Monday, 4 October 2010

Plaster cast teacher.

The bed is now covered in an assortment of clothes and discarded belongings, and the walls are plastered with an array of friends’ glossy faces. My floor is covered by a huge blue rug which I found for four euros in a second hand shop. Music is on for every waking second, and I already have several odd socks, despite only packing pairs. Life seems to manifest itself in a similar manner. Sometimes purposefully, but often serendipitously, a day’s events add another detail to the innumerable count which make up a full and happy life. I have not been here very long, so perhaps it is merely illusion, but very rapidly I have found myself in a life of socialising, work and furniture shopping.

This morning I took a class alone, by myself, un-aided, sans-assistance. You get the idea. Sitting at the front of a class of French teenagers with nothing but a board marker and a lesson plan feels a bit like going to battle unarmed. All these strange children suddenly look up at you expectantly, waiting for you to start. The feeling that I should be sat with them, looking up at some poor other foreigner was immediately overwhelming. However, I gripped my pen tight, put on my best teacher’s voice and began. And you know what, they listened, learnt and reacted, just as if I was a teacher. A shaky and somewhat strange teacher, but a teacher nonetheless.

I already reckon that’s the trick of it, this adulthood lark. You just have to know how to cover up the cracks which reveal your still a kid. If you can imitate the rudimentary moves which you’ve seen a teacher do a thousand times; hang up your coat, write on the board, demand attention, then your half way there. Of course, I didn’t have the same finesse as a teacher, my writing was as spidery and lopsided as it is in real life, and all of a sudden I couldn’t spell to save my life. It was my very first class though, and I reckon with a bit more practise you won’t be able to spot me from a real life adult. Except for my insistent lack of facial hair.

Work aside, me and ‘my assistants’ also had our first taste of French clubbing over the weekend. It was pretty surreal. There was none of that strolling down to the club at half ten. Oh no, we drank until midnight and then got into a car (equipped with sober driver) and did a half hour drive into the mountains. Not to a nearby town or anything, just to the discotheque that existed alone on the mountainside. Through the smoke filled car I could make out road lines and other, less sober drivers, but that was about it. We finally arrived, and us English found the drive had left us both sober and sleepy. However, we were at ‘la Garenne’ now, like it or not, so we hit the Jack Daniel’s and then hit the floor. 3h30am and we were still going for it, breaking moves that these French guys hadn’t even seen before. I danced so hard I’m still getting leg cramps several days later. After the long descent back to Gap me and Nathan got back to our flat with just enough energy to eat some leftover chilli before collapsing into our antique beds.

I suppose I shall stop there for now, although there is more to tell. I think I might like it here.

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