Feliz Navidad.

December seems to have flown by, and I only have 1 more day left until I, like many an easy listening singer before me, will be coming home for Christmas. Marks and Spencer's had better be well stocked with Christmas food because I can tell already that it will be my first port of call when I arrive in England. I'm not sure if I'm more excited about the food or the fact that there will be ample shopping bags available for me to use (you would think that by now I would remember to bring my own bags but hélas, I forget every time. Oh putain). My last few weeks in Bordeaux (for 2011 - there are still many more to come) have been as exciting as ever. Today two of the other assistants here and I visited the vinyard that belongs to my host family and they gave us a tour around. We saw all the vines and the machinery and the barrels and got a step by step lesson on how to make a true Bordeaux wine. Not wanting to rub it in or anything, but we wore sunglasses. We bought a case of wine to split between our families (you're welcome) and they let us keep the one we had opened to taste (I am now an expert wine taster so if anyone needs a lesson just ask) and so later we finished it the best possible way - in bed watching the original Grinch and the Glee Christmas special.
A week ago a few assistants and I ventured bravely into the daunting world of extracurricular activities and joined a choir in Bordeaux, which was definitely an interesting experience. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but the French answer to Mr Schuester was a tiny, tiny (I think he was shorter than me) French man who made us do some crazy vocal exercises. We started off singing in Latin which was ok since we were all in the same bateau (this is apparently a French saying too, who knew) but when we changed to a French song I think its safe to say we were no use whatsoever to the choir as a whole. The whole thing was fun though and the old ladies (because sadly in France choirs are made up of retired women and not beautiful misfits) were thrilled to have us. One was so overwhelmed with excitement that when a man sneezed during a song she had a fit of giggles which brought the whole rehearsal to a standstill. Perhaps its because I'm a hilarious person, perhaps its because I spend my days with the under-10s, but these days I seem to evoke this particular reaction more than I would like. 
Talking of the under-10s, as any of you will remember from your own primary school days, about a week before the Christmas term ends an unspoken understanding passes through the staffroom and everybody agrees that nobody has to do any work any more. I was a little disappointed to realise this week that, contrary to what I believed aged 8, this has less to do with the Christmas spirit warming the hearts of the teachers and making them realise that times tables have no place amidst the magic of advent, and more to do with the fact that a) everyone is tired, b) the book of lesson ideas has run out, and c) the photocopier needs a holiday as much as anyone else. Cue the Christmas-themed English lessons which have not failed - how could they? - to provide amusing anecdotes. First of all, we've just finished learning about the family and so all the children are familiar with the game of 'Happy Families'. They've just spent a good two weeks asking each other, 'Do you have the father?' 'Yes, I have the father,' and so on. Father Christmas in French is Pére Noël which is an exact translation. So when I held up a picture of Father Christmas and asked them if they could work out his name in English I expected a little cognitive action to take place and for them to deduce that 'pére' is father and 'noël' is Christmas so.. Father Christmas! but alas, that was not to be. Almost every class I've asked has shouted out 'Daddy Christmas!' and it's so hard to tell them that 'no, that sounds wrong on all sorts of levels..' The most fun Christmas word has definitely been 'baubles' which has produced raucous laughter when I say it first, and gets misinterpreted as 'boo-bels' 'bay-bels', 'boo-bools', 'boo-boos' and many many more. Its fabulous when you have a box of baubles of all different colours and a naked christmas tree and give each child in turn a specific colour of bauble to decorate the tree with, and then to tell the rest of the class what colour it is. 'This boobel is gren', 'this beeble is poople' etc etc. It takes all of my energy to refrain from what a fellow assistant so eloquently describes as 'losing my shit' which is something members of her CP (Year 3) class regularly do and have to be sent out of the room to 'calmes-toi'. 
The next best thing about Christmas in primary school is the song singing. 'We wish you a merry Christmas' definitely takes the prize for the most played, since everyone can say it. They now 'wish me a merry Christmas' whenever they see me in the corridor which is sweet. The next favourite is 'Feliz Navidad' and the fact that it is in Spanish rather than English does not concern them in the slightest. When I ask them what they want to sing they all scream 'Feliz navidad, Feliz navidad!!' and I just stand there looking bewildered. 'But, guys, that's not English that's Spanish...' I plea. 'Bahhh... oui,' is the response. Let me just take a second to talk about 'Bah...oui.' When we were taught that 'oui' means yes in our very first French lesson, a vital part was omitted. Because no French person ever says 'oui'. In order to determine what sort of a 'oui' it is, they have a handy 'baaa' which goes immediately in front of it. This is going to be hard to type out but there are 4 main ones. There is a 'baah-oui?' which suggests 'ummm yes I think so but don't quote me on that because hey, I'm just making this up as I go along'. There is 'beeeehhoui!' which means 'well yes of course you ridiculous human being why would that not be the case just stop talking now its hurting my ears.' There is 'baaahoueh' which means 'yes but really I don't care at all,' and finally there is 'beeh...baah..beeh... oui' which is just them taking a really long time to decide on their answer. The 'baaahoui' I received when I told the children that 'Feliz navidad' is not in fact an English Christmas carol seemed to be suggesting 'well its not French so really I don't care what language its in but its fun to sing...' It turns out that singing in Spanish is actually a nice break from all the English teaching. Jingle Bells is a firm favourite too, but only after I drew a 'onehorseopensleigh' on the board to explain what it was. Not that they sing anything other than 'Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way, ohwadshjsdghdjgasfhaiehjeshdg HEY!!' But at least they know what it means. 
So, I wish you a merry Christmas, feliz navidad, joyeux noël, speak soon, some of you I'll see soon!! Pictures of all the Christmas spirit in Bordeaux tomorrow. 

