Do you have a wife?

Just one week until I jet off to sunny (haw haw) England. 

It's been almost exactly four weeks since I've been here, but now brain is starting to say STOP.

This week, the students seem to have been more daring in their questions for me. The first week was full of "how old are you?" "where do you live?" etc etc. There's only so many times you can say "I am 20 years old. I live in Cambridge" and not feel like a listening exam. But this week, see below for a list of more interesting and amusing questions;

- Do you have any children?
At which I just burst out laughing, and replied with "Good god, no, I'd be a terrible mother".

- Do you smoke?
When I responded no, the student said "that's very good, smoking is bad for you". Thanks for the lesson, chump. Later on, when I said that I like Bob Marley, he then said "But you HAVE to smoke when you listen to Bob Marley". Which reminds me. The weed culture here is genuinely insane. Every morning as I skip my merry way to school, bright eyed and bushy tailed for the day that lies ahead (well, actually it's more like, 'Every morning as I drag my sorry self to school in the dark, slightly resenting the day ahead because half past 7 is such an ungodly hour to be walking to work'), I arrive at the school gates to be embraced by the smell of weed. Turning a blind eye, I teach my lessons as usual, and the fact that half the students are stoned doesn't really concern me. Except today, when one student asked me "can you tell us something that has happened to you in your life". I responded with a witty tale of humour and then asked if he could tell me something. The best he could say was "No, I can't right now, because I'm high. This morning I was tired". How on earth does one reply to this?

- Do you have a wife?
No, French children, I do not have a wife. Nor am I married, or a lesbian. Thank you. 

Other than work, a bit of fun and generally trying as hard as I can to speak French, another major part of my life so far has been administration. I hate to say it, so I'll say it very quietly. I think I might have done everything in terms of admin. Bank account? Check. Social security number? On its way in the post. CAF? Check. Soon to be paid into my account. Insurance? Check. Erasmus stuff? Check. New SIM for my phone? Check.

The result of all of this admin is that whenever I say the word RIB, I sort of screw up my face and say it like I'm imitating myself, because I'm so sick of saying it. For those who don't know, a RIB is a Relevé d'Identité Bancaire, and you find yourself giving it to almost every company you could think of. To attach such importance to a piece of paper with your bank details on it seems slightly ludicrous to me, but there we are.

Onwards and upwards, I have a class at 3 which somehow I think will feel a little more like babysitting than teaching.

Never mind, eh.

Betty

Dear blog readers,

Another week already over and it's safe to say I think I deserve to be chilling on my bed.

After my first week of "proper" teaching, I feel exhausted. As with all of my experiences here, it was an inevitable mixture of the rough and the good. Some classes turned up bright eyed and bushy tailed, ready to learn and speak more English. Some classes refused to say anything. Others never turned up...

On Friday I helped out in two classes which were aimed more at the literature side of English. The teacher called me variations on my actual name, including Vicky and Betty. Betty, I have decided, is my old lady alter ego, the Becky who gets to bed by 9 o'clock in a pair of bed socks after a spot of light reading before bed. It's my idea of occasional bliss to behave as though I've aged half a century overnight. Living la vie de retirement.

I am in the midst of planning next week's lessons. I'm not sure if I'm just being massively lazy but preparation so far has been pretty easy. Although all of my classes aren't on the same level, they will all benefit from learning about the same topic and I think I will always have more complicated stuff to hand for the better students.

On Thursday I bit the bullet and did something I was dreading. Yes ladies and gentleman, I got a haircut. It turns out that the vocabulary wasn't too difficult, and "the same, but shorter" turned out just fine for me. And I don't look like a Russian lesbian (as is often the case with poorly cut short hair), another bonus, I'm sure you'll agree.

Friday, I took the train up to Chartres to meet up with the lovely other assistants residing there. Copious amounts of alcohol was drunk, including "La Pazze" (at least I think that's how it was spelt), which included vodka, creme de peche and tabasco. An interesting combination but overall enjoyable. Saturday came round and it's safe to say that we assistants were in dire need of some serious gastronomy. Off we trotted to a lovely pizza restaurant where the pizzas were massive and also scrum-diddly-umptious.

