Ah, diddums!

Today's Guardian has an article on poor, middle class Brits who moved to rural France when the pound was high but now have trouble making ends meet. Apparently some of the poor dears will have to move back to where they came from (Immigrants! Immigrants! Where's the lynch mob? - sorry, wrong newspaper!), as the current exchange rate makes France more expensive to the tourists they catered for, though there's no mention of the fact that when they sell up, the same exchange rate will get them far more pounds than they would have earned six months ago. Interesting, too, that nearly all the article is devoted to whining Brits, and only the last two paragraphs quote someone French.

I've very little sympathy, to be honest. These people have been pricing locals out of the housing market for years; now the party's over and maybe that's not entirely a bad thing, especially since so many of these properties were second homes and only occupied for part of the year anyway. It's the locals with nowhere else to go when their businesses suffer who I feel sorry for.

But it's an ill wind, as they say. Mme la prof and I plan to take full advantage of the 1:1 (almost, at the time of writing) exchange rate when we pop over for Christmas. I see it as us doing our bit to prop up the British economy (and no, we're not buying a run down cottage in the Scottish Highland - we want to spend out holidays somewhere warm!). Maybe the Guardian would like to interview me....

BBC gets it wrong about France

It seems the BBC has now joined the tabloid competition to see who can make the most fun of the French with this smug piece about "heavy legs", which is supposed to prove that France is a nation of pill-popping hypochondriacs, as opposed to the hardy Brits who just grin and bear it. Strange, then, that whenever I sat in a GP's waiting room in the UK, I would see a big poster saying "Antibiotics don't work on colds", though just why stiff upper lip, "mustn't grumble" English types would need such information escapes me. Maybe it was in case any French people walked through the door. Ho hum.

Madame le Prof explained to me that what the French call "jambes lourdes" is, in fact, the early stages of varicose veins, which explains why some people only feel it in the summer. You'd think a BBC journalist in France would have bothered to find this stuff out before sending a report back to her editor. It's true that the French have a reputation for consuming lots of medicines, but she could at least have done a serious piece on it rather than this hatchet job.

For once there's no form at the bottom for me to "have my say" and put them straight on this one, which is ironic considering the morons who the BBC usually allow to broadcast their vile, reactionary, ill-informed and, erm, idosyncratically spelled rants to the world via HYS. At least I no longer pay a TV licence.

The Great Red Spot

A couple of weeks ago, an email went around the department saying that they had just bought a stack of laser pointers that we could use. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I immediately snapped one up.  It's great for pointing out stuff on the board while standing by the student who you want to answer a question ("What's the tense?" while pointing out the -ing ending, for example, eliciting the response "Er, passé?").

Now I've discovered an even better use for it. Now, any student trying to surreptitiously text a mate or or do the sudoku¹ will suddenly find their phone or paper illuminated by a red spot, as if an assassin was about to shoot it out of their hands. It's amazing how quickly they put their toys away, and I don't even need to say anything.

I wish I'd had one for school last year.



¹ These free papers have a lot to answer for. Students never used to turn up with newspapers back in the days when they actually had to pay for them.

Lookalikes

Today a student told me I looked like Paul Scholes.

Absolute rubbish.


I mean, I wouldn't be seen dead in a Man Utd shirt.

M. le prof

Paul Scholes


And, yes, I know I've been silent for the last 2 months. More to come, I promise....

Edit: Thanks to Mme le Prof for pointing out this page wasn't working in Internet Explorer. If you didn't see the picture of the man in red, you might want to install a decent browser like Opera or Firefox

A black and white issue

The rooms I teach in are split 50:50 between blackboards and whiteboards, and I'm really not sure which I prefer. So here are some of the pros and cons, feel free to add any I haven't thought of:

Blackboards:

For:
White writing on a dark background is probably easier on the eye.
Chalks don't slowly run out; you don't end up with a bag full of chalks that work for five minutes if you store them vertically for long enough.
You can shut everyone up by dragging your nails down the board.

Against:
Dark clothes quickly lighten up (on the other hand, you can annoy goth students by making them write on the board)
Your hands get all chalky.
Chalk dust up the nose leads to dry, crusty bogies all day.

Whiteboards:

For:
Clear, contrasting colours. I always use a different colour for phonetic transcriptions, for example.
You can use the board as an OHP or PowerPoint screen and write stuff on top (though check it isn't reflecting right back into the students' eyes)
The pens get you high (can anyone recommend a brand?)

Against:
The pens slowly run out.
Some kid will always get a pen of their own and write rude words on the board.
Said kid will always use a permanent marker so you have to sand blast the board before you can use it again.


So, as you can see, it's pretty even at the moment. Interactive whiteboards are fun until the computer freezes and you have to call out the IT bod for the fifth time that week....

So, any teachers want to add any more arguments either way?

Edit: Madame le Prof has reminded me that non-techie teachers have been known to ruin an interactive whiteboard by writing on it....

Divine intervention?

You may be aware that the Pope has taken up our twice-divorced President's invitation to visit the country. It was nice to see him shaking hands with the pregnant-out-of-wedlock Justice Minister and the openly gay Mayor of Paris.