New profile picture.

Today was a very Christmassy day and I thought my blog should reflect that. 

Fashion history has been made.

Bloggers, friends, family, Russians who I don't think know me in real life, today has been a good day, and here is why. 
I present to you, from the country which has previously brought us the LBD, the beret and the monochrome horizontal stripe, fashion history in the make:

I honestly think this is one of my favourite purchases of my entire 20 years on this planet. Its beginning to look a lot like Christmas in Bordeaux. And if you can't beat 'em join 'em, right?


Disclaimer: this is for a fancy dress party not for real life, don't try to follow in my trendsetting footsteps in lectures or the workplace.

Look! A picture of me!

Ice skating at hotel de ville.

In which the spirit of Thanksgiving can pierce even the most cynical of shells.

This week it became clear that whoever is the prominent god here in Bordeaux decided there was no need for autumn this year. On Wednesday 23rd November summer was still in full swing, and then on Thursday winter fell. I'm serious, the temperature dropped by about 15 degrees overnight. It had been a little disconcerting to find myself walking down the main street in Bordeaux watching Christmas decorations being hung whilst wearing a sundress and sunglasses, but, thankfully for the Bordeaux city council, this day-after-tomorrow-style climate change coincided nicely with the switching on of their Christmas lights. So, the mist has fallen, the gloves and scarves have come out of the suitcase they went into in September, and Bordeaux has started to sparkle. One Bordelaise man, who may or may not have overindulged in the vin rouge department, was so excited to see my ugg boots out of their summer hibernation that he felt the need to lean over and stroke them at the tram stop. I think its definitely a sign that I've truly acclimatised to my life here that this event didn't even really concern me. D'accord. Along with this new weather has come potential for staffroom small talk. I don't know who it was that decided that its a specifically British trait to talk about the weather, but let me tell you, the French love that stuff. I would say pretty much every teacher I spoke to on Thursday opened with 'Hey, you're from England, I bet you're loving this weather! Is this what its like in England? Is this normal for you?' When I reply with 'Yeah, I think at home this has pretty much been going on since September,' it genuinely blows their minds. 

So yes, lessons for this week - the French love weather talk, and they also love when I tell them about the differences between our countries. 

Its a little awkward when they ask me about the differences between our education systems, another hot lunchtime topic, since my only resource for information on how a state primary school works is my own memory, and since I was 8 when I left I can't help but think that my knowledge is perhaps not entirely accurate. I was, though, able to tell one teacher with confidence that his method of rolling up a magazine and whacking children on the head when they leap up from their chair instead of putting their hands up to answer a question would probably not go down that well. This caused outrage in the staffroom. 'What? But how do they get them to sit back down?' he asked. If any primary school teachers are reading this, he's still waiting for an answer. On a more serious note, I have realised that here in France primary schools are shockingly illequipped for dealing with the 'problem children' in their classrooms. There's at least one child in every class who clearly falls somewhere along the autistic spectrum, but rather than have classroom assistants and special needs teachers to help them they are just left to be headaches for their teachers and a distraction for their peers. I can't say I'm an expert on the system in England but I don't think this is the case at home. Its something which the teachers here complain about a lot and I'm sure needs changing at some point when we don't have a recession to climb out of. Maybe I'll write to Sarkosy and let him know.

Next on the agenda, I don't know whether its the cold weather, but all of a sudden its feeling very Christmassy around here. There is a big Christmas market which has opened up, and there are lights everywhere. Some of them are really high-tech as well. For example, there are lights on all of the trees lining one of the big central avenues which flash in a way which makes them look like snowflakes falling through the branches. Given the french tendency towards drink-driving - apparently it was next to 'smoking all the time', 'closing all our businesses on Sundays' and 'stroking strangers shoes' on the page which fell out of the book called 'Welcome to the 21st Century: Things We Don't Do Anymore' when it was handed over to the french nation - I don't really think these lights are a great idea, but only time will tell how many pileups they will cause. Also adding to the Christmassy vibes have been a symphony concert that I went to with some other assistants - my dad was almost proud until I confidently told him on the phone that I'd been to a Tchaikovsky concert where they played a concerto called Pyotr Ilyich (which is his first name, I read the programme wrong) - and two Thanksgiving dinners. Not having Thanksgiving at home, this is the part where I wrote something mean about not having massacred a whole race who'd just helped us through the winter in their country but then I deleted it when I remembered Britain's shady track record for humanitarianism, I wasn't sure what to expect, but it turns out Thanksgiving is basically just an excuse to eat Christmas dinner when its not Christmas, a cause that I am happy to get behind. Both my Thanksgivings were feasts, so thank you to everyone who contributed to this extra roll that has arrived around my waist. I was genuinely surprised by how many great cooks we have here in Bordeaux! The group of assistants here is fantastic; we are such a melting pot of nationalities and languages and interests but we all have a great time together and its making me feel much better about living in a foreign country! Anyone who spoke to me before I left will know I spent the whole of September panicking that I'd never meet anyone and spend the whole 7 months just wishing I could come home, so I am more thankful than I could possibly even say that we all found each other. You see, that's what you do at Thanksgiving, after you've eaten too much pie and watched cheesy films and played football (ok so we didn't do that but we talked about it), you have to sit and think about what you're really thankful for. Once I got past my default layer of cynicism, I think it was around the time that two incredible assistants whipped out their guitars and we started singing 'Don't Look Back in Anger' (oh, yes, we went there), I realised that that's actually a really nice thing to celebrate. So, here goes, brace yourselves, maybe take a shot or something because its going to get American up in hurr. I think it helps if you read this part in an American accent because its super cheesy y'all. I am thankful for all of the assistants here who have made my life in France better than I thought it was going to be. I'm thankful for the family who have let me into their home and who put up with my interesting grammar on a daily basis. I'm thankful for all the children who actually pay attention when I teach them English, and the ones who don't but at least spend their time making me presents instead. I'm thankful that I have my wonderful family waiting for me at home. I'm thankful for the crazy citizens of Bordeaux who can transform even the most mundane daily routines into bizarre and hilarious events. Thank you, merci, gracias, شكرا , спасибо and go raibh maith agat. I think that covers everyone! 

