Senior Moments - Quack Teacher?

This week I managed to get to my English class with the golden oldies about 10 minutes early, which was just as well, because I discovered that the coffee had leaked out of my thermos flask and onto my ring-binder file. I hurriedly wiped down the dripping edges of the file, dashed out to the loo to rinse out the  bag in the little wash basin and dry it with wads of paper towel.  I then returned to the classroom and stood the ring-binder, pages fanned-out, on the floor in front of the radiator. Luckily the class were still standing around and chatting, but I did notice one woman giving me a curious, yet resigned, look.
The lesson got started and I announced that we were actually going to use the course book this week for a change. About five minutes later, we were off on a tangent as usual, thanks to someone asking what is the difference between "must not" and "don't have to".  An especially interesting grammatical topic for my German students.
I had the brilliant idea to get the class to tell, in turn, what they had not been allowed to do as children. There were two anecdotes which I particularly liked. One was from A, who had not been allowed to play with boys, but did so secretly, because she was used to her three brothers and she was too rough with the girls. The second  was from R., who said that she was not allowed to ride her father's bicycle as it was as valuable as 'diamonds', as she put it, in those early post-war years.
Of course, as is the way with forbidden fruit, she could not resist taking the bike and going off for a ride. It was a bit awkward for her, being a man's bike, and she had to sit almost side saddle, as far as I could tell from the way she described it. This made it impossible for her to brake when she found herself careering directly towards a cart piled high with cattle dung, but at least the crash landing was a soft one.
Then there was "C", who told us that she wasn't allowed to steal apples as a child. A paradoxical statement, but we understood what she meant. "You stole plenty of apples during our walk last week", piped up her regular hiking companion.
Nearly all of them completed their accounts with, "... but I did it anyway".
 The second group are a pleasant bunch, but more demanding. One of them always has her dictionary at the ready and double-checks my answers to their questions, which can put a bit of a strain on my proceedings, depending how relaxed or not I am. Last week she gleefully informed me that there is a hyphen between 'back' and 'off' as in 'back-off'. I didn't burst her bubble by telling her that the hyphen is a capricious member of the punctuation dynasty, along with its sisters, cousins and aunts, and its insertion often depends purely on which way the wind is blowing.
R was insistent that another expression for "Back-off!" is, "Get off my cloud!". "Urm, not as far as I know", I said. "Yes, yes! The Rolling Stones even used it in a song", he insisted. I had to bite firmly on my tongue in order to stop myself retorting, "Yes indeed, and I could never figure out whether they were singing: 'Star fucker', or 'Fuck a star' ... what do YOU think?"
The most awkward moment for me today was when I handed a piece of paper to a relatively new member of the group and asked him to write down his phone number for me to add to my carefully-prepared class phone list. What could possibly go amiss there, you might well ask? Not a lot, except that this man's name is "Herr Quack". I kid you not. For the past few weeks since he joined the class I have managed to avoid addressing him in this way, having immediately established that we are all on first name terms here. I managed perfectly well with "Hans", thank you very much. Until today.
"What's this?", he asked, pointing accusingly at his name which I had hastily written on the budding telephone list. I peered at the incriminating piece of paper and there, written in an unusually neat hand (for administrative purposes) were the words: "Herr Duck". "Oh, you know," I babbled, "'quack - duck, duck - quack', a gal can get confused". Fortunately, the desire to prove his command of the English language to me took precedence over his indignation at my mistake. "I understand. I can tell my quacks from my ducks", he said proudly with a smile.
Well, not exactly.
But at least I'd managed to duck out of a tricky Senior Moment - and Herr Quack's briefly ruffled feathers had been smoothed.

Gangsta MuM

     In the wee hours of yesterday morning, my son was threatened via cell-phone by a hysterical Turk. It was a girl - related matter. The man screamed that he would come over here and: “... rape you in front of your mother. I know where you live!”

     What particularly interests me are the cultural implications of this threat. Why threaten to carry out this assault in front of the mother? What image does this young man have of a typical mum? Does he really think he can show up here and rape my 6 foot-something, well fit son in front of me while I cower under my headscarf and squeak in distress?

     I don’t doubt for a moment my son’s ability to defend himself but, given the chance, I would have this young Turk’s guts for garters, accessorized with his balls wrapped in a pretty cotton scarf.

Why Sit When You Can Stand Up For Yourself?

I'm still rattled after my brief exchange with a shop assistant this morning, regarding the potential acquisition of a second-hand sofa. I need another sofa in my sitting room.  This became clear to me last Sunday when I was confronted with the sight of my visitors sitting in a row on the one and only sofa I possess. They looked as though they were at the movies, waiting for the Coming Soons to end so that they could get stuck-in to the main feature. I felt sorely tempted to dash into the kitchen and rustle up some popcorn, but I don't have any. (Note to Self: must buy sofa and popcorn).


Having ascertained that my social life would come to a standstill unless I obtained a second sofa, I hied me to the local second-hand shop, deciding on the way that it would be a jolly good idea to suggest a trade-in: one sofa for an ugly and imposing old dining room dresser currently languishing in my garage.


My suggestion was met with a look of scorn and disbelief. "Make an ex ... chaaange?", exclaimed the shop assistant incredulously. He grinned at my obvious stupidity and looked around as though expecting a chorus of shoulder-shrugging fellow workers and shoppers to join in his triumphant disbelief. "Yes," I replied, undaunted. "I give you a perfectly good dresser, you give me a sofa". "We don't do that," he smirked, nastily. "Oh", I remarked, snippishly,     * "so you get the furniture for free, sell it and pocket the proceeds." He nodded in the affirmative, a supercilious smirk spreading across his weasly features. 


With nothing more than a slight sniff and a raised eyebrow, I admitted defeat graciously. Luckily I had recently subjected myself to a bout of tweaking, so the eyebrow-raising was effortless, though apparently not impressive. Before leaving I took what revenge I could by sauntering around the second-hand clothing section, rifling through the clothes and wearing an expression on my face which made it clear to anyone who might notice, that I wouldn't be seen dead, oops, passed-on in any of these garments. 


Buying clothes was not on my agenda anyway due to (1.) the fact that funds are low right now and (2.) I am trying to avoid buying anything which is not absolutely necessary. Another reason for not spending money on clothes, second hand or otherwise, is that I have gained a few (good old British understatement) pounds since giving up smoking last year. Quite a quandary. Can’t fit into my old clothes, can’t afford to buy new ones. This didn’t stop me from trying on a few sale items at a shop in town. I might have bought some of the items had the shop assistant not eyed me up and down and suggested that I try a LARGE size! Since when was a size 14 (British) considered to be LARGE?


Surely every purveyor of women’s clothing should know that the L word should never, on no account, be uttered, no matter what size the customer may be. Even if the customer has just tried on a tent, it is the saleswoman’s duty to observe that it looks perfect, the colours complement madam’s eyes beautifully and it is the last size 8 left in the store. 


I handed back the few items I had tried to squeeze into, remarking that they looked better on the clothes hanger than on me. On the way home I decided that I would rather brave the supercilious sofa-seller than the totally tactless shop assistant. At least I wouldn’t have to try the sofas on.

* To be fair I indulged in poetic licentiousness here. In truth the shop is a charitable concern, providing employment for (downright snotty) people who would otherwise be out of work.