Today, I think I will be doing some slow teaching prep, as well as eating more brie than is generally advised and maybe topping off the day with a good film or something like that.

I can't believe I'm coming home in 9 days, I really can't wait!

Miss Wilkinson

Well, one thing is for sure, I don't think I'll ever spell my name wrong again after writing it about a million times on the board.

I've sort of been a fail at all this blog pavlova, mainly because quite often I can't think of how to sum up this experience in the space that a blog post gives me.

Anyway, as with everything, this week has been a melting pot of highs and lows. Lows; my oven broke, and then my boiler, which meant I was a day without hot water. Then a whole group of kids didn't turn up to an 8  o'clock class (which I got up especially for. Somehow hearing "they must have forgotten" doesn't really wash with me). Highs; I've had some really really successful classes, with students who genuinely seem interested in what I have to say and I get a huge buzz out of grabbing students' attention for a whole hour.

On the whole, classes have been "interesting". Yes, that panacea word which covers all possibilities. I haven't had any nasty students, but let's just say it is sometimes difficult to motivate certain members of the class. My stance on it is to try and get them to work, but not to burst an artery if they simply refuse, because I'm not there to discipline. If the kids want to work, they will. A few of the teachers seem to have got the wrong end of the stick as far as 'language assistant' is concerned. Language assistant does not equal child minder for the kids you don't want to teach. It's difficult to stand your ground with a woman who has twice as much experience, is twice as old and about four times as scary as you are. When you try and explain that you are not comfortable with actually teaching classes, you are met with advice on how to teach them, rather than them taking them back off your hands again. My response, a slightly pathetic "d'accord" and a limp smile.

It's fair to say I've had my challenges for this week. I've had kids who sit in stunned silence at me as I try to fill each awkward dragging minute by gabbling in English, hoping that they will understand at least something. I had one boy tell me all about the problems with his knee, when frankly, I couldn't have given two peaches. I've had kids screw up a worksheet that I had just given them (but hey, technically it's not my class to teach and I probably would've done the same, given the chance). I asked a girl numerous times to get on with her work and her response of "je réfléchis" worked for the first 5 minutes of the lesson, but somehow I don't think her brain was capable of thinking for the entire 40 minutes.

A few years ago I really would've taken it upon myself to worry about these kids, to force them to do work, but if they don't want to be there then there's not really much you can do. If the teacher doesn't even care about them then why should I lose sleep over it? Sure, if I was a teacher then yes, I would motivate them because it would be my job.

Difficult students aside, I've just spent some time in my favourite place, Carrefour. Rosslyn took me out to get a snazzy little oven with the capability to do rotisserie, hello roast chicken! This means that I can fulfill the ultimate French dream, a real nice camembert baked to perfection, served with a crusty French baguette. Bliss.

Anyway, I am truly turning into a little old lady and need my beauty sleep. 8 really is an ungodly hour to actually start work so I'm really exhausted.

Off to bed I go! Before long, I'll be donning my frilly nightie and drinking Horlick's before bed.

Dinner parties, mate and boursin

Good evening dear friends and people who have just stumbled across this blog.

So much seems to have happened since I last blogged, but I fear if I don't write one now then I will feel swamped by the things I have done and writing another will make me want to hide in a French hole for all eternity.

We have some news on the bank front - finally! Went in with a stroppy face and said very firmly that I do NOT live in an apartment, thank you very much Mrs Bank Lady and that I had received a letter to confirm my PIN number. So fingers crossed, I'll be sorted on that front soon. And if not, then I shall wage WAR!

This week has been full of dinner parties. It's great being a) new to the area and b) English. I have been inundated with offers from the lovely people here. Isn't it nice to feel welcome eh?

Besides eating my weight in French cuisine, Ara and I went to the big centre commerciale and spent a ridiculous amount of moolah there and basically felt like we had walked across the whole desert. Afterwards, we went with a teacher to see Dangerous Liaisons. It was extremely confusing but interesting nonetheless.

