Or it was.

I finally stepped foot into a real, live, classroom last week after a painfully protracted period of shuffling my timetable, bureaucratic hoop-jumping and falsifying CRB checks.

Friday was also a crucial pixel in the bigger picture of getting a roof over my head – documents needed to be drawn up and signed; monies transferred; assurances made. A day busy enough to befit my amateur preparations for facing the ruly mob of oddly diligent students.

While I was fully aware of my abject lack of experience in the field, I drew from my reserve tank of bravura (I maintain this for times of crisis) to lure my class into a didactic lull as one might tickle a trout. A trout eager to learn English. As are all trout.

Admittedly, I worked an easy crowd. These were students like few I have witnessed before. The class is unfortunately shanked by the twin stigmata of being both voluntary and timetabled for Friday at 4pm. I was genuinely impressed by their even being there, let alone their evident enthusiasm.

All at a point in the week that my student days would have relegated to either mounting intoxication or a thoroughly undeserved siesta.

I’ve since muddled through several more classes all on my lonesome. It’d be cliché to say that I’m learning more from them than they are from me, and a lie, because I’d beat them at the Countdown letters round hands down. Nevertheless I’m learning the merits and perils of preparation due to my all-consuming wish not to corpse in front of 30 people. Again.

El blog is running late due to the new apartment lacking Interweb until today. Expect the backlog to manifest itself as an unwelcome flurry of my asinine scribblings in the next few days.

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