Teacher, Teacher

Not a popular point of view: being a teacher is great fun. But then, I've always been quite the contrary one.

I've had all sorts of great times leading classes here. In a few short months I've collected some priceless anecdotes. A modern-day Joyce Grenfell I ain't, but I've had my fare share of laughs. The good outweighs the bad, for sure.

I taught a class of 4 year old kids not long ago. One lad had an in-no-way-homoerotic obsession with soldiers. My first two days were spent with him calling me a soldier, and me thinking I'd finally perfected a tough disciplinarian air. I later twigged that it was my camouflage backpack that had him fooled. Disappointing.

Later, he took to interrupting my lessons by busting out 10 push-ups, or a load of squats. I assumed he had a family member in the military but, when I asked him, he told me that he watches videos of soldiers working out on YouTube. Bless.

I did an adult conversation activity on childhood, briefly mentioning that I had an imaginary friend when young. Most of the audience looked completely dumbfounded. One girl mentioned that most serial killers have imaginary friends when young. Try arguing your way out of that in front of 15 students. Awkward.

My favourite recent class has been with two 10 year old lads. They're going through that classic pre-pubescent phase of being obsessed with the word “poo”. They wrote me the following story (I promise I had no hand in it):

“Once upon a time there was a poo called Kung Fu.

He lived in home.

He lived with Michael Jackson, Barack Obama, Colonel Gaddafi and Bin Laden.

One day they went to the supermarket.

When they were there, they met Captain Jack Sparrow and Hellow Kitty. And they all played the Angry Birds.

And then, at the end of the day, they all play in the bathroom and eat the poo and all died.

The end.”

Granted, the grammar could do with some work, but there's an off the wall sense of humour there that would get them a scriptwriting deal with BBC3.

So here's a message for all you bellyaching pedagogues – quit whining. Granted, there's the tiresome prep time, the disorganised schools and uncontrollable pupils, but there's also that rarefied job satisfaction. I mean, in what other job can you be paid a reasonable wage for laughing at two 10-year-old scat fetishists?

Adaptation

Humans adapt. That's what we're best at. Today's exciting and new is tomorrow's grey and moribund. Even tragically shit things become tolerable if they are drip fed to us over a long enough period. That's why Armageddon will be met not with mass hysteria, but a swathe of tuts and grumbles, as we slide slowly into the abyss.

In Taiwan, my adaptation has led me to become less impressed by the charming, the wacky and the downright bonkers. And it's lamentable. Not least because it makes writing this blog harder. So this post's for all the little things. All those lovely little Taiwanese happenings. For getting treated like a King – and taking it for granted like a spoilt little Prince.

This one's for the bus driver who stopped outside my house – not an official stop – and made me feel like Tyler Durden in Fight Club.

And it's for the countless 7-Eleven workers, restaurant staff, co-workers, and builders who tell me that I'm handsome (yes, I said builders. They shouted “handsome guy” at me. Things are different here).

It's for the grandmas on the fruit and veg stalls who always give me free samples. And the aunties in the canteen restaurants who give me extra-large portions for cheap.

And this one goes out to the lady in Carrefour supermarket, who tried to convince Jen that she should marry me, on the grounds that she won't do any better. Simultaneously complimentary and abusive.

This post's also for our landlady, who thought she'd seen me and Jon around her neighbourhood before. And when we mentioned that we were new in town, rendering that impossible, she pointed out that all Westerners look ostensibly the same anyway, because we all have massive heads.

It's for the competitive dad. The one who asked if his son Felix could join in with our kick-about in the park, and then filmed the whole thing on his video camera – while shouting at Felix in the manner of a desperate football manger.

And I wouldn't want to forget my trip to an old fortress in Danshui. The rattly old geezer who was a volunteer in the museum hung off my every word, as if I were Simon Schama, asking me questions about Victorian history and taking photos of me for his own collection.

And, last but not least, the guy outside the supermarket last week who looked less mental than his actions suggested. He stood to attention and saluted me. Twice. A gesture of respect which I do not really deserve and, instead, would like to offer to every wonderful Taiwanese person on this island.

God bless Isla Formosa.