I've also met up with a few people for discussions about conversation classes, which has been quite revealing. One family was lovely, welcomed me into their home for dinner, spent hours trying to get to know me and seemed genuinely fascinated by the British culture. Another group of women simply sat me down with a coffee, sent their children upstairs and talked business with me, telling me I could not speak any French to the 6 year olds I would be teaching and when I told them where I live, they responded with "ah, that'll be good for the accent". I wanted to turn to them and say "well, thank you for taking such an interest in my life as a whole, I will definitely enjoy working with your darling little children", but instead I laughed melodically and kept my sarcastic comments to myself.

I start at the lycee tomorrow which I'm pretty nervous about. I hope I don't crumble under the pressure of 15 French kids staring dazed and confused at me.

Anyway,
Time for bed as I start ridiculously early tomorrow.

Tara for now.

P.S. I LOVE BOURSIN.

Est-ce que c'est urgent?

So yet another week has passed when I have been a complete failure in writing a blog.

I have been a busy little French thing, scurrying to and from the lycée and going through the ridiculously long and painful administration tasks. I've had a lot of fun too, don't get me wrong but today, oh today, my blog is traversing down a bitter route.

The first day I was here, I made my merry way to a bank which had been recommended to me by several people. Société Genérale. My skin crawls at the mere mention. On arrival, I was extremely surprised to see that, unlike in the Cambridge branch of HSBC [and indeed in any self-respecting bank in England], with its high-tech machines in which you can do almost anything and people in suits almost begging you to ask them for help, there were just two chairs and an important looking secretary behind a desk. In my broken French, I explained that I needed a student bank account, please can I have one, thank you very much. Alas, my dear ladies and gentleman, as most things in France, it is not quite so simple. The question followed which I have begun to loathe "est-ce que c'est urgent?". My brain pulsed with sarcastic retorts, but all I could muster was a false smile of exasperation and a "oui". The receptionist smiled at me with the air of understanding my situation and gave me an appointment for the Saturday.

Saturday came and again, off I toddled to set up my bank account. I was greeted by the same, smiley receptionist and whisked away into another small office. It was all pretty standard stuff, which I won't trouble you too much with, except to say that they actually have a catalogue of cards you can choose from. I smiled politely as she flicked through each glossy page, showing me cards with images of horses, of tiny islands across the world, of giraffes, of cartoon characters. Hell, I probably could have chosen one with the Queen Mother on it [god rest her soul]. My selection complete (for anyone who actually gives a crap, as I'm pretty sure I don't), I went for the 'Collection Chez Elles'. Card chosen, most of the terms and conditions understood, I stepped out into the fresh air with a smile on my face.

This afternoon, as I left the bank for the third time, I left the bank muttering "the [insert swear word ici, if you wish] French".

See grievances with Société Genérale;

The amount of hidden charges
On my first encounter with the Société Genérale, as I sat opposite the lady with chic clothes and shiny hair, she asked me if I would like to choose my own PIN. I responded with yes, why not? Who wouldn't want to choose their PIN? People who don't want to pay 9 euros for this privilege my friends, that's who. Then there's the amount that they charge for the card. Yes, you have to pay for a bank card, which you use to spend your money. Then there's all these other little charges for setting up the bank account, as well as the add-ons that you can get which could cost you a fortune. They probably charge you for sitting in their swanky seats.

The sheer amount of time you have to waste to get things done
So, almost two weeks after I opened my bank account, I am still without a bank card, surely the most important part of banking, no? I would like to ask these smarmy women at the bank whether they could live for even a day without their bank card. Mais non.

The ridiculous Catch 22s.
Okay, so to choose your PIN for the bank card, you have to phone a number. To phone a number you need, well, a phone. To have a phone you need a bank card... The mind boggles.

The staff in my particular branch
On telling the staff in Nogent today that I don't have a phone, they proceeded to look at me as though I had just rolled in a pile of dog shit and entered their bank to deliberately share the wonderful aroma. I'm not sure they understand that it's their fault that I don't have a phone... Secondly, listening doesn't seem to come very easily to these creatures. For example, on our first 'rendez-vous', I told them specifically that I live in a HOUSE which is ATTACHED to another house but is A SEPARATE HOUSE. House emphasized. This afternoon, I went in and said that I need to get insurance for said house. 'Venez à quatorze heures'. Okay, so I returned at 2 o'clock, only to have a huge wad of paper shoved in my face [I wasn't even invited into the office this time] and to be asked for my signature, without the time to read the conditions, because 'j'ai des clients qui m'attendent'. I AM A 'CLIENT' WHO IS 'ATTEND'ING. I made the mistake of making her customers wait a further 10 seconds to ask her (very politely) where on earth my card had got to. The response, you have to wait. Well yes, I believe that is the motto of France. Sod Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité. They should change it to Il faut attendre. Anyway, on returning chez moi, I decided to read the conditions of the insurance. It states that I live in an APARTMENT on the GROUND FLOOR with TWO ROOMS. They even bothered to add a veranda... Hey face, meet palm.