Onwards and upwards. A tout. 

Correction.

I wrote 'Bordeaux never ceases to disappoint' last time where obviously what I meant was 'never ceases to deliver.' 


I told you I was forgetting my mother tongue. 


Thanks Dad. 

And another thing.

You remember how there are now 300 children in my life.

Well that's 300 birthdays.

Which means 300 renditions of Happy Birthday.

And 300 slices of 300 cakes. 

I was going to complain about how I had to eat 2 pieces of cake at school today when I'd already eaten a huge lunch, but then I reevaluated my life and realised that its great.

Ceci n'est pas juste un fromage.

Well today I inadvertently agreed to accompanying one of my CP (Year 2) teachers on an overnight trip up the Mèdoc -  its a place where they grow wine, not a euphemism - with her boyfriend without realising until afterwards that that is what I'd agreed to. This time it worked out pretty well since I really want to go exploring around there and who better to do it with than some vrai français but I really do need to stop just agreeing emphatically when people tell me things I don't understand. 

I also finally confessed to being in possession of my primary school photographs, complete with uniform and fringe. I haven't actually brought them in yet, but I don't think I can back out now. 

Funniest conversation of the day came from another 'Very Hungry Catepillar' session with a CE2 (Year 4). When we got to Saturday - I'm sure you remember, the caterpillar goes mental and starts eating cakes - I pointed to the slice of cheese and asked them what it was. Shrugs and mutters. 'Ok', I said, 'its cheese'. Everyone repeated back 'shees'. 'What does that mean in French, children?' More shrugs and mutters. 'Seriously?' I asked. 'Nobody can tell me what the French word for this is?' I wondered whether my French was wrong. Finally a brave girl stuck up her hand. '*Urrrr... est-ce qu'il le comté?' she suggested. 'Non!!' a boy immediately shot her down. 'Regardes les trous! C'est pas comté!!' 'Mais la couleur!' '...Gruyère?' someone added to the table. Oh lord, I thought. What have I started? 'Fromage! I wanted fromage! You're 8!'. 'Ohhh le fromage!.. Juste le fromage?' In the end we decided it was probably an Emmental with a strangely coloured rind. Note to self - when drawing cheese for French children you cannot just get away with a yellow slab.  

Speaking of cheese, my second favourite conversation was one which I know another primary school assistant has already had - a CE1 (Year 3) class asked me to sit and tell them about primary school in England. I explained that at their age I used to start at 9 and finish at 3.15. Cries of '*Non!' C'est pas juste!!' 'Vite! Il faut grèver!' (Ok so I made that last one up but we all know they were thinking it) were abound until I explained that they probably did the same amount of work hours, its just that the English children don't insist on taking 2 hours out of the day to eat their sandwiches. We all agreed that really you could get a lot more done with the day if you just got rid of all the cheese courses.

Oh, les français. 

P.S. Thank you all so much for actually reading this.. I can't get over how many people do and it means a lot to me!! 

P.P.S *Is is compté? 'No! Look at the holes! That's not a compté!' But what about the colour!!'

** No! Its not fair!! Quick! We must strike!

Update.

