Vandals, Verbal abuse and Vomit.

I hope you're sitting comfortably, as I shall now begin.

Well, bloody hell, what a week it has been.Yet somehow it is only Wednesday. As those of you who have me as a friend/involuntary stalkee on Facebook will know, I had a highly eventful Monday morning. For those of you for whom Facebook is too mainstream or who have many secrets to hide from future employers, (both the former and the latter are directed at one person who is not too difficult to identify) I shall elaborate.

Note: this blog does not endorse camels.

Picture the scene - it is a cold, blustery Monday morning, and the smell of board markers, adolescent sweat and industrial disinfectant linger in the air. A group of 11 children are seated in Salle B055 (yep, that's right, Salle Boss) hanging on to my every word with a keen sense of enthusiasm and curiosity heretofore reserved only for pupils of Robin Williams and the ubiquitous "cat" (and look what happened to him.) Actually, apart from the room name and the number of pupils, most of that is a lie. They were sitting around, chatting, swearing and pawing at each other in a truly desperate manner that only 15 year olds seem to be able to achieve. There was one, however, who was being particularly noxious; hurling stationary around, shouting seemingly incoherent sentences and, most distressingly of all, ATTEMPTING TO DEFACE MY UNION JACK. #treason.

If only.

At first, I took this simply as a high spirited youngster channeling his energy in the classroom. I then noticed his inability to focus his eyes. Then he called me a whore and lobbed a pen at my head. It became clear that he was in fact, massively drunk/hammered/smashed/pissed/twatted and also high as a metaphorical kite. As were, I think understandably, my anger levels.

Feel lucky, punk?

I scampered off with my tail between my legs in an attempt to find someone with more authority and experience of abusive children and returned, triumphant, with the Head of the English Dept with vision of reprimands and retribution. However, I was brought back to earth with a very nearly a literal bump as I skidded across the laminate flooring through a pool of unnervingly verdant vomit. Yes. In my absence, this beast had actually thrown up in my classroom. This was, to be fair quite understandably, a source of much hilarity and hysteria amongst the other pupils who were steadfastly not helping. The child in question was ushered from the room looking satisfyingly queasy whist I was left to literally mop up the aftermath. 

The latest addition to my classroom's wall.

Despite my rising aggression/depression/bile/tears, I couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for this kid. He is ELEVEN. Eleven years old. He is 2 years away from being a teenager, 7 years away from being able to legally drink and about a million years away from becoming a functioning member of society. If at 8am on a Monday morning he is in that state, what the hell must his home life be like? At the risk of getting deeper than the vomit I was standing in, it really does make you appreciate a) how amazing school was b) how unscandalous it actually was when ONE sixth former did drugs about ONCE (or even, for those who remember, Broomstickgate) c) how absolutely brill my family and home are. Even they wouldn't let me get drunk at 8am on a Monday. Unless it was a birthday. Or Christmas. Okay, or maybe if there was a really good rugby match on. 

Preach it sister.

So, vomiting minors aside, it has been an enjoyable week. I'm getting to take lessons on my own now, and feel/really, really, really hope that I've got my worst experience out of the way so am getting more confident and feel infinitely more comfortable telling them to face the front, take out chewing gum, stop snapchatting or taking "surreptitious" photos of girls' boobs. Nice to know boys are the same worldwide.

You know it.

To jump from cockerel to rooster (a translation of an absolute corker of a phrase I've just learned, which means to jump from one topic to another), we've had tonnes of snow today. My flat is at the very top of Lyon's tallest hill so we've had more than anywhere. I had a wonderful "We're not in the UK anymore, Dorothy" moment when I left to go to work and all public transport was on time and fully functioning. Moreover, everyone just got on with their daily business instead of moaning about their being too much/not enough grit, the price of heating and the state of the country "nowadays." Also the French are much more practical about the cold when it comes to clothing. They wear proper coats, sensible, sturdy shoes and hats. They do not wear Uggs, slip over on their arses and prance around in fashionable yet entirely impractical winter-y print leggings. A winter-y print does not, in any way, have a positive correlation with warmth.

Neither coat or discernible fancy dress theme.

So, once again, I sincerely hope that you enjoy this small insight into my time over here, vomit filled as it may have been. If any of you are having a bad day, essay crisis, been dumped or such like, just reassure yourselves with the fact that you probably won't be mopping up an 11 year old's puke anytime soon. Unless you've got kids. In which case, it's your own fault.

