Holiday Round-Up

Now that blogging has become so much a part of my routine, it feels strange taking two weeks out....almost like neglecting a baby. So to all three (or perhaps five these days...hello Susan and Richard!!) of my readers, I apologise little ones. Mumma’s home now. And what a two weeks she’s had! Waiting by the Eurostar doors as it approached Ebbsfleet station and trying not to react to an Italian mother and daughter thoroughly comparing finger sizes (maybe some sort of custom upon arrival in a new country), I realised just how happy I was to be home. The best way by far to properly bring in one’s 21^st birthday is with family, friends and in my case, a trip to the local wildlife park for llama-feeding, a champagne picnic and countless desperate attempts at coaxing several pregnant lemurs to jump on my head.

                   That’s not to say I didn’t also profite-bien en France. The day before leaving Le Havre, I celebrated en avance with a traditional French meal and not-so-traditional club night, which was apparently 90’s themed. When my (only) French friend excitedly reported her plans to dress up as the Spice Girls with a group of chums, at first things seemed promising. There’s nothing I like more than fancy dress, and if anything, my limited costume resources only inspired me further to produce a masterpiece. Having previously created outfits such as Cruella De Vil where I sprayed half my backcombed curls white, a flamingo (including pink feather-boa wings), and a Halloween spider with 4 pairs of newspaper and wire-stuffed tights sewn to my torso, I was sure I could manage the 90’s. However, from my extensive observation (/friendly mocking) of French youth culture, one thing I had learnt: clubbing attire is never what you think. With this in mind, I dug out a leopard print top, and decided to settle for that; if necessary, I could label myself ‘Scary Spice’, whilst still maintaining a reasonably normal appearance. And believe me; I am so glad I did. The enthusiasm of my French friend turned out to be nothing more than an equally understated animal-print vest, and aside from the odd Macarena or Ketchup Song, there was absolutely nothing to suggest the club night even had a theme. Even so, a good time was had by most. All, that is, except one poor Frenchman, who hopefully bought my entire friendship group 10 euro-a-glass champagne all night long, only to end the night in a drunken brawl with the bouncer after several attempts to steal one of the bar’s decorative top-hats as a birthday crown for me.

                 Anyway, reality has once again settled in, and I find myself once again in teaching mode, where one school’s idea of naughtiness is shouting English obscenities mid-class and the other’s stops largely at the sneaky placing of knives into the designated fork box whilst clearing their plates in the canteen. The problem I now have, aside from sleeping students at the back of the classroom, is a distinct lack of motivation. I don’t want to teach, nor do I want to lesson plan, nor, in fact, ever have to do TEFL ever again (unless it’s in the form of an easy Southampton languages content module). Okay, so maybe this is a slight exaggeration. I do enjoy it sometimes. Yesterday, I entered into a gruelling debate about the advantages and disadvantages of using Photoshop on models, and this morning became just as vocal as my competitive eleven year olds, shouting ‘ELMININÉ ELIMINÉ!’ during a heated game of ‘Simon Says’. I enjoy the opportunities France gives me to travel, food-related banter with the school chef, and I love the fact the teachers are always cold even when beautiful sunshine streams through the school windows and I sit roasting in a three-quarter length sleeved dress. Such weather definitely makes negativity difficult.

Onwards and upwards mes amies!