A Sisyphean Task

You might deride me as being the most callous of teachers for the way in which I continually berate and display the failures of my students (behind their backs, of course), but the truth is that I genuinely care about these kids, even if they spend most of their time expecting to be entertained and going out of their way to piss me the fuck off.


The highlight, without a doubt, is when a pupil has struggled with a specific problem or task and (brace yourself for a cliché of General Teaching Council advertisement proportions) the penny drops: synapses fire, their face lights up and something new is learned.  Sometimes a connection to another topic or idea or theme is made voluntarily by the pupil; those are the truly treasured moments as they are a rare occurrence.


Sometimes, however, kids can astound you in how little they actually know.  I held a test with a particular class just last week and while most of the kids were middling in their results (one managed full marks) there was one boy whose English happens to be lacking...hmmm, how do I say this?  Flair?:

   
In case you're unable to read the text, I've transcribed it below:


"The potter make clays cuts hats.
He is wheel clay lump.  He is wheel wheel wheel the clay lump.  The is even clay.  He is drow.


I like a potter."


As pitiful a display of English language as this is, I'm actually swayed by its innate poetry and how it makes sense in an obtuse sort of way.  Imagine, if you will, this being included in an anthology of Beat poetry.  


It would be the best entry in the fucking thing.


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"No, mother, it's just the Northern Lights."


-D.

How to stay amused...

It was a cheap shot considering the kid has English as a Second Language (in fact I'm certain it is his third), but considering how much I positively loathe marking, it managed to bring a smile to my sour-puss of a face for the entire duration of the session.


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"Does that earring mean you're a pirate?"
"Kinda."


-D.

Ice Cold in Moscow

I always feel like I'm running at a temperature slightly hotter than the majority of people-I put it down to natural variance in biology, but in truth, it's probably that I eat like a fucking pig and am overweight.  Due to this, I generally prefer cold weather: bedroom windows are left open overnight so that there is a constant supply of fresh air (doesn't help that I fart like a trooper in my sleep, either) and while I wrap up in inclement weather, I don't need to sport two beanies like Ass-hat.


Anyway, I had to make a quick trip to the local Produkty (a  corner chain-store) this morning as I'd run out of bacon for breakfast and that's when it hit me how cold it was.  Usually I can get to the store and back without the need to clothe myself like Ernest fucking Shackleton, yet this time the exposed parts of my face burned, my eyes watered and it felt like my face was inextricably being frozen into a grimace.  I had to actually wiggle my jaw to get feeling back.


It was -24°C.   


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"Can you believe they wanted to call it Highway Crossing Frog?"


-D.

Lunch with Cliff Huxtable

I visited an Azerbaijani restaurant last weekend and while the food was quite good(lamb and potatoes lovingly drenched in oil and herbs and served with pomegranate seeds atop flat-bread), the experience itself was rather more interesting.  

One of the problems, I find, when I relocate to another country is that the novelty soon wears off and I'm faced with the task of having to actively search out what is different-what basically makes me want to stay and discover more about the country.  The following two photos I took during lunch served to remind me that while I'm still technically in Europe, I'm actually decidedly behind the former Iron Curtain.

The only way this photograph could be even more Russian, is if a bear was chauffeuring Putin somewhere in the Lada.  While drinking vodka.

Mmm.  Suddenly oval burgers don't seem that bad an option.

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"How say...?  Fryg-TITANED?!"


-D.

But I'm tryin', Ringo. I'm tryin' real hard.

Like every other person on this planet, I often find myself criticising others-not for anything trivial, you understand, but for that which grates on me more than anything else in this world: being inconsiderate and stupidity. If anything, I think they are intricately entwined.  I know that some people are socially awkward and this has the consequence of their being inconsiderate; I, however, treat this much in the same way as I treat stupidity-it is within the same locus of people's control to read a book and increase their intelligence as it is to consider their place in this world and how their actions affect others.  If they are incapable of reflecting on this all important principle, I feel they deserve the lambasting I accord them; after all, I could once be described as socially awkward and I worked relentlessly to better myself, thus producing the marvel of a man before you now.  Ahem.

In spite of this, the other night I was drunkenly pulled up by a colleague for my treatment of the Ass-hat: evidently I had polluted my colleague's view of the poor boy and it was resultant of my tireless bitching on the subject.  I couldn't help but feel the hypocrisy ooze from said colleague as only two hours previous she had seethingly criticised a fellow teacher whom she had once had the ill-fortune to share an apartment with.  I said as much and then outlined the lengths to which I had attempted to befriend Ass-hat: ranging from buying him drinks in an attempt to socialise with him to inviting him for nights out in Moscow only to be repeatedly ignored; to putting up with his absolute inability to pick up on common social cues to listening to his self-aggrandising chat on an almost daily basis.  All that and not complaining when his girlfriend stays over on a school night and decides that midnight is the most appropriate time to go for a shower.  This wouldn't be that major a point to bitch about, until one learns that the bathroom is right next to my bedroom.  As for his penchant for strutting around the apartment all the time with his top off and clothed only in a pair of pyjama bottoms, the less said the better.