The last posts I did on here were during the half term holiday, and although it was nice to have some time to go home and to do a little exploring, what I've realised this week is that I do really enjoy going to work. I can deal with the early starts and the traffic and the feeling that not one single muscle will ever work again when I get home at night, because I know that I have such a good time at school. It makes sense really. I had a great time at primary school the first time around, and this time is pretty similar, with the added bonus that I get to eat my lunch in the staffroom where there are less projectiles. At work is where my French is really put to the test as all of my interactions with my fellow teachers are in French and I can feel it becoming easier and easier each week. There are still obstacles, but everyone is really friendly and even if I make mistakes they don't make me feel as stupid as I probably look. Teaching is also becoming a little easier now that I have just about figured out what it is that is required of me, and the teachers for their part have realised what I require of them. Its still a little shaky but we're getting there. Last week I fully capitalised on 'The Very Hungry Caterpillar' and used it in almost every class. With a little imagination you can use the same page of a book to ask a 6 year old to point out the different colours, a 7 year old to use a sentence to say what colour something it is, an 8 year old to remember the names of all the different fruits and a 9 year old to say whether or not they like to eat said fruit. The teachers are helping me to make those connections as well, so I'm not alone! I'm constantly impressed by my CM2s, or Year 6s to you, and maybe I'm just remembering wrong but I'm sure the things I'm doing with them we didn't do until our GCSEs. For example, last week I had to get them to think up all the words they associated with living in a town and living in a countryside, and then talk about the differences between the two. I'm pretty sure I remember doing that in a GSCE French lesson! I'm fairly certain in Year 6 French all we did was say 'mmm c'est bon, ça!' whilst pointing at flash cards of foods. Anyone who was also in 6GB will be pleased to hear that I have in fact used the phrase c'est bon, ça! - I missed out the 'mmm' but I think that was optional - whilst tasting a cèpe (a wild mushroom and a regional delicacy - they can fetch up to 50€/kg) my housemate Valere found in the countryside and it seemed to go down well. So thanks, Mrs Barnett. 

Unfortunately, my new found love of the working life happens to have coincided with the realisation that for the people of France going to work is something which they approach much in the same way as a 14 year old girl approaches the idea of a school swimming lesson. Its not so much that they don't like doing it, but it is somewhat inconvenient, and there are so many possible ways to get out of it if you only stop and think about it that it would seem defeatist to ever actually do it. Thinking up excuses for jour feriés or bank holidays is something of a national pastime and so its only on the off-chance that one of my three work days falls on a date with absolutely no significance to the past 1000 years of French history that I get to actually go.
On the other hand, this means that I do get lots of time to explore what Bordeaux has to offer, and it never fails to disappoint. With Valere's help the other assistants and I have discovered an authentic French bar where karaoke no longer means drunken renditions of 'Total Eclipse of the Heart' but rather all-out accordion playing, skinny jeans, striped t-shirt and trilby hat wearing performances of 'Aux Champs Elysees!' and androgynous women singing jazz. We have managed a little French conversation there, and are working up the courage to take over the mic - I'll keep you posted! Yesterday we went to the beach again and this time scaled the largest sand dune in Europe. I wasn't quite sure what to expect, but it was enormous! Sensibly, we ran all the way to the bottom of it 'to see the sea', before realising that what goes down must, of course, go up, and having to trek all the way back to the top. Still, it was a beautiful view and I wore a sundress on the beach in November so I can't really complain. Also checked off the list of 'experiences' has been accidentally stumbling across a bar full of drag queens, one of whom I actually had a great conversation with in the queue for the ladies toilet (which also answered that question) eating more than my fair share of pastries and realising that Bordeaux feels a lot bigger when the trams have stopped running - thanks again, jour ferié. People watching continues to be an enjoyable experience, although like Ella I have noticed that people really do like to shout out the phrases they were taught in primary school when they overhear you talking on the tram. When I get home I'm going to have to start lurking on the tube listening out for attractive French tourists and then shouting 'OU EST LA GARE?' 'QUEL EST LE DATE DE TON ANNIVERSAIRE??' 'EST-CE QUE JE PEUX AVOIR UNE BAGUETTE???' because apparently that's how to pull. 
Anyway, I'm sorry that I'm so bad at keeping in touch - to all my family: I'm alive, I'm well, I'm keeping safe! 
Lots of love and à la prochaine fois. 

The Post Blog.

Ok so I've shamelessly stolen this from Ella's Facebook, but this made me laugh far more than it should because its SO TRUE.

In other news, by contrary, all goes well in France, she myself pleases a lot. I hope that all goes well with you, I have haste for with you to speak. At all the hour, Emily.

Stolen Property.

I stole this from Emily who came with me to play on the beach with the other 10 year olds. We frolicked in the sea until she got engulfed by a wave. Then we saw a jellyfish and though we tried to dissuade it by serenading it with Adele's 'I won't let you close enough to hurt meeeee' I don't think he understood. Good day though!

A Personal Opinion.

Some people may say that France's best contribution to the world has been the spirit of revolt. Some may say it has been the great thoughts of the Enlightenment, or perhaps the dresses designed by Coco Chanel. Others would argue its been a well ripened camembert, a love of pastry, or the deep rooted desire to wear hats indoors. 


My personal opinion is that whilst all of the above have been fine French successes, the thing they should be the most proud of is a particularly jolly snack which has got me through many a breakfast, lunch and dinner in this country. Where else can your breakfast wink at you before you eat it? And don't say Japan.


So here it is, lets all sing the song and rejoice in the power of the BN.

Pictures.

 Since its been the school holidays this week, and I've been in England for some of it anyway, there's not a lot to report. Since I've been back I've tried to take a few more pictures though, so here they are!

Late night tram rides

Hipster underground (quite literally) DJ sets

No, seriously, he played a saxophone to drum and bass.

Andernos-les-bain.

The beach on the 30th October.

The sun setting over the Atlantic Ocean is one of the best things I've ever seen.

And Another Thing.

