nosebleed or maybe haemorrhaged to death right there in the bunk, and left quite the stain on the bedding. I was also staying with the long-termers which is always an awkward situation because you are essentially paying to stay in someone's bedroom (and usually someone with none-too-great-a-life, if you're honest). The window was broken and there was no ladder to get up to the upperbunks, and, perhaps most stomach churning of all, there was no toilet paper. Anywhere. It was not a nice place, is what I'm saying. Still, what a bargain!

Next up was a day with Poppy- and it was fantastic. We ate pancakes, went to the science museum, where we we drank at 11 in the morning and coloured in the children's placemats

Perfect.

(apparently, there are also exhibits- I certainly didn't see any), went to the Victoria and Albert museum where we looked at the tea rooms and then left (yet again, not a single artifact on display), then went to Covent Gardens, where we drank some more, then to the apple shop where we dragged clumsy ninja around by his ankle for an hour and then to see Shakespeare in Love at the Noel Coward Theatre. I haven't seen Poppy since September and we immediately fell back into our old pitter-patter of random insults, deeply personal truths and non-sequiturs. In total, we spent more than twelve hours just the two of us together- I don't think I've spent that much time all at once and one-on-one with someone for years. But it felt amazing.

 

The next day, I went to see Whiplash (Oh, English language cinemas, how I've missed you!) and then met up with David of David K. Barnes fame. We met at the National Theatre, which felt very posh but was a lot less expensive in terms of drinks than other places in London. We laughed, chatted and exchanged theatrical anecdotes in just the right setting for doing so.

After this, I went to see The Play that Goes Wrong at the Duchess Theatre, which was extremely funny. But it did trigger a slight bit of PTSD (Post Theatrical Stress Disorder) in me, especially a scene where an actor spectacularly failed to untie a ribbon on an important document, which mirrored an earlier incident in my own life: during Oh My God in The Ten Minuters, I was completely unable to unwrap a shovel from its sheathing blanket and had to hand it to Alex, my co-star, who got it off in a matter of seconds. Very embarassing.

 

The next day was bissected by my flight in the afternoon, so I couldn't really do anything with the time, sadly. I mulled around a bit, returned to the Science Museum, nearly caused a security incident by accidentally leaving my bag under a bench and then left. Pretty standard, really.

Still, the weekend in total was an absolute blast and really makes me think I should visit the captial more often- it's expensive and exhausting, yes, but also exhilirating, experiential and exciting.  

2015 Resolutions (Accountability Index Coming in December)

• GO OUTSIDE EVERY DAY: I am ashamed to say that this will take quite a change in my lifestyle to accomplish, but the truth is I can spend entire 48 hour periods without stepping outside my hermetically sealed bubble of a room. But I will do this no longer. I am going to spend at least half-an-hour per day not in my room, and work doesn't count.  
• WRITE SOMETHING EVERY DAY: This is one I've set myself every year since about the time I first went to Uni. I've never kept to it, but I like to subscribe to Henriette Skinnes' theory that you have to make the same mistake or fail at the same goal a certain number of times before you manage to finally conquer it and hey, maybe this year will be that year. JUST TO CLARIFY: I count 'writing something' as something creative totalling five or more pages- this can be a whole script, a scene of a larger play or a chapter of a prose story (or even an entire prose novel if I can*), but it has to be complete. No more starting non-starters. This seems like a scary amount to me, but then I just knocked out a five page script in, like, an hour and I can definitely spare an hour a day to try and pursue this craft I love.
• GET A TATOO: I've always kind of assumed I'd end up with a tatoo at some point and then I realised that I'd actually need to get one if I wanted that to happen. You don't just wake up with them**. I've had an idea for a design for a while and I might use that or I might go with something else. I also don't know where I'll get it- my mum, who has a butterfly on her back like someone with an interesting story to tell or Ted Mosby.
• GO SKYDIVING: This is the one I'm least certain I'll do- not due to cowardice, as I've been reliably informed that skydving is much more comfortable and pleasant than bungee jumping, which I've already done- but Skydiving is quite expensive and, despite my job, I am quite strapped for cash right now. However, it's not like I never splash for luxuries and so maybe I'll just have to invest in this one really cool experience and then eat the crappy bread from Carrefour for a while.
• VISIT AMERICA: Yet again, due to money, this one will almost certainly not happen. A man can dream, though. Honestly, this might have to be a roll-on dream that I just hold on to and big up to unbelievable and inconceivable levels so that when, years later, I finally do achieve it it has no choice but to be a massive disappointment like that House episode where it finally was lupus. In fact, I'm only including it on my 2015 list because Jason is going to be moving to Virginia in September and so, with Kristen having already abandoned ship from Long Island to London, my circle of friends around Manhattan will be reduced to just Emma (who is singularly splendid on her own, but does objectively provide fewer points of contact than three people). So, it'd probably be wiser to go in the first half of the year before Neato flies the coop- maybe I can swing it, but I'm fully expecting to not score great on either of these last two come the end of 2015, but that's OK because at least I'm gonna try.   

