For someone whose golden rule is, when writing these curiosities, ‘don’t mix work with pleasure’, I find myself dipping my toes more frequently into teaching waters with the passing years. During what seems like one of the longest terms of my career, for some unfathomable reason, we, on a five-minute respite, found ourselves back in the classroom in the 1980s as punters, as we discussed what we miss from teachers of yesteryear.
No doubt in 30 years’ time, my current charges will discuss me and my colleagues: “You remember that bald chap who wore those awful black crepes and laughed at his own jokes,” they may say. Well, that’s the hope: that we are remembered fondly once we are in career decline, and they hit their occupational peaks.
I used to have a French teacher who I didn’t think was very good. In fairness, neither was I, as my current linguistic Francois skills still amount to being able to tell a random Pierre my name, where I live, and to ask them to point me in the direction of the nearest boulangerie. This teacher looked like Neil from the Young…