I know I already talked about teeth and all that, but its been a long and entertaining day. Here are some of my favourite occurrences:

1. When I got in the car to drive to work this morning at the fresh faced hour of 7.15am, the radio came on and I can't remember whether it was NRG or the interestingly named 'blackbox', Bordeaux's hip-hop radio station, but some DJ out there had chosen that precise moment to play Blue - All Rise and Monsieur le DJ I think I have you to thank for waking me up and reminding me to drive on the right in between making some stellar (albeit seatbelt-restrained) shapes.
2. During a lesson on Halloween, in which I had stuck flashcards of various Halloween characters - a witch, a skeleton, a monster, etc etc - on the board, I whipped out some flashcards of other Halloween related items and asked the children to tell me who each item belonged to. The pitchfork went to the devil, the sarcophagus to the mummy, and finally I held up a picture of a broomstick. There was by this point quite a lot of raucous behaviour going on since I'd divided the class in half and made it into a race - if you don't have any sugar to hand this is a surefire way to make an 8 year old go mental - and so, in order to make himself heard, one overenthusiastic individual shouted over the chaos "GIVE [it to] THE BITCH!!' Perfect. Perfect.
3. Driving in stationary traffic along the rocade, the M25's less well organised cousin, I heard a siren behind me. The French drivers of Bordeaux, not renowned for their empathy or their driving skills, clearly had no interest in helping this mysterious emergency vehicle in reaching its destination, but with a lot of revving and huffing (and undoubtedly a good few 'putains'), we all managed to clear a path down the middle of the two lanes for it to use. Imagine my surprise when rather than a nice shiny ambulance or police car, along zoomed a car which could only be described as 'a banger' with an apparently magnetic flashing light clinging perilously to the roof above the driver's head and blaring at full volume a siren which may or may not have been coming from what I can only assume was a cassette deck. Either Starsky and Hutch have some Gallic counterparts who were on their way to save the day or, as I am inclined to believe, one frustrated commuter had reached out to eBay after a particularly long day. Whichever was the case, it was très amusant. 

The Basics.

Every class that I've been into so far, I've tried to teach, or reinforce, 'the basics' first, before heading onwards and upwards to the heady heights of colours, breakfast stuffs and the contents of a pencil case. This consists of a list of everyday classroom requests that I think will be important if, as Aquitaine's Inspector of Education so greatly desires, I am to communicate with these primary school children purely in English. 

Having decided on this plan, I set about spending a good 5 or 10 minutes coming up with the definitive list of classroom phrases, and this is what I produced:

• Good Morning/Good Afternoon
• How are you today?
• Listen!
• Be Quiet!
• Stand up
• Sit down
• Raise your hand
• I'll say a word, and then you repeat it
• What's this?
• Point to the...
• Who can tell me...?
• Is there anybody here who...?
• We're going to play a game
• Goodbye
• See you soon/See you next week

A fairly comprehensive list? Yes, I thought so too, but oh, how naïve I was.

Soon to be added to the list were:

• Stop doing that!
• No, I said "in English"
• Pay attention.
• What are you doing?
• Take your pencil away from her face.
• Yes, I saw you.
• And that means *insert french word and hope there are no hidden microphones*.

Next, came the requests for translations from keen young children who had clearly listened when I told them that their classroom was to be an English-only zone and wanted to ask the following things:

• Please can I go to the toilet?
• Please can I get a tissue?
• Why do you have a mosquito bite on your arm?
• Why are you here?
• Do you like the Queen?
• Do English people live in houses?
• Do English people drive cars?
• What do English people drink?
• Do you have towns in England?
• Do you want to be the Queen?
• Can French people be the King of England? - a controversial topic, but one I thought I'd leave for today.

However, my absolute favourite has to be the following:

• Help! My tooth has fallen out.

Unusual, you may think? No, not at all. The first time this happened, I thought it was quite sweet and a little nostalgic. The second time was a much more bloody affair, and the sentence had to undergo a little conjugation to become 'Help! His tooth has fallen out and now he's bleeding all over my books'. The third time, I wondered whether I was under some sort of curse. But after some reflection, I realised that no, I was stupid not to have thought of it first. 

Lets just think this through. I'm teaching 5-10 year olds in 2 different schools. I see every single child in each school. Each school has about 150 pupils. That's 300 children. Each child has 20 baby teeth. That's 6000 teeth.

6000 teeth ready to drop at any moment. Really, it should have come before 'Good Morning'.

Maurice.

Another thing:

I also have a new room mate called Maurice. That's 'Maureece' as they say en français.

He is a mosquito.

He likes to sleep in my wardrobe during the day so that I can't catch him and then come out at night just after I have switched off the light and sing me to sleep before he has a good old nibble on whichever limb happens to be emerging from my duvet. If no limbs are available he also enjoys my ears and my neck. But he is sneaky. He knows that I will kill him if we ever actually meet so as soon as the light goes on he creeps back inside the wardrobe.

Whilst at first he was annoying, if not infuriating, I appear to be exhibiting symptoms of Stokholm syndrome. Now I actually greet him when I hear his dulcet tones and I think he sometimes even may even be attempting to sing Coldplay.

So, Maurice, if you read this, and I feel like maybe its you who drains my laptop battery while I'm out, I have a message: Please not the face. 

Update.

