Read Online One for My Baby by Tony Parsons - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tony Parsons
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reminds me of a family from long ago, a family that I knew in my childhood, a family that somewhere along the way I have somehow got separated from.
five
What I like about teaching at Churchill’s International Language School is that my students are definitely not children. They are young men and women, mostly in their late teens and early twenties, although there are quite a few who are older, mature students who only made it to London after the collapse of a bad marriage in Seoul or after too many boring years in an office job in Tokyo or after repeatedly having their visa application turned down by some spiteful little penpusher at the British Embassy in Beijing or Lagos or Warsaw.
I like their optimism, their youth, the way their lives are not yet set in stone. And I admire their nerve, coming halfway round the world to master another language.
So why do they dislike me so much?
Sometimes my students turn up late. Sometimes they do not turn up at all. And if they make it to class, they yawn and stretch and struggle to stay awake.
I finally snap when one of them, a Chinese boy in broken glasses called Zeng, loses his heroic battle against sleep and nods off in the middle of my interesting talk on the present perfect.
“What is it with you lot?” I demand. “You don’t show up half the time. When you do show up you act as though you’ve been heavily sedated. Look at this guy. Dead to the world. Are my lessons really so boring? Come on. Let’s have it.”
They stare at me dumbfounded. One or two of them rub their eyes. Zeng begins to snore.
“Not at all,” says a Japanese girl at the front of the class. She is one of the new kind of Japanese girls – dyed blonde hair, heavy make-up and platform boots. She looks like one of the Glitter Band. “We like your lessons.” She glances around at the rest of the class. There are a few nods of assent. “Present perfect? Present perfect continuous?” She smiles at me and I remember her name. Yumi. “Very nice indeed.” She nods.
“Then why don’t you turn up? Why is this guy out for the count? Why is everyone on the verge of total collapse?”
“Please,” says a tall, thin Pole who has to be the same age as me. Witold. It took him about ten years before they ticked his card at the British Embassy in Warsaw. “Zeng is very – how to say? – knackered.”
“He works every night,” says the good-looking Pakistani kid sitting next to Zeng. Imran. He gives Zeng a shake. “Wake up. The teacher is talking to you.”
Zeng grunts, opens his eyes, wonders what planet he is on.
“You work, don’t you, Zeng?” says Yumi.
Zeng nods. “General Lee’s Tasty Tennessee Kitchen. The one on Leicester Square. Very popular. Very busy.”
“That’s no excuse,” I say. “I don’t care if you’ve got some little part-time job. You should stay awake in my lessons. Falling asleep is rude.”
“Not such a little job,” says Imran.
“Work until three in morning,” says Zeng. “ Do you want fries with that? Anything to drink? You want the General’s Happy Meal special? Toilets only for customer use. ” He shakes his head. “Wah,” he says.
“It’s not insult for you,” says Imran. “London so expensive. He has to work too hard. We all do.”
“I don’t work,” says a young French woman. There are only a couple of French at Churchill’s. She sniffs the air disdainfully. Vanessa. “But the rest of them have to, I suppose.”
“I work in Pampas Steak Bar,” says Witold. “A bad place. Many drunks. Call me bloody Argie. What’s it like to lose a war, Argie? Hands off the Falklands, Argie, okay? Hey, Argie – you like shagging sheep? You keep your filthy hands off those British sheep, Argie . I tell them I am Polish and they say they will smash my face in, wherever I come from.”
“Very English, no?” laughs Vanessa. “Swear and fight and eat bad food. A good night out for the English.”
“I work in Funky Sushi,” says a Japanese
five
What I like about teaching at Churchill’s International Language School is that my students are definitely not children. They are young men and women, mostly in their late teens and early twenties, although there are quite a few who are older, mature students who only made it to London after the collapse of a bad marriage in Seoul or after too many boring years in an office job in Tokyo or after repeatedly having their visa application turned down by some spiteful little penpusher at the British Embassy in Beijing or Lagos or Warsaw.
I like their optimism, their youth, the way their lives are not yet set in stone. And I admire their nerve, coming halfway round the world to master another language.
So why do they dislike me so much?
Sometimes my students turn up late. Sometimes they do not turn up at all. And if they make it to class, they yawn and stretch and struggle to stay awake.
I finally snap when one of them, a Chinese boy in broken glasses called Zeng, loses his heroic battle against sleep and nods off in the middle of my interesting talk on the present perfect.
“What is it with you lot?” I demand. “You don’t show up half the time. When you do show up you act as though you’ve been heavily sedated. Look at this guy. Dead to the world. Are my lessons really so boring? Come on. Let’s have it.”
They stare at me dumbfounded. One or two of them rub their eyes. Zeng begins to snore.
“Not at all,” says a Japanese girl at the front of the class. She is one of the new kind of Japanese girls – dyed blonde hair, heavy make-up and platform boots. She looks like one of the Glitter Band. “We like your lessons.” She glances around at the rest of the class. There are a few nods of assent. “Present perfect? Present perfect continuous?” She smiles at me and I remember her name. Yumi. “Very nice indeed.” She nods.
“Then why don’t you turn up? Why is this guy out for the count? Why is everyone on the verge of total collapse?”
“Please,” says a tall, thin Pole who has to be the same age as me. Witold. It took him about ten years before they ticked his card at the British Embassy in Warsaw. “Zeng is very – how to say? – knackered.”
“He works every night,” says the good-looking Pakistani kid sitting next to Zeng. Imran. He gives Zeng a shake. “Wake up. The teacher is talking to you.”
Zeng grunts, opens his eyes, wonders what planet he is on.
“You work, don’t you, Zeng?” says Yumi.
Zeng nods. “General Lee’s Tasty Tennessee Kitchen. The one on Leicester Square. Very popular. Very busy.”
“That’s no excuse,” I say. “I don’t care if you’ve got some little part-time job. You should stay awake in my lessons. Falling asleep is rude.”
“Not such a little job,” says Imran.
“Work until three in morning,” says Zeng. “ Do you want fries with that? Anything to drink? You want the General’s Happy Meal special? Toilets only for customer use. ” He shakes his head. “Wah,” he says.
“It’s not insult for you,” says Imran. “London so expensive. He has to work too hard. We all do.”
“I don’t work,” says a young French woman. There are only a couple of French at Churchill’s. She sniffs the air disdainfully. Vanessa. “But the rest of them have to, I suppose.”
“I work in Pampas Steak Bar,” says Witold. “A bad place. Many drunks. Call me bloody Argie. What’s it like to lose a war, Argie? Hands off the Falklands, Argie, okay? Hey, Argie – you like shagging sheep? You keep your filthy hands off those British sheep, Argie . I tell them I am Polish and they say they will smash my face in, wherever I come from.”
“Very English, no?” laughs Vanessa. “Swear and fight and eat bad food. A good night out for the English.”
“I work in Funky Sushi,” says a Japanese
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