The learning begins

Playing the guitar and discussing rock music with my students was fun but one day Marie, a rather serious minded 15 year old, dropped a bombshell.

'Could we study something about modals tomorrow please?' she asked.

'Modals?? You mean models? Supermodels? Fashion?'

I had been a bit concerned about Marie.  She hadn't wanted to discuss her favourite actor, fashion, shopping or any other normal topics.  Instead she had preferred to write her diary and had once even asked for homework.  Now at last it seemed that she was coming out of her shell.

'I'll bring in some fashion magazines tomorrow,' I reassured her.

'No, I mean modals.  I want to study modal verbs and how they work.'

I went home to quiz my brother.  There was no Uncle Google back in 2003.  Or if there was, he wasn't the clever know-it-all he is today.

'What are modal verbs?' I asked.

The next day I delivered my first grammar lesson.  True, we covered only modal verbs of obligation...but it was a start.  It wasn't long before all sorts of grammatical points and structures were rearing their problematic heads.  The second conditional was a favourite.  After we had gone through the structure, it was time to practise using it.

'Julie, give me an example of the second conditonal.'

'Umm, if I had a lot of money , I would buy a big 'ouse.'

'Good! Pierre?'

Pierre was an earnest looking fifteen year old with teenage spots and glasses.  He spoke slowly and hesitatingly.

'If - I - were - a - girl - I - would - stay - in - my - room - and - look - at - myself...'

And he allowed himself a slow smile of satisfaction.

Summer dreams

Took a group of Polish students to St Ives.  I met they at the big screen in the city centre at 10am. Their teacher was a young blonde in her early 20s who wore lots of make up and spoke perfect English.  For some reason, she made a deep impression on me.  Maybe 10 years in Thailand had made me particularly susceptible to sassy, self confident blondes.

I was not the only one she made an impression on.  A passing local Plymouthian man, in tracksuit and trainers, beer can ready in his right hand, stopped and stared.  He scratched at his crotch for a moment and then nodded appreciatively.

"Hey, blondie!" he called.

The blonde turned to look.  He made a thrusting motion with his hips and nodded again.

"You're alright!" he said.

We walked the students down to where the coach was waiting.  The blonde's gallant admirer followed us for a while and then got swallowed up by the crowds of shoppers.  We boarded the coach.  Dave the driver nodded cheerily at me.

"Bloody hell, some hot 'uns you got today mate!  Where they from?"

"Poland," I said.

He shook his head sadly.  "I can't speak Russian," he said gloomily.

The journey to St Ives took 2 hours.  The students settled down to listen to their ipods or take selfies. When we got to St Ives, the weather was perfect, the bright Cornish sunlight reflecting off the white sandy bottom of the bay creating a turquoise almost tropical effect with the light.  I got the Polish blonde to pose for a photo with me.  The result - for me - was the perfect idealized representation of what summer was all about.  All summed up neatly in one picture.  The Reader shall hear about what happened the next time I met this blonde nearly 6 months later.