It's your own time you're wasting.

Bonjour once again all of my wonderful friends and or/facebook acquaintances. Oh how much has passed since we last spoke. We'll start from the top.

The Boomtown Rats once pondered the age old question regarding peoples' dislike of the first day of the week. Okay, so of course I should count my lucky stars that nobody got shot at school, but Christ alive I came close to doing so. (If any of my employers are reading this, I am obviously totally joking. The only thing I've ever shot is a cow in the leg by a total accident. Pretty much.) I had lovingly and painstakingly prepared what I evidently mistakenly thought was an engaging and fun presentation filled with pictures, interactive activities, references to French rappers and so on and so forth. Oh how wrong I was.

There is only so long I can smile for when faced with a classroom full or recalcitrant delinquents. I tried, Lord knows I tried, but after asking about 20 questions in a row with no answer straying from the apparently obligatory Gallic shrug, I did what I swore I never would. I became my own teachers. "It's your own time you're wasting you know. I don't have to be here doing this - do you think I wanted to spend my free time preparing this for you? Would you rather we went back to the grammar sheets?" Not to be a woman of empty threats, that is exactly what we did. Some mind-numbing, soul-crushing work on the preterite tense. Their sullen faces upon leaving the classroom filled me with a joy that suggested teaching may not be my calling after all.

Fortunately I will not meet these delightful specimens for another week now, as this Monday was a bank holiday (you know, just in case the week for All Saints didn't quite suffice.) There is no minute's silence here in France, but the buses and trams all sported rather jaunty Tricolores. It is a day dedicated less to the military as such, and centered more on the celebration of the history of France and ALL of those who have helped to build it. Except their (ex) royal family. Funnily enough, they don't really get much of a mention. 

So, after a two week holiday, a national holiday and a bank holiday, I was ready for a hard week's work at school. Except Wednesdays which I have off. Oh yeah and the strike on Friday. And the "pre-strike" day off on Thursday, just to ease yourself gently in to a richly deserved four day weekend. Zut alors. I thought this attitude to work was nicely demonstrated by a pharmacy I found in the centre of town. The sign on the door proudly claims to be 24/7. The small print underneath reads "except Sundays, bank holidays, and 12-1 each working day." I'll try really hard not to feel ill during precious lunchtime then.

I am still wrestling with the infamous French bureaucracy. Still. I opened a bank account THREE WEEKS AGO and the card is still "being processed." The employees of BNP Paribas Bellecour (still feels odd and ultimately deeply unpleasant saying I'm with BNP) are becoming familiar faces and ever less welcoming. I do enjoy a good argument in French, or even, as happened the other day, in an intriguing trilingual exchange in which I acted as an interpreter for two bemused young Spanish girls who spoke no French and were desperately trying to explain that they needed to open their bank account immediately or risk being chucked out of their flat. Nothing warms the cockles like a deep sense of self-satisfaction.

Alas, it has not all been high-brow intellectual shrugging and cultivating a hatred of children. I have also been pretending to be a normal person and have friends round for Coline and I's flatwarming. I am glad to report that it was almost identical to any housewarming party I've attended in the UK. Except people brought salad. And quiches. And pies. TO A PARTY. The only useful thing I've ever brought to a party is a bottle of vodka and a set of highly questionable morals. 

It was absolutely brilliant fun though. It really did - lame as it sounds - make our flat feel like our own place. I spoke French all night (or at least some version of it), danced in/on the bath, commandeered the sound system in a way that can only be described as Napoleonic (got my Coolio onnnn) and drank nigh on an entire box of wine. I think we can declare a the party an immense success.

The day after, as is my wont, I leant on my trusty and mercifully international friend Dominos. I ordered the usual, but when it came to the drink choice, I was torn. I was hungover in a way only a hardened Scot can be, but THEY DELIVER WINE. Could I really pass up the opportunity to have alcohol literally brought to me on a platter in my own room? Obviously not. I sucked it up and got that damn Macon Villages. Darn tasty it was too. 

So there we have it my friends - another week (roughly) in my life. A week spent drinking wine, berating the laziness of the French, and hating children. Remind me why I moved all the way to Lyon again?

Bonsoir

X

Return Triumphant

Now, as some of you may be aware, last week I was shipped back to Blighty. Mercifully, in this modern world, I was excused shooting myself in the foot and even shoving two pencils up my nose and saying "Wibble."