Pity the big guy upstairs responded by sending floods and setting fire to the Channel Tunnel.

This is a serious test of my lack of faith.

C'est la rentrée

Today I started my new job teaching Business English to first and second year university students. No classes yet, this was just meetings and telling students what to expect. I also got to see my office for the first time - I get my own room with desk, PC, filing cabinets and the previous occupant left and old portable CD player. Woo! Now all I need is a kettle and a chilled drinks cabinet.

Anyway, before you all go "you lucky b*st*rd, you're teaching motivated adults", a quick word about the French higher education system:

There are three types of institution you can go to:

1) The elite "Grands Écoles", which are very selective. You have to spend two years doing Classes Préparatoires aux Grandes Écoles before sitting a competitive exam to get in. If you pass, you get in, if not you can join the third year of a degree course.

2) The Institut universitaire de technologie or IUT. They are also selective and offer two-year professional courses. After the two years, students can do an extra year to "top up" their diploma to a degree.

3) If you can't get into either of the first two, there's always university. If you have a Bac, even if it's not in a related discipline, you can still get in; it's not selective but the drop out rate in the first year is so high that the end of year exams are effectively selection. It's very much the poor relation of HE.

Guess which one I work for....

Anyway, I can't really complain as although the students may not always be the the most bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, it's an improvement on surly teenagers and the holidays are even longer. And I shouldn't get things thrown at me.

Ready to go

Following on from my vivent les vacances post about six weeks ago, I can safely report I got through steps 1-3 pretty smoothly, except for building the flatpack wardrobe. It's huge, made of MDF and weighs a ton; I'm sure MDF is made from the cores of neutron stars. Ever wondered why you never see HDF? It's because it collapses under its own weight into a singularity before they can make anything out of it.

Anyway, with the new school year just over a week away, the annual moan about the cost of sending kids to school is beginning in earnest. Even though the government does make extra money available, there's always someone who says it isn't enough, and the news always pick up on the "cost" of la rentrée as though parents needed to buy a whole new set of things every year. I hate to sound like an old fart, but in my day I had the same set of rulers, calculators and stuff for all the time I was in secondary school; I didn't need a new pencil case and schoolbag every September. They even include the cost of new clothes, which I could understand if French state schools had uniforms, but they don't (even then, when I was at school you got a blazer several sizes too big when you started secondary, it just about fitted when you were 13 or 14 and only just covered your elbows by the time you sat O-Levels) and it's hardly an extra cost, unless the kids would run around naked and barefoot if they didn't have to send them to school.

OK, I'm being a bit frivolous, and I'm sure there are plenty of families who really do need extra help. I can particularly see the sense in extra help for students in vocational colleges, as they often need to buy specialist gear even though they often come from the poorest families (as in most countries, French middle class families consider learning a trade at 16 to be for other people's children). But it's still got to be cheaper then giving up work and home schooling the little darlings.

Drama at the Tour de France

In a dramatic development today at the Tour de France, nobody failed a drugs test.

A sense of entitlement

I am now officially a professeur titulaire! The results of the evaluation my placement year were posted on the internet yesterday.

Not that I was that worried given the favourable inspection report and so on, but I can now say I'm qualified to teach in the French system. But since Monsieur le Professeur Néotitulaire d'Anglais is a bit of a mouthful, I'll stick to being MLP for the time being.

Apologies for the awful quality of the screenshot; click on it for the high quality version.!

Vivent les vacances

Last week was the end of year staff meeting and meal, so now I'm officially on holiday until September. I keep being asked what I'm going to do for the next couple of months; the plan, in no particular order, is:

1) Get married. Yes, I'm making an honest woman of Mme le Prof, or she's making an honest man of me, I'm not sure which. Not that there was anything particularly dishonest about what we were doing before, of course. Still, it makes a good knees up and we might get a few presents out of it, which will come in handy for (2) and (3).

2) Move flats. I'm about to become a real Parisian, not just a suburbunite. Wooo!

3) Find and build furniture. The new flat is unfurnished, so I eagerly anticipate spending much of August building flatpack wardrobes. What fun.

4) Start new job. I've found a job teaching Business English to university students, which should be safer though probably less fun to blog about. We'll see in the autumn anyway.

So that's probably it from me this summer. The whole country pretty much closes down over the summer months, so I'll be back in September. In the meantime, have some classic Alice Cooper:

La bon pro-non-see-a-see-on

There was an interesting article on Language Log today about phrasebook pronunciation; that is, the transcriptions that are supposed to help tourists say the phrases correctly. If you know French, try to work out what these are supposed to be:

poo-vay-voo muh deer kawN zhuh dwah deh-sawN-druh
oo ay lah stah-seeyoN duh may-troh
zher per trons-por-tay ma vwa-tewr sewr ser ba-to
pwee zha-vwar ewn a-vons der kray-dee
oo sawng lay areh der kar
kawnbyang der tahng dewr ler vwahyazh?