And so, that's five. Quite a few, but, hey, look at all the shit that went down in 2014: gotta top that somehow.
* I most definitely can't.
** Lots of people, in fact, do. Alcohol and all that.

2014: A Retrospective

This year began and ended in the same place: Rik's house, surrounded by friends, alcohol and Cards Against Humanity. It's not only a very enjoyable way to spend New Year's, it also provides a lovely pair of bookends to 2014. This is preferable to the histrionics, betrayal and crying that began 2013. So, so preferable.
The bookends thing also appeals to me because I am nothing if not a purveyor of shlocky dramatic flourishes and well-worn narratives. Thus, I love that this has been a year of milestones: I reached 50 plays; I graduated; I started my first full-time job; I left my first full-time job; I moved country (again); I started my first skilled job; I finally won 2048. 2015 is gonna have to try pretty hard to beat that in terms of sheer character development.

It feels funny that this time last year, I was sitting in the exact same room that I am now, with almost the exact same people, but feeling so much more nervous about the future- at that time, I was still faced with the threat of failing my exams and impending joblessness. In actual fact, I achieved a reasonable grade in my degree, and I spent only two months (January and September) of this year unemployed and am in fact currently the only one in my family to have a job, which makes me feel very important. Of course, my contract runs out in April, and then unemployment looms once more, but I'm less concerned about it than I was last year, knowing that I have been able to find a job once and will hopefully replicate that trick soon.
In terms of jobs, I think I'm going to look for more TEFL positions once my job in Laon finishes- I've actually quite enjoyed teaching. The students are slightly unpredictable, but it's great when you really feel you've been able to impart something to them:

ME: What did you do over the weekend?

STUDENT: Nothing. 

ME: Well, then, lie; it's allowed.

STUDENT: I killed a lion.

ME: Cruel.

--------*TWENTY MINUTES LATER*--------

ME: What are you writing?

STUDENT: What you just said.

ME: It doesn't look like what I just said.

STUDENT: Well, you told me to lie to you.

ME: Aww, my baby's all grown up.

I'm very glad they couldn't understand the last line, but that was a high point for me.

Although it was quite a busy year, I am struggling to find things to write about and I've just realised why, and it's another milestone that I forgot to include above and am too lazy to go back and insert and, besides, it now gets a paragraph to itself: this is also the year which I have most consistently historiographed on this blog. This blog, The Devil's Ink Pots, is now my longest lasting web log, having surpassed The Wizard in Oz by 158 days as of now. You may wish to count Criticisms and Witticisms, which I also started in Australia and some would say is still technically going, but, much like Amelia Earhart, the Green Lantern sequel and my career as a telemarketer, it may never have officially been given up upon by pretty much everyone knows it's dead.
I don't know how long this blog will last, but I certainly intend to keep it going for at least another while longer; I like having a record of all the stuff that happens to me, especially in a year like 2014, when a tonne-o-stuff went down. I think I'm also going to take a page from the book of my absolutely favourite blogger, Jenny Trout, and do a resolutions post and then have an accountability recap at the end of the year to see how I do. Maybe knowing that I'll have to pubically acknowledge my failure to do what I said I will will motivate me to do those things, like political campaigns always do. Expect a Resolutions post very soon.

I've also just realised that this was the year when I moved the most: eight times, in total. Which seems absurd. And I ended up spending the best part of a month living with Jari, all in all. I hate moving, and it was annoying having to rebox and unpack and then unbox and then repack all my stuff, over and over again, but I also lived in some brilliant flats with some lovely people (and heard the best quote of the year from Jo Shaw while sharing a kitchen with him).

Truth be told, I'm a little nervous about 2015, cos this year has been so monumental and, all in all, a resounding success: obviously, I wasn't manically happy all the time and not everything to which I turned my hand spouted gold, but I still got where I needed to at least 80% of the time and, really, most importantly, I had an awful lot of fun. Let's try and keep that up, shall we, Rory?

Belleville Rendezvous

I had a lovely surprise this weekend.
I was summarily summoned to Paris by Dani, where I was told there would be people waiting for me. At first I thought this might be Ron, our old French teacher, but it turned out to be none other than Purzelle and the Nurp themselves, Patrick and Ella.

Purzelle(L), Nurp (R).

Before I relate all the fun we had in the city of lights, I just want to relate one absolutely terrifying moment that occurred in Gare Du Nord. I should preface this story by saying I fully acknowledge that I overreacted and it was only really scary because I'm a country bumpkin who's not used to the big city ways and sees terror everything like the bloody Salem Town Council. But, as I was going to meet Dani at the Paris metro, I smelled a strange smell, very unpleasant, and my mouth began to dry out and tingle as though I'd just eaten something extremely spicy. It wasn't only me, either: all around me, what looked like hardened Parisians were pucking their noses, covering their mouths with sleeves or 'kerchiefs, and moving very quickly away from the area. Then, the police shoved past me and bolted into the underground station below- they literally (and I do not misuse that word) jumped over a couple, bent over their luggage, to get there quicker.
You may be able to guess where my mind went after it put these events together: I was embroiled in some sort of horrible gas attack, and, worse, I'd dragged Dani into it, too (she was waiting for me on the platform). For a moment, I considered just running from the building and gulping in the uninfected air. I wanted to warn other passengers from entering the platform, but all my French had suddenly abandoned me. But then, my sense of proportion returned, and I realised that, were there some kind of gas attack, there might be a few more people panicking than just me. I got myself together and went to meet Dani.
Soon, after a couple of misdiversions, we were united with Patrick and Ella and went to dinner.