That is not to say, however, that I managed to escape entirely unscathed. Firstly, there was the monumental hangover that dogged my very existence that day after having booked the flights. Yes, I fell victim to Wine Wallet. (Stop trying to make Fetch happen. It is not going to happen.) After an exultant evening of pub quizzing and drunk on victory (along with four gin and tonics, half a bottle of champagne and god knows how many glasses of shit white wine) I forgot myself and booked flights home. Thank god EasyJet doesn't do first class.

When the hangover had subsided, I decided to take myself in hand and rationalise the situation. So I have 2 weeks off from school - what else was I going to do? I could travel around Europe with gay abandon, backpacking and hitch-hiking whilst simultaneously maintaining a good level of personal hygiene/safety. Or not. Given my aversion to camping in my own back garden, something told me that hostel life was just not for me. 

Besides, by the time I've added up travel costs, food costs, wine costs, bribes to dodgy European policemen etc, it would actually be the more expensive option. Probably... so off I merrily trotted at 3am to Lyon St Exupery, complete with backpack. Less a nod to my other holiday options, more a sod off to EasyJet's £40 check in baggage charge. Tight bastards.

Only three people knew of my impending arrival, (quickly given the title of Operation Caledonia)the three being my sister and two of my best friends. Oxford, as anyone who has indulged in a spot of light post-crewdate dalliance knows, is a nightmare for bumping in to people whom you have absolutely no desire to see (perhaps ever.) I was therefore proud of myself for managing to make it from the Grand Cafe to Corpus, a distance of roughly 500m, without being rumbled. I then liaised with the Operation Coordinator over a good, British lunch of sausage and mash and we discussed hiding places. After much heated debate, we settled on...the bathroom. 

We waited until The Man Himself knocked on the door, I panicked, knocked over a chess set, and hid in the bathroom as planned. I then leaped dramatically from said bathroom and nearly inspired a heart attack. All very Moliere, I felt. Job done. The cat out of the bag, it was on to evening entertainment which ended with me vomiting in to a bush on Woodstock Road. And they say that your year abroad changes you.

So, back in Oxford I of course did all of the touristy things I hadn't done before and was generally productive. Oh wait, I sat, watched Peep Show and read Hello magazine (Prince George Christening Special!!). All of which I have been doing with aplomb in France.... oops. I did however manage to see my wonderful little friendlets, go to the Motherland (Camera), have many an Ahmed's, win a ticket to the JewSoc ball and not do any work. It felt like last year had never ended. I also got to surprise my Mum outside Selfridge's and make her cry on Oxford Street. An excellent trip all round.

It was brilliant seeing everyone, although I didn't see some nearly as much as desired. In my selfishness I sort of forgot about people having "lives," and "plans." Gah. It was wonderful all the same, and of course almost impossible to leave. It suddenly dawned on me that I have only been in France a month and if I already am running back home, what does that mean for the rest of my 6 months here? Time is passing slowly - I feel like I'v been here forever, which I suppose is a good thing as it indicates that I have settled in properly, but simultaneously Christmas and home seem a very long way away, despite the supermarket's best efforts to convince us otherwise.

So in order to combat these thoughts, I've been throwing myself back into la vie francaise. Yesterday I cycled all over town, picked up a picnic, and ate baguettes and cheese by the lake in the park whilst reading some Sagan. Pretentious, moi? I then made the obligatory visit to the red pandas who were, for once, actually playing ball and not sleeping. They were eating pumpkins, though sadly not in the exuberant style promised to me by YouTube.

I'm now spending my time steadfastly not spending any money as my trip to Oxford bankrupted me, I've not been paid, and my French bank account STILL ISN'T OPEN.... I've been planning lessons mainly and making wild stabs in the dark as to what French kidzz will think is a fun an interesting way of learning to tell the time. Dare I create a rap? I've gone for the old song lyrics with some blanks in. I will report back. 

I had breakfast on my balcony for I think the last time this year - it is finally getting cold! Hurrah! No more awkward attempts to remove my jacket without punching someone in the face whilst riding the metro. I also get to wear my beautiful new coat which makes me feel like a cross between Audrey Hepburn, The Queen and Serena van der Woodsen. An enviable combination indeed. 

So I bid farewell to you all. I'll keep you updated on the weather, because you can take the girl out of Britain...

x