This morning was horrid. Me and Angela were disgusting pigs yesterday, and filled the void our hangovers had created, with a steady stream of calorific goods. Consequently, today I woke up with an aching stomach, after horrible dreams and a restless night thinking about the semi raw gingerbread we had stuffed into our faces just before bed. My £1/potentially stolen headphones stopped working halfway through my journey, so I literally ripped them apart, in a fit of rage- much to the alarm of the other people on the platform. I was hobbling like a pirate, as usual- on what remains of my feet after this trip. Angela and I have three pairs of shoes between us; shoes in various states of disrepair that fit neither of us, little alone make us look like we might be responsible for the education of others. I have given up feigning professionalism or style, and taken to wearing flip-flops and letting my slashed toes breath freely. I make sure though, that every time they begin to heal, I reapply the slippers of Bogota agony again in order to lacerate them further, for optimum discomfort. Today was a flipflop day, but the scars from the weekend remain.
I also drank my usual litre of coffee before leaving the house, so spent the latter half of my trip, on a journey of a separate and more personal nature, going from mild discomfort to utter horror, in terms of how much I needed to pee. I still haven't been, but am now at least sitting down, waiting in the wee security man's room for the class to turn up. It's extremely rude that I'm perched on his sofa, on my phone, ignoring him, but we both look secretly relieved that there is to be no excruciating exchange of Spanglish.
Despite the fact I seem to have nothing good to say about this morning, I did have a fantastic day at Gay Pride on Saturday. I was woken early by the dulcet tones of YMCA, blasting through my ears courtesy of Angela, who loves to subvert cliché if nothing else. I crawled out of bed to a breakfast of cereal accompanied by rum coffee made with condensed milk. It was a sign of things to come, but we naively sipped our delicious beverage whilst applying glitter to our jolly faces. Can I recommend it as maybe the best thing I've ever drunk. It had about half a tin of condensed milk in it, and 4 spoons of sugar, so no great shakes for the bikini body, but as we know, that ship sailed about six months and 739829 tortillas ago.
We were a bit worried about finding the parade, as we'd heard different information about its starting location. Needn't have feared, as the semi naked men in chaps and bondage gear, gave us a wee clue as to what direction to take. Saying that we did initially get a bit lost, after following a wild goose trail of camp youths in skinny jeans (which served us right for being presumptuous).
It was such a brilliant parade. Fantastic atmosphere and lots of fabby costumes. Me and Angela were photographed about a million times; I thought it was because we were being perceived as mildly Nordic, lesbian totty, until Angela pointed out that our towering frames, massive hands and generous use of lynx deodorant, meant that it was more likely they thought we were transvestites. I simpered less after that, and I think there were probably a few photos of me looking less than pleased despite the feathers. I also got in a bit of a verbal spat with a wee nearly naked guy, who kept calling me "a fat beetch" and poking my stomach. I think (hope) it was meant to be funny but I got in a befuddled huff like a distressed and bated bear. I got flashbacks to sports day at school; mid forward roll, flailing, and in leggings that were too small. Other than that, it was a conflict free day. Despite my anxiety that the police would kettle us in a display of catholic machismo, they didn't, and all was well. (Hiya sweepingly judgemental Gabs. good to have you back.) Yes, the whole thing had an utterly delightful atmosphere, with a mixture of men, women and kids (albeit mainly looking suicidal, whist their mums did Right-On stuff). A really nice day out. I won't claim it was the most sophisticated of affairs, but we had a massive late lunch (or four) and my desire to party like it was 1999 turned more into lying on a sofa at matts, stuffing pork tortillas into my face and updating my Facebook. Hmmm.
Still; we managed to have a jolly wheeze of a day anyway, and I was secretly relieved that we didn't have to go on the predicted wild night out with all our new, topless, teenage-boy pals. Instead we caught the train home at about 10, after eating a gordita- a deep fried tortilla whose name appropriately means, "small fatty". Oh. My. God. So good. Cheese and some other less relevant stuff, crammed into a tortilla and deep fried; then smothered in chilli sauce and yoghurt. Best end to a day out of all time.
