Notes from the TEFL Graveyard

Based on my ongoing research, here is a list of the main differences between a British and a Brazilian Christmas: 1) Alcohol consumption – whereas Christmas Day for many in the United Kingdom starts with a mother of all hangovers, Brazilian boozing is of the “aperitif, anyone?” or the “whoops I must stop now, my nose is tingling” variety, not the headlong dash towards oblivion so popular in northern climes; 2) Family gatherings – unlike many British Christmases, Brazilian family gatherings are generally warm, joyous occasions, with plenty of unisex hugging, kissing and arm squeezing going on throughout proceedings, accompanied by lots of shouting and generalised chaos. Distant uncles from the north of the country don’t tend to get wiped on whisky and challenge the other male members of the family to a fight, whilst keenly expressing the opinion that they are, quote unquote, “the hardest bastard in this family.” Distant uncles from the posh side of the family, that is; 3) Christmas Ev...

Show is dragging me away from the computer and stacking furniture against the door for the festive season, so I hope you both have a good holiday, and here is a beautiful piece of Christmas music, which I and my male voice choir are battering into a rough-hewn masterpiece on Wednesday evenings - goosebumps optional.

Today was one of those rare occasions when I had a light feeling in my chest that intimated a genuine relief at being a TEFL teacher. These sentiments seem to coincide with a caffeine rush, and tend to pass quickly, so I have decided to register my glee despite the late hour. It started with a lesson which surpassed all expectations. I had been warned that I would be giving a class in-company to one of the owners of a small rubber factory (they make rubber products - the factory is made of steel, concrete, etc) and, given that his level was, as a colleague of mine used to groan, “pond life”, I was expecting the usual struggle to maintain even the most basic level of communication for a full hour and a half whilst maintaining a suitably Business English, collared shirt air about things. I had been provided with a couple of sheets with exercises, but to my delight, the affable stick launched into an animated, if barely comprehensible, ‘Allo ‘Allo -style presentation of his “fuctory”...

It has been several generations since a Ward has been able to raise this blood-curdling cry to riff raff, armed only with a flintlock blunderbuss and a baker’s dozen ravening hounds, but it seems this branch of the family’s fortunes may be on the turn after years in the urban wilderness. Our unjust exodus from the country, involving a gentleman-farmer ancestor who drove our clan from the Berkshire Downs with a heady mixture of an ignorance of contraceptive methods, excessive port consumption and an insistence on the employment of a coach and four even for short family trips to public floggings (despite the elevated costs of stabling), may soon be righted, if on an entirely different continent. Show recently went to town ( São Paulo ) with her credit card firmly clamped between her teeth in search of Christmas bargains at a bazar , a place where well-known retailers of haberdashery, drapery and the like offer their wares at knockdown prices, whilst I spent a frustrating afternoon o...

Should you ever be in these parts and happen upon a desperate soul on the parapet of a bridge or a high building intent on plunging to an untidy end, possibly the phrase least likely to dissuade them from seeing it through would be something along the lines of, “Think about all the great television you’ll miss, like Big Brother Brasil…” Yes, against all the precepts of rationality, and as proof that civilization as we know it is truly on the ebb, Big Brother Brasil is back in January for its eighth series, and I for one shall be neither tuning in, nor switching on, but dropping out. I must admit to having watched the program on occasions, when it still had some vestige of interest as a psychological experiment. The first British series was intriguingly puritanical, with participants being forbidden to discuss the voting and having to complete tasks in order to receive food - now that’s a show. The Brazilian version is so watered down and stacked full of product placements and unre...

I know you can't wait any longer. Here are the answers: Who is Student A? - Edgar Allan Poe Who is Student B? - H L Mencken Which poem do the closing lines, "Time held me green and dying, Though I sang in my chains like the sea" come from, and who wrote it? - Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas Which font is "Notes From The TEFL Graveyard" written in? (For readers with Asperger's Syndrome.) - Impact Neither of the entrants got all the questions right, but No Good Boyo takes the biscuit with a sterling 50% pass rate. Just brush up on your Windows fonts and your future is bright. As promised, here is a picture postcard of the local railway station, the first reinforced concrete building to be constructed in Latin America, designed and built by the French arquitect Dubugras in 1906. Its art-deco style is based on an upturned table. Congratulations, No Good Boyo, and thanks for humouring me.

As most of Brazil seems to have been winding down for Christmas since around mid-October, here is my contribution to the festive season, based on my blog logo: Who is Student A? Who is Student B? Which poem do the closing lines, "Time held me green and dying, Though I sang in my chains like the sea" come from, and who wrote it? Which font is "Notes From The TEFL Graveyard" written in? (For readers with Asperger's Syndrome.) If you include your address, the prize will be a postcard with a picture of the local railway station, the first reinforced concrete building to be constructed in Latin America (postage not included). Good luck!

In a previous dirge , I have commented on the widespread tendency amongst Brazilian businesses to make unfulfilled promises to return phone calls. It is ironic, then, that the very school to which I was referring in that regard apparently found my number recently on a scrap of paper stuck to the bottom of somebody’s shoe and decided to call me to invite me to a “group dynamic” in São Paulo . Driven by a childish resentment, my first reaction was to berate them for taking six months to communicate with me, making clear my intolerance of such slapdash practices, and to hang up triumphantly, but my diminishing bank balance, coupled with my wife Show’s eroding peninsular of patience, persuaded me to agree to their demands. On the Sunday before Monday’s group session, I was overwhelmed by a feeling of not wanting to go. I sometimes have these strange and inexplicable intimations of misfortune, but it is hard to tell if they are genuine, or just the result of an idleness-based wishful t...