Now check:
Language Log » Phrasebook pronunciation, or, kawnbyang der tahng dewr ler vwahyazh

Of course, the main problem with phrasebooks is that even if you can make yourself understood, you probably won't understand the answer. I've always made a point of getting some books and tapes from the local library and learning a few phrases at least a month before going on holiday. Nobody expects tourists to be fluent but they usually appreciate some effort.

Paying to hit the pupils

Back in February I blogged about a teacher who was in the news for slapping a pupil. His trial was today and he's been fined 800 euros for "aggravated violence". The maximum sentence is 75,000 euros and 5 years, so I suppose he got off fairly lightly.

The judges noted that he was an experienced teacher and the pupil wasn't a fully-grown 18 year old in a difficult area, which I suppose is a fair point. The article doesn't mention if the judges had anything to say about the father's reaction; you may remember that the kid's father was a gendarme and had the teacher arrested and held for 24 hours, which was probably a bit excessive. You'd think a policeman would understand what it's like to take abuse from members of the public who don't expect any comeback, but apparently not.

I also find myself wondering how much I'd be prepared to pay to slap some of my little darlings. 800 euros is a bit on the pricey side; two of those and you've got the price of a fortnight's holiday abroad, but would that be as satisfying?

School's out

The last lessons were today. Rather than tell you about it, I'll let this rather good picture by Ronald Searle paint 1000 words. OK, so they weren't wearing uniforms and the teachers don't have canes any more, but you get the idea.

It's taken from the excellent Molesworth series from the 1950s and still available from all good bookshops!
I hope this plug will get me around copyright restrictions, but I'll take the image down on request

Sloths, lemmings and sperm

Today I got a note from a parent who wanted to know why her son had such a poor grade in English this year when he'd done well in the subject before. The accurate response would have been something like:

Since your son and the girl in the row in front decided that they were destined for each other, they have become as motivated by schoolwork as a couple of sloths on valium. She has enough natural talent in the subject to see her through; unfortunately, your son does not, with the entirely predictable result that his grade has plummeted faster than a lemming strapped to an anvil. Frankly, it's a miracle that the sperm that conceived him managed to reach the egg, never mind develop into something that could be arsed to leave your womb.

Of course, the actual response was something along the lines of He has great potential and is capable of getting excellent results in the subject.

Clin d'œil, clin d'œil, coup de coude, coup de coude!

The BBC seems to think the most newsworthy aspect of President Bush's visit to France is that he thinks Sarko's wife is a bit of alright. I wonder how his interpreters translated that?
"Votre femme? Est-ce qu'elle va? Vous savez ce que je veux dire? Ne dites plus!"¹

At least he got his history right, finally remembering French support for the American Revolution (which he seemed to have forgotten around springtime 2003). But the fact that he considers him "interesting" and "full of wisdom" probably says more about the US president than his French counterpart.



1. If you have no idea what I'm talking about:

RIP old friend

Last weekend my watch finally gave up the ghost after 21 years. It was a birthday present when I was still doing my A-levels, so it's been with me all my adult life. I had it through university, it came with me to every country I've ever visited, it just survived being pogoed on during a Dread Zeppelin concert in Edinburgh when it was only five years old, and a former girlfriend was forever telling me to replace it - over ten years ago.

I can't think of anything else I possess that goes back that far. I have a bundle of cassettes that follow me from house to house, but I never listen to them, and all my old books and Viz annuals are still at my parents. So replacing it is a serious break from the past; it's almost like replacing a finger. I keep checking the time and seeing the wrong watch on my wrist.

If the new one lasts as long, my next watch will probably be a retirement present. But I doubt they make them like they used to.

Summertime blues

With the summer holidays less than a month away, the conseils de classe season is entering full swing. For the uninitiated, a conseil de classe (literally "class council") is where all the teachers of one group of kids gets together along with the principal (or deputy), pupil and parent representatives. Each pupil is then discussed in turn, and we decide collectively who moves up to the next year and who has to repeat. For a class of 28 kids, this takes a while. And I have to do this for each class I teach.

But before the conseil, the teachers meet up for a preconseil ("pre-council", "coucil of war" or "meeting-about-the-meeting" depending on your preferred translation). And all this on top of our normal teaching load plus end of year marking as all reports need to be done in time for the conseil.

Of course, there are still classes after the conseil, but the kids are well aware that the decisions have already been taken so our ability to threaten them is severely diminished. So sense of impunity on their part collide head on with the tiredness on ours, with fun consequences for all.

But all anyone outside the profession ever notices is the long holidays. Let's see them survive the job without a long summer break.

The return of the pink bunting

My town is decked out in bloody pink bunting again, like it was in February. Unfortunately it's still not being used to string up the mayor from a lamp post. It's to remind us of Mother's day, just in case we hadn't noticed the ads in the shop windows.

*sigh*

Cheese!

One of the great things about living in France is the food, so when a colleague gave me two free tickets to the Salon Saveurs des Plaisirs Gourmands last week, I jumped at it. We ended up spending far too much on saucisson and, of course, cheese. Lots and lots of cheese.

One stall had years-old cheeses that Mme le Prof said looked like they'd been dug up by archaeologists in Pompeii. Still, the one we got was very nice, if a bit strong. I may miss English sausages, but I'd miss French cheese more if I ever moved back.