I may not be the most patient of people in the world (even though I'm sure Mother Theresa would struggle in my situation), but I feel like I have turned every cheek on my body for this guy and I'm the one who gets the third degree.  Yes-we're all on this world together and we need to find ways in order to live with each other's foibles, but why is it that some, like Ass-hat, can get away with doing fuck-all?

Pretty please, with sugar on top-close the fucking cupboard door now, Ringo.

Way to make me seem like the dick, Ass-hat.

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"You're part of a league of morons.  Oh yes.  You see, you're one of the morons I've been fighting my whole life.  My...whole...fucking...life."

-D.

The Alamo Sports Shop

Coming from the UK where firearms are rare to the point of almost non-existence, I still find myself squirming when I'm confronted by the police officers of Russia.  Handguns, semi-automatics and rifles are a common sight in the country's capital and I'm not sure I'll ever get used to it.

I'd buy that for a dollar.

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"The Hunka-Chunka?"


-D.

Know thyself.

Attributed to a plethora of Ancient Greek sages, I know that the above quote was fully intended as a means to encourage the populace to engage in a reflective and introspective dialogue with themselves.  On the other hand, when you buy this:

That's a 20 inch monitor on the desk, in case you were wondering.

And then have to transport it from Point A to Point B:

Open the image in a new tab to get a better idea of the distance.

It's probably a good idea to "know thyself" and get a fucking taxi.

I still can't raise my arms over my shoulders.

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"It's as simple as a pie!"

-D.

The city I live in...

I'd never noticed how noisy living in Moscow was until today when, walking to the Metro station after finishing work, I realised how eerily quiet it had become.  Normally the perpetual rush and hum of the city overcrowds thought, exhausting the mind as a relentless battle for space within it is waged; this time, however, I opted to tune in and was rightfully astonished at how quiet everything seemed.  


Perhaps it was the light snow-fall after a prolonged period without that reminds the Russian people that winter is far from over or perhaps, after almost a month and a half, I am becoming more attuned to the city's natural rhythms.  Whatever it happened to be, it sadly didn't last for long, as even on the 22nd (and top) floor of my building, I can hear cars far below honking and tonking, a solitary dog yapping at the moon and the mournful wheeze and choke of an accordion being slowly strangled in the room next to mine.


Oh, but for the sound of silence.
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"Take this quarter, go downtown, and have a rat gnaw that thing off."


-D.

Easy like a Sunday morning...

You know the feeling: no sleep for various reasons on the Friday.  A Saturday fumbled through in a semi-concious daze.  Sunday morning comes with the promises of a fry up and the opportunity to kick back and relax with a film.  Until this:

And no, that cacophony was not produced from my insides falling out.  That's builders at it.  On a Sunday.  


Ah, Russia.


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"So what?  Can he move like me?"


-D.

Moscow in the Morning

Several of the past weekends have been spent in a drunken Russian stupor.

In my infinite (drunken) wisdom, I've taken to snapping photos of altogether random things while severely incapacitated; so incapacitated, in fact, that I rarely even remember taking the photos in the first place.  Here are some of the pictures I've taken recently:

I didn't promise they would be any good.  I was drunk, for fuck sake.


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"The Empire is on the verge of success."


-D.

World's Most Expensive City?

Wankas falling in price?  I'll have two, please.

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"One-where is the fife and two-give me the fife."


-D.

Buyer's Remorse

I regard myself as being a savvy consumer (thanks to Martin Lewis, mostly): I rarely do/buy anything without giving it the meticulous consideration that most people would normally reserve for their children's education.  I spend countless hours weighing up pros and cons, debating endlessly how the product will change my life for the better, before finally opting to be frugal and stick the cash in a savings account instead.


Nevertheless, I made an impulse purchase recently that in retrospect seemed far more attractive in the store.  I convinced myself I was in dire need and found absolutely no reason whatsoever why I shouldn't fork out for it.  When I got it home and out of its packaging, however, I started to notice a variety of faults that, if I'd been less impulsive and less swayed by the convenience and immediacy of the product, I would have most certainly not gone to the trouble of obtaining it.  


I don't castigate myself every time I make an uninformed choice, but I hate that feeling I get when I know that if I'd waited a little longer, I could have had something far superior.


I hate shopping.


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"DR. GRANT."


-D.