I was eating a ham salad in the staff room yesterday for lunch. Or so I thought. I buy these salad pots for lunch from Carrefour where they have, not just the three or four you can buy in Tesco or Sainsbury, but forty, maybe more. I’ve had prawn pasta salad, Surimi salad, cous cous salad, beef salad, olive salad, turkey salad, coleslaw salad, and egg salad. Continue reading “5 – Salad Pot”
When I start teaching a new set of students I write a few individual words on the board relating to my life; the idea being that they have to guess the question to the answer. It’s a nice GET TO KNOW YOU GAME (GTKG) to break the ice. In teaching books it’s called The Ice Breaker! I scrawl on the board in my spidery handwriting words like Bristol (Where are you from?); 23 (How old are you?); Leeds Utd (What’s your favourite football team). Admittedly, we’re talking trivial stuff, but one of my answers is OGLEY and it’s always the one nobody gets. I’m either a town, an English dish, the name of my son, or a drink. When I tell them it’s my name we all have a laugh. For about a second. Continue reading “4 – TEFL again”
I have developed a serious addiction to Cordon Bleu De Dinde. A highly processed turkey escalope filled with reformed ham and undisclosed generic cheese. It’s basically a French Chicken Kiev – but flatter. I’m not a fan of this kind of food, but for some strange reason, served with a can of lentils or green beans, they taste great and I’m struggling to give them up. Each day I wander out to buy food and each day I arrive back with a packet of the damn things. Although, I did try something different the other day that was like a pork pie but without the pie. I can’t remember what it was called but for some reason it didn’t agree with me, which is unusual as I eat virtually anything. I hope it wasn’t dog food. Continue reading “3 – Cordon Bleu De Dinde”
The four walls I live in serve the purpose of allowing me to shower, cook and sleep for however many months, years, or decades I choose to stay in France. Moving is not an option. Mining my way through the nightmarish French housing bureaucracy in order to secure this tiniest of places, had me gasping for air. The file I had to give to the landlord was the width of a doctorate’s thesis, complete with contents and appendix. You could piece together my entire life history from the information I had to give them. They even wanted half a finger as a guarantee. ‘We’ll freeze it and when you leave, we’ll give you it back.’ Continue reading “2 – Lyon Flats”
I’m in Lyon teaching English. It’s a job I didn’t really want, but ended up doing all the same. I live in Guillotiere, a heady mix of Arabs, Africans, Vietnamese, Chinese and me, crammed into a couple of blocks south of the Rhône. At the moment I’m standing in my tiny third floor apartment looking at some Senegalese kids watching a football match on TV through the window of the bar opposite. I like it here.
The city itself is built on the Rhône and the Saône rivers that join each other 1km from where I’m standing looking out of the window. The peninsular they form is imaginatively called The Peninsular and forms the area known as the city centre. But it’s mainly just fancy shops and restaurants. The real city is south of the river where I live. Run down shops, cheap bars, stinking drains and cars left haphazardly in the streets as though someone had shouted BOMB at the moment of parking.
As a young man, I’d have been nervous living in this part of town. But I’m older now and bolder, so we’ll see what happens over the next few months, maybe years…I’ll keep you posted.