First of all, I can't believe its been a whole week since I last wrote one of these. Whereas the first week that I was here seemed to last for years, this one has gone past in a flash. Work is coming along ok. If anything, lesson two turned out to be harder than lesson one, because with 'what's your name?' ''how old are you?' and 'where do you live?' out of the way I've actually had to do some genuine teaching malarky. The first lesson of this week - and I really do feel like my life is moving along in a collection of 'life lessons' (often related to my second greatest pastime, 'awkward moments') - was that before you enter a primary school you really do have to leave any inhibitions or insecurities at the door. One common demand has been 'OK, now sing,' to which mumbling '..err I don't really d..' is received with a standard French shrug. In terms of student participation, the clear winner this week was 'heads, shoulders, knees and toes', although I do fear that the children considered it some sort of tribal chant rather than English. I felt particularly pleased with myself when the first class I taught it to really took it on board and sung along with gusto, but when I congratulated them on their linguistic prowess they all looked blank. 'What do you mean?' one boy asked. 'You just sang in English so see, you can speak some English now,' I replied, only to be met with raucous laughter. 'That wasn't English!' he said, 'this is English: Hello.' So I fear the embarrassing song singing may not have been quite as successful as I'd hoped. Another key part of teaching is that you have to constantly think on your feet. The expression 'never flog a dead horse' was written somewhere in the British Council's advice leaflet, and I think its the most important by far. There is nothing worse than sitting in front of a class full of blank expressions as you try to explain something that is never going to catch on. I think the feeling must be similar to that of a standup comedian who's punchline has just been met with silence, but the most important thing is not to panic. Just pretend it never happened and change tack immediately. As well as the apparently obligatory singing, dancing and acting, and the constant possibility of deathly silence, obstacles have included 'That One Kid'. If you've ever been in a classroom, either as a teacher or a pupil, you'll know this particular individual. He (and I'm sorry to say that he is, without fail, a boy) either sits right at the front or right at the back. His desk is normally separated from the others a little, and he usually has a whole load of extra things on top of it like his whole pencil case emptied out, a few twigs or pebbles from the playground, and other contraband that the teacher has long ago given up confiscating. I don't know why the the British Council didn't dedicate a page of their booklet to him, maybe its not politically correct, I don't know, but by the third classroom of the week I knew to keep an eye out. My favourite 'That One' was called Maxim and ran laps around the classroom for almost an entire lesson without anyone batting an eyelid. There was also Guillaume who, whether out of boredom or political protest in the form of subversion of the expected, sat on the floor holding his chair above his head. Another had apparently confused English and Japanese culture and so stood up and bowed to me every time I asked him a question or in fact made eye contact. Ideal. There is no way to stop them, so you just have to nod and smile and then carry on with reciting the colours or something. 

Obstacles aside, I really have enjoyed most of my lessons this week. The kids are attentive and so so long as you have a plan B (and a plan C) for when your first plan doesn't really go so well, they are really keen to learn. I have also enjoyed hanging out in the staffroom, where I've found that for the first time I can genuinely (and with more than a little pride) use the line 'no, no, don't worry, we'll speak in French,' as my French is better than most of the teacher's English. Conversation tends to be around our children (I smile and laugh appropriately), our in-laws (more smiling and a little gasping), our 'That One Kid's (laughing and/or gasping) and the questionable parenting skills of some of the parents of kids at the school. On the whole, I try to eat my lunch and not do anything to embarrass myself, but since it takes them 2 whole hours to eat this is obviously quite an ask. A less than fabulous moment occurred when having sat for about half an hour smiling and gasping I reached for something and managed to catapult spaghetti bolognese onto my own face. Not ideal. I thought the following damage control had gone fairly smoothly until the teacher sat next to me turned, saw me picking spaghetti off my neck and screamed. Perfect. Other than that though, things have gone ok.

Supermarket shopping is another experience, but there is a definite skill to it. At first, it seemed as though food in France was much more expensive than in England, but the main thing I've learnt is that this is only true if you try to stubbornly stick to your English shopping list. The ingredients for a stir fry will inevitably cost more than 10€, but paté is less than 1€. Shopping like a French person is hard, but I'm slowly picking it up. 

There is no shortage of evening entertainment, and so far we've sampled many (but still only the tip of the iceberg) of Bordeaux's bars and restaurants, the fun fair that is currently set up in the centre of town, and even tried our hand at a pub quiz (didn't go that well). Now that the summer weather is back we may even get to go back to the beach or out to a vineyard this weekend. I definitely feel like I've earned a reward after the first week of actual work I've ever done!

Pictures to come, I promise!!

Update.

Ok so I've been here a while now and I have to say its starting to feel more like home. That may be because its started raining though, I'm not sure. I also finally persuaded Southampton's vpn to let me watch Spooks so that might have something to do with it too. Anyway, tasks which a week ago were absolutely terrifying are now only mildly worrying, and some have even become quite enjoyable. If you work at SFR I'm not talking about you. Monday's information day was nothing if not French, since we effectively managed to spend 6 hours filling out one form and turning down extra health insurance, being told the exact same information at least 4 times by a man who clearly thought the women running the day were there to make coffee and needed their speeches to be translated into more emphatic language just in case we hadn't realised that wandering out of a school and leaving a class of seven year olds unattended was not okay. He also felt the need to reassure us that if we ever needed to see a gynaecologist, they could help us out. However, French lunacy aside, it was great to finally find all the other assistants who are lurking around this city. Everyone is really friendly and really open and although I know we are here to speak French I feel a hundred times more comfortable knowing that there will always be the option of a glass of wine and a moan in our mother tongues. Don't get me wrong, I love speaking French, but sometimes a person just needs diphthongs and transgender nouns. Having said that, I've had two really good nights out with my French colocatrice and her friends, who have kindly taken me under their wing a little, and I've actually been amazed at how much I have understood and been able to participate. So, Dad, you can relax. Just daily household conversations are becoming much easier to conduct too, I no longer have to decide on a sentence before I say it, I just speak and all this French falls out. This has pros and cons - conversations are less tiring now, but it does mean that for about the first hour of the morning I only speak in infinitive verbs.