I'm not sure if it's just this branch in particular who seems fairly incapable of doing the most simplest of deeds, or even just because I'm a stupid English girl, but I am pining for a bank where I can walk in, get an appointment straight away and walk out 20 minutes later, bank card in the post and no charges.

Exhale. And publish.

Aquagym

Okay so it's been a fairly long time (in my world) since I wrote about my life in France.

A brief summary before I launch into my daily happenings. My house here is great, I have a lot of independence, but at the same time, I do have a surrogate mother here. I haven't had to faire any cuisine which is really nice and lets me experience the vrai French culture.

Last Thursday was the social with the teachers, in a village hall, where everyone brought food. So delicious, and so middle class. It was really nice to meet all the teachers and I'm quite impressed with myself that I can actually understand French. Clearly my £3,564 a year is giving me some benefits.

So Friday came around and I went back into the college, sat in on a few more classes and had that embarrassing "This is the new English assistant, take pity on her because she's new. Now ask her questions" [insert awkward silence here] moment. After that, I had my first experience in a French college canteen. Pretty impressive if you ask me. The French are so cultured that they give their kids brie and grapes at lunch time in schools, rather than the chewed up grey meat and random combinations one usually finds in British school dinners.

Friday evening swung around and I visited La Ferté-Bernard, a teeny tiny town near here with a pretty swell Church (research it if you wish, I give you permission). Lots of Gothic architecture and olde towne buildings. After that, a sample of a most delicious fruity beer and then back to Nogent for some dinner.

On Saturday we had a soirée, consisting of mainly crêpes and a really rather tasty cider, made by the cousin of one of the guests at said soirée. The woman who came over brought her children, who generally tend to look at foreigners as if they have an extra leg on their head. A nice evening nonetheless.

Sunday rolled round and I decided that, instead of getting up ridiculously early on Monday for our induction day in Orléans, I wanted to book a hotel. I was expecting the arrival of Ara, the new Argentinian assistant at 11 o'clock so off I toddled to the station to collect her. Alas, no sign. I returned later when the next train came in and alas, again, no sign. When I returned at 5 to make my merry way to Orléans, there she was, looking so tired and fed up. Apparently a broken suitcase in Paris can delay you for a few hours... Two hours [and a whole dose of guilt] later, there we were in Orléans, and after a few suitcase-related mishaps, we arrived at our hotel. A little later we met up with another assistant for pizza (nom nom nom) and then back to our hotel to sleep.

It's rather nice to hang with Ara because elle ne parle pas anglais, so we always have to speak in French. Which I guess is sort of what I am here for.

So, the induction day on Monday. The inevitable happened and all the English were magnetised together et donc au revoir le français! Anyway, it was nice to meet all the assistants and when I got back I was glowing with what lay ahead of me.

Today, I have been watching lessons all day. It was enlightening and I got to know what sort of thing I'll be helping with next week. Surprisingly, given that they're French and all, everyone at the school has been really good with the admin side of things. My co-ordinator is really nice and I went swimming with her this evening.

A little word of advice; aqua gym is the hardest thing ever. Okay, imagine tread mills, cycle machines, all your normal gym machines, but underwater. Now, imagine a minute on each of these machines, being shouted at in French to go faster, even though all your limbs are crying, then changing for the next machine for another torturing minute. For 45 minutes. Et voilà.

In terms of my French, I can already feel that it's improving. I think, however, I must have said the words "d'accord", "exactement" and "oui" about a million times since I've got here.

Tomorrow is my first day with nothing to do and I'm going to cherish the opportunity to be in bed for as long as is socially acceptable.

If you have read this far, congratulations, and I hope you have been enlightened to my franglais life.