The weekends seem to be whizzing past in general. Today, as aforementioned has been horrid. I'm finding it so hard to get up at 5. Or, more accurately, to go to bed at a time that means I get up that early without wanting to stab someone. It's not me; I'm a night owl and late riser, whether from a natural indolence, or years of working in bars and restaurants, I'm not sure. It's a sad, wee, lonely morning walk too; still dark and cold, with crap street lighting, which makes my dozy stumbling even more dangerous. On the up-side (I'm trying), folk are nice at 5am. It breeds a kind of camaraderie I guess, so all the wee old men and women who are setting up stalls have started saying "Hola", and the guys who patrol the petrol station are always chatty. That cheers me up a bit I suppose.
I have already developed a revoltingly negligent attitude to the work itself, and do my lesson plans on the subway. This makes me feel awful as I'm usually taking up a seat of an old person carrying a sack of rags or something equally pitiful, but I know I have to do it, so I sit there like an evil cow until I finish.
The classes themselves are going ok. Mainly through luck, and my ability to smile through ineptitude. I genuinely think there is something wrong with my brain in terms of basic intelligence. I realised today that I hadn't been taking registration for ANY of my classes, so had to spend about two hours straining to remember the names of all the students, whether they had attended and their levels of contribution. 93%of them seem to be called Jose Luis, but I'm pretty sure I've invented a Sergio, and left out some of the less memorable students. I can't believe it, and I'm extremely anxious about my boss reading the report. It could unravel the web of small "exaggerations" as to my capabilities. Not lies exactly; for example, I HAVE done private tuition; its just it was for Danny and the Molloy twins, and they learned nothing, bullied me, and only came for my constant supply of baked goods. I HAVE taught in a school in Ecuador too; it just happened to be for a fortnight, and mainly consisted of working on their website and batting my eyes at a German volunteer who was similarly occupied. I HAVE looked after/helped educate lots of kids in Ghana, it's just they had no respect for me, treated me as an overgrown climbing frame, and called me Michael Jackson (in a manner which was not complimentary).
I just don't seem to have any common sense, or notion of the appropriate either. I had an interview the other day and told the guy that I didn't like teaching, and wouldn't do it if I had other options. He also looked at my shoes and asked if I had any other ones. I said no. (Incidentally I got the job, which says more about him than it does me).
I suppose if i'm brutally self-reflective, it's indicative of a lack of vested interest in general, which is dreadful. I would feel awful about it if it was kids, or long term, as there's nothing worse than a teacher who doesn't like teaching. In this case it's adults though, and most of my work is just coaching them and prattling to them about whatever subject we are doing, I think it's ok. Oddly I seem to be perceived as being quite reasonable at it, despite my many shortcomings. I suppose I'm not bad at thinking of creative things to do with them, and I also think a lot of tefl teachers are really young and shy, and a class full of latino men could be a bit overwhelming. The first day I was horrified, but I pretended to be un-phased, and gradually it's stopped actually scaring me in real life. They are nice students too which helps. But no, I fear teaching is not the path for me, though its not as bad as I thought it was going to be. They are all really keen to learn which is a blessing I recognise. I have a few little rats (aged approx 40), who talk over me constantly, and make asides that they think I can't hear (I can't understand them, but I hear them fine). This is surely karma for years and years of never shutting up when my poor teachers were trying to talk. I remember once being sent outside the class for the whole afternoon, by a teacher who was so angry she was spitting in rage. At the time I was utterly bewildered and couldn't believe that she was being so psychotic and unreasonable. Now I understand. Sorry Mrs Gonzalez of Christ Church School, Surbiton, Surrey. If nothing else, this job has taught me how much I deserved that day in the hallway, cold, confused and at that point, completely unrepentant.
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