This week I've been to the two schools I will be teaching in and met all the staff who are lovely and who remind me of the staff at Ford House. We all 'tutoie' each other and everyone is really helpful and accommodating. I have just spent today having meetings with each of the teachers I will be helping and worked out a vague plan for the year so I can start to prepare games and things to do with the children which is exciting but also a little daunting. I hadn't realised (although I probably should have) just how dependent they are going to be on me because though I am here as an 'assistant' at least 3 of the 6 teachers I spoke to today have hardly any English at all. Meeting all the kids has been so much fun, especially since now that I have been round the classrooms to present myself - which has made the top ten scariest moments of my life to date - they all love to shout to me when they see me walking around the school. On my mentor teacher's advice I told them all that I don't speak any French at all (only aged 7 would you fail to realise that I speak in French with their teachers when we are deciding what to do..) and so if they try to speak to me in French I make this over exaggerated face of confusion until they cave and speak in English and then run away giggling. I really like how proud they all are of the English that they have, if they say something which I understand they beam and try to say something else. Amongst the younger ones this is a little misguided though, when I asked a class of 6 year olds if anybody could tell me what their name was one tiny girl threw her arm into the air like Nadal serving a tennis ball but when I picked her and she stood up she proudly answered 'onetwothreefourfiiiive'. There might be work to be done but they have an enthusiasm which makes you want to do it, so now I can't wait to start properly. 


What else, what else? Ok, so lets talk about driving. I know I may have turned left at a roundabout today but it was a very small one so it could have been a crossroads and there were no other cars around so its really fine. On the whole, my driving is going well, though I say so myself. Parallel parking is coming along fine, yesterday I managed to do it without tearing up a little so that's a success and I've sort of narrowed it down from approximately 30 adjustments to between 10 and 15 so its going well. A few days ago Kathy and I saw a man reverse into a minuscule space at light speed and do some sort of handbrake turn into it so that his car was perfectly parked in less than 10 seconds and this is now one of my life goals. Not going so well, however, is the old motorway driving. I know that stereotypes are on the whole ignorant and unnecessary but I have found one exception and that is that the French do not know how to drive. Bordeaux's ring road is a duel carriageway which is big enough to be a motorway and has motorway-style slip roads. Ok, so two lanes, then a slip road, like this ll\. So far, at least five times (this isn't even an exaggeration I've counted them), I have been coming down the slip road indicating left with a car driving along slower than the speed limit in the first lane exactly parallel or about half a car's length behind me. I can't slow down, because there's someone behind. I can't pull out, because I'll crash into them, I can't accelerate, because there is no more slip road. I look over to their car to see what they are playing at and see that the whole left hand lane is empty. Just what, what are they doing? I think that I am going to have to install wacky races style flame throwers to my hubcaps because its making me so angry. I'm considering asking Tony Campbell if I can change my year abroad project title to 'The French: Why are they so bad at driving? An ethnological study' and then maybe install sirens to my car's roof so that I can pull these people over and interview them. I'm not sure what sort of health and safety risks would be involved but I genuinely what to know what they are thinking. 


Anyway, I think that's all the news to report for this week. When I find the cable which connects my camera to my computer I may even put up some pictures. Don't hold your breath though I need to take some first. 


A toute à l'heure and all that. 

Whoops.

Turned left at a roundabout today.
Don't worry, nobody saw. 

Progress.

I drank my coffee black this morning. Mainly because there was no milk left. I'm turning more français by the minute. I don't think you can really get taken seriously here if you put milk in your hot drinks. Next stop, black tea. And then to take over the Academie Française. 

Success.

After an unexpected 1am knock on my door, I found myself in Bordeaux's answer to Jesters. No matter what nationality, it seems students the world over can bond over sticky floors, questionable dj-ing skills and sketchy older men lurking in corners. Parfait.

Year Abroad Problem Post.

1. This one way system. 
2. Swimwear for the over 50s is apparently not available on the beaches of Bordeaux.
3. Insect bites.
4. Online banking in English is hard. Online banking in French is impossible. 
5. Currently BBC iPlayer TV programmes are available to play in the UK only, but all BBC iPlayer Radio programmes are available to you.
6. Nobody uses indicators.
7. The distinctions between 'cold' 'hot' 'frigid' and 'horny' are too vague for my liking.

That being said, tout va bien. 

Alors...