The restaurant at which we dined was called 'La Cantine de Belleville', leading to Patrick, Ella and I all making the same joke (hint: it's the title of the blog post), revealing that Dani had never seen or even heard of that film. It's also meant I've had that bloody song stuck in my head for the past three days, and now you will, too.

If I could set that to autoplay, dear Reader, know that I would.

Anyway, after a delicious dinner, Dani said her farewells, and we retired back to the flat in Montmartre which Paddy and Ella had procured for the trip. There, we got blind, stinking drunk on a mixture of wine, apple juice, tonic water, vodka and sugar cubes (Patrick called it 'Portuguese Sangria').
We laughed, and sang and took incredibly stupid pictures:

She's very deer to my heart (she's holding a Reindeer's heart, for the uninitiated).

And then Ella, like Travis and Smallface before her, found the joys of playing with my hair.

She also made me pose like this, I swear.

I liked them so much, I left those Bear Ears (note the incredibly masculine name) in all weekend. I kid you not. Honestly, unless I could actively see my silhouette, I kind of forgot I had them in, and so I was just puzzled by all the strange looks I was getting- although, they might explain why I kept on being given Silly Straws with every drink that I ordered. I was also given a free chestnut:

It tasted like parsnips. I don't know why people eat these. I can only presume that this was a reflection of my hair, as well, which would explain why Ella and I got normal chestnuts and Patrick got a dud.

Anyway, after checking out Montmartre cathedral,

 

 And the view therefrom,

We went back to the flat for more Paella and Portuguese Sangria, cos we're pan-European. There was a lot of hugging and water to the face and improvised French/German renditions of 'Baby, it's Cold Outside'.

SIDENOTE: I love how they put in so much effort into adding consent to this song (notable by absence: "The answer is no" and "What's in this drink?") and then still manage to make it incredibly creepy by synching the voices to children.

It was the perfect way to spend the last weekend I have in France before I head back to Shropshire. It makes my final week of work this term much more faceable, and has given me another possible hairstyle to rock.

Find the Fun

I've envisaged this blog as many things at one point or another: a balm for those suffering from Post-Year-Abroad blues; a very public diary; the thing which finally catapults me to stardom and allows me to rub elbows with the finest; but today it's going to serve as an advice column for others teaching English abroad.
I had a moment of teaching triumph last week. One of my fellow profs asked me to prepare a lesson on Britain/British stereotypes, and I didn't spend long enough on it: what I'd prepared was dull and staid and mainly revolved watching this news report on French stereotypes of the British vs. British stereotypes of the French:

If you watch the above video, you may notice that it'd be very difficult to understand if you were a second language English speaker. Also, that it's not really news and that it contains Gyles Brandreth and so is terrible. My colleague rightly called me up on it, and said that this wasn't what he wanted or, more importantly, had asked for. He told me that I was being too much like a lecturer and not a teacher (and certainly not an assistant): I was just planning to talk and expecting the students to take notes. "The assistant is meant to be fun," he told me, "They only get to see you once every three weeks and it's meant to be a treat. You're supposed to be a break from the teachers."

He didn't mean it cruelly, but I felt chastened and he was right: it was a long time since I'd been in a classroom, not a lecture theatre, and I'd forgotten what I used to enjoy doing when I was a student. I sat in on a couple of his lessons and then went home and thought about what I could do that was different and fun but still educational.
The next day, I came in and asked the teacher if I could take his next class. He was recalcitrant, especially since he'd not been expecting me that day, but I wanted to make up for the class I'd missed. He eventually acquiesced but said he'd take over again if it looked like the class was bored or confused and took his place at the back with, I believe, some trepidation. I stood up before the class and told them that I was thinking of a British celebriry and they had twenty questions to guess their identity, but I'd only answer 'yes' or 'no'.
They loved it.
We played it four time, covering forty minutes, and for the final fifteen, we played a competitive game of Telephone, which is what you have to call Chinese Whispers in schools now- the kids all called it Arab Telephone anyway, which is the French name, cos they're all racists. Yet again, they really enjoyed it and I was vindicated.
The teacher congratulated me on putting together a much better lesson, and said that this was what he wanted to see more of in future. (He asked me to come back and play it with them again later today). And so I learnt an important lesson about teaching children which I'm pretty sure they already taught me at the TEFL conference I attended: Find the Fun. The fact that this lesson, for me at least, was first professed by Faith from Buffy does not lessen its impact.

She always Finds the Fun. (Spoilers/ In Killing people/Spoilers)

However, next week I've been asked to give another class on slavery, so I might be unlearning this lesson pretty quick.