I would like to thank and apologise to my Mother in equal measures for this short story…
I can hear the sun. It’s telling me drag myself from my pit and go outside. Honestly. It’s a lovely day. The problem is, it’s November. I am far too worldly wise to fall for that one. So, with the option of venturing more than 40 feet from my bedroom very clearly ruled out, I’ve slithered in to action. In this case, action involved making coffee and then going back to bed. Now here I am, shiny new web page, very exciting, I am a force of creative…bugger.
I am not a good student. I have a woefully short attention span and am prone to quite severe bouts of verbal diarrhoea. All this has, I imagine, not just made my recent decision to study for a DELTA intensively (more on that later) a skipping, whooping joy for all my classmates, but also means that I can more than adequately fulfil all the clichés of being a teacher by being gleefully hypocritical. What this also means, inevitably, is that I am now sitting here wondering what I should write. No, scratch that. I’m ACTUALLY thinking about Morrison’s High Juice. It’s extremely tasty, you see.
I am truly a lost cause. Relegate me to the back of the blogger’s class. Backs of classes are for doodling, absent-minded tapping and the insertion of index fingers in to an eye-popping number of orifices. Sadly enough, I am, if I say so myself, pretty damn talented at all of the above. So, with almost inevitable irony, my own profligacy and complete unteachability has led me to that self same fork in the road encountered by the Russian knight, and I have chosen, as I often tend to, to ride to the right and lose my head. Robert Frost will insist that I am in a yellow wood, but I’m not. I’m at my Mother’s house in an excruciatingly posh suburban town, hunched up in my sheetless bed, drinking coffee and waffling desperately on to a page that 99.9% of the world will never set eyes on. Nevertheless, my fork in the road has led me to this point, a 28 year old teacher who, after four years of deliberating, cogitating and digesting to a level that would surely make Lloyd Grossman vomit, has taken the plunge in to the realm of getting a “proper qualification” and “committing to a career”. Wouldn’t my Mother be proud? Well, maybe not, seeing as I just referred to her town as excruciatingly posh. Sorry Mum.
DELTA is hard. If you are blissfully unaware of this acronym, just stop reading. Seriously, shoo. You are time-wasting to a level that even I can not aspire to, and I currently have a pencil inserted somewhere unspeakable. Still here? Right. DELTA is hard. I have essentially bankrupted myself in order to spend eight weeks practising my profession for free, while a smattering of teaching oracles poke me to see if I bruise. Then, every evening, I have gone home and discovered that, contrary to popular belief, books do actually bite. To outsiders, I may appear to be going to extreme lengths to ensure that my own native language becomes a form of personal torture, but, given my afore-mentioned goldfish-sized attention span and the fact that this career is not financially rewarding until a level 7 qualification is achieved, the decision to cram a 9 month course in to 8 weeks as if I were a WAG stuffing my suitcase full of fake tan in preparation for 3 nights in Magaluf, is actually the correct one to have taken. What is more, and this part is almost as shocking to me as the appalling demise of “good music”, I appear to be nearing the end of the course unscathed, fulfilled, enlightened and unnervingly motivated. I have enjoyed the last four years of work immensely and am genuinely looking forward to a career in TEFL. What has happened to me? Am I becoming an adult? Am I shedding the pimpled skin of my youth, forever replacing it with the wizened skin of experience? Am I… a nerd? It was not always this way.
I didn’t so much as choose to become a teacher as I did fall in to it, and I didn’t so much fall in to it as I did stagger, sway and ultimately tumble in to it with my tongue hanging out and my trousers round my ankles. Inevitably, my CV reads more like a scrapbook than a logical and sensible progression, the kind of collaborative classroom presentation where it is painfully obvious that none of the collaborators actually agreed on anything, but they painstakingly completed the task because the teacher told them to. A call centre, a bank, a hospital and a warehouse walked in to two bars, and the barmen say “Seriously?” In one line, I can almost, but not quite, tell a joke about my CV pre-2008. I obviously found this extremely amusing. However, my Mother (there she is again) did not.
So, one fine morning, I nonchalantly tore open an envelope displaying her distinctive italic script and was taken aback to see inside not a Guardian article about the dangers of excessive drinking, but a clipping from the very same newspaper about the ever-expanding universe of something called TEFL. Obviously, I threw it straight in the bin and went to work. It was only later that something started niggling, gnawing, eating away at the back of my mind like a persistent and apocalyptically powerful nit. Desperately unfulfilled and completely devoid of ideas, I vowed to rescue the now screwed-up clipping from its unenviable resting place of a student bin and actually give it a bit of thought. One thing of which I could be entirely certain, is that, despite being full to overflowing, the contents of the bin would not have been even so much as glanced at.
Making decisions has never been a strong point. So, deeply dissatisfied by this seemingly inseparable link between human existence and agency, I was instantly gratified beyond belief after reading Luke Rhinehart’s “The Dice Man”. The concept of assigning potential decisions that tackle the entire spectrum of possibilities – from the sublime to the utterly ridiculous – to an arbitrary medium seemed to be a shining beacon of light that pierced the darkness I had always perceived as mind-numbing sensibility. Of course, presenting this idea to a group of already wayward students embodied the stock tagline of theatrical farce throughout the ages: “…with hilarious consequences”. Inebriation, idiocy and irresponsibility in equal and generous amounts had ensued (all above board of course, Mum) and now here I was, actually contemplating making a pivotal life decision. Ironically, there was only one option, and that was the option of not to opt. So, I scanned my bedroom, located a half-chewed biro from underneath a disturbingly discoloured tissue, and wrote the following:
1 – Take Mum’s advice: apply for the CELTA
2- Stick at this job
3- Quit this job TODAY
4- Apply to go back to University
5- Ask for old job back
6- Buy a plane ticket to a country that will be decided by a further dice roll
Lucky dice cupped in my right hand, I shook it in the kind of manner that could easily have been mistaken by a passing sign language expert, and let it drop on to my impressively stained carpet, bounce, tumble, deviate and eventually come to rest…
The rest is not, as Hamlet would say, silence, but simply inevitability.