So, as you know, I am starting my Year Abroad in France as we speak. I’m putting that in capital letters because everyone always gives it capital letters and I’m starting to see why. Its a big deal. Moving your whole life from one country to another, leaving the people of Southampton and Leeds to carry on without you and arriving completely alone in an environment where you are required to speak a language which is not your mother tongue is difficult. Because, lets face it, I can't speak French. None of us can. We may have sprung out of bed to skip to our 9am language classes. We may well have toiled relentlessly over our copies of ‘Practising French Grammar’. We may even (in the cases of the stronger hearted among us) have ventured into the unchartered territory of the Avenue library. Nevertheless, the fact remains that the first time a French person in a car/phone/insurance shop proudly presents a sales pitch so finely tuned it would set Alan Sugar’s blood pumping and then raises that internationally recognised and oh-so-nervewracking monobrow which asks ‘vous comprendez?’ and can be translated as 'I'm presuming you have no idea what I just said, do you?' we will realise that the only part of the tirade of information we understood was the starting ‘Alors..’, a few of the numbers that cropped up in the middle somewhere and oh, hey, that was the subjunctive, you mean you actually use that here? Its a scary process and one which I think is hard to convey to anybody who hasn’t experienced it. What I have realised over the course of the past week is that although the temptation to nod emphatically and reassure said salesman that of course you understood and agree wholeheartedly is so strong that it almost falls out of your mouth before you realise what's happening, it really isn't a good idea. I still have no idea what the terms of my phone contract are. I don't know whether it is a trait specific to the Bordelais, though I expect it probably is since it is the antithesis of the French stereotype, but the people here really don't mind if you say no. They tend to smile, say 'pas probléme' and repeat themselves in slower, slightly simpler language. Realising that was probably the most important thing I have done this week. No, wait, that was finding an insurance agency who believed that an English driving licence was a legitimate certification of the ability to drive a car. But it comes a close second. 

I've taken the fact that I have had a week before I start working properly as an opportunity to be a huge tourist and see all the sights Bordeaux has to offer. And since this city has prospered fairly consistently since it was settled by Romans, there are plenty of them. The fact that Bordeaux is built on the affluence of its vinyards is obvious everywhere you look, and every building in the centre is exquisite. There are art galleries and cathedrals much like any other French city, and a huge theatre. There is also the 'musée d'Aquitane' which charts Bordeaux's history since the prehistoric times and has incredible cave paintings, bronze and iron age weapons, Roman statues, and a room dedicated to the rise of Bordeaux as a trading port when links to the West Indies were established. All really interesting so long as you politely ignore the cheeky little sign which in an astounding feat of PR plays down any involvement in the slave trade since slaves went from Africa to the Caribbean and then things like sugar and coffee came back from the Caribbean to Bordeaux and so really they didn't have anything to do with the traffic of humans. Though they did send the boats back to Africa but hmm what a triangle? No, no, not at all. Still, dirty money or no - and to be fair a lot of it is from wine rather than slavery, I can’t imagine myself ever not double-taking at the beauty of this town every time I step off the tram.

Good old fashioned sightseeing, complete with trying conspicuously to juggle a rough guide, a camera, a water bottle and a road map and feeling more English than ever before, having been checked off the list next on the agenda was the slightly more stressful matter of establishing myself as a fully fledged français. To commencer was the pressing need for accommodation, which has landed me in a room in the eaves of a big family home in the Chartrons district, famous for its combination of bohemians and students. The deuxième was the need for a car for the commute to work since buses go through the village my school is in approximately 3 times a week.  Car secured, this brings us to the mountain of bureaucracy which comes with opening a bank account and finding someone willing to insure you. I imagine its just as bad in England but when you have to do it all in one day it makes everything 10 times worse. Thankfully, once I mastered my fear of speaking to French people - no, seriously, my mum had to physically push me through the door of the bank when she realised that it was 10.30am and I had already ‘left something at the hotel I need[ed] to go back and get’ and initiated two coffee stops - it became clear that everyone was actually going out of their way to make things easier for me. Take that, French stereotype. I will forever be indebted to the bank clerk who told me that I needed to be a student in France to qualify for a student account and its perks, but then decided that, hey, Southampton is sort of near France isn’t it, so she would give me one anyway. Now I only have to pay 1€ for a year’s contents insurance and liability insurance (an insurance you are required to pay in case you ever ‘injure a civilian intentionally or otherwise’ in an all for one and one for all kind of system - hello republican values) and get an overdraft (hum) and a French student card. 

Admin done, all that was left was a trip to the ocean, and despite the total lack of spacial awareness that comes with driving on the wrong side of the road and a one-way system which a) makes Leeds city centre look well thought out and b) involves trams which do not stop for man or beast we managed to get there in one piece. If the city of Bordeaux is a feat of manmade beauty, the nearby sand-dunes which stretch almost 200km from Soulac to Biarritz are nature’s equally impressive answer. When the tide is out the beach stretches lazily out in front of you and the water is calm enough for swimming without too much risk of a wave sneaking up behind you and breaking over your head. When the tide is in, however, it is a whole different story. Suddenly, the waves are the size of houses and surfers spring up from every corner. The beach becomes an ideal viewing platform for some insane surfing skills (and indeed the inevitable terrifying falls) worthy of any Californian teen drama. Though I was of course tempted to join in (Izzy I’m looking at you) I think maybe that’s another battle for another day.

So, now that I am fully installé, I have a few days of limbo (read sunbathing) and the difficult tasks of a city dweller such as figuring out how to work the self service machines at the supermarket and learning once and for all how to parallel park in a space 5mm longer than the length of your car, before my introduction to being a language assistant and starting working properly. A tout à l’heure.