I am teaching English to a beauteous Russian girl . There are many thrills and spills. Yesterday I had to break it to her that "random" means to have no specific object or purpose, not "Some bloke I met in a pub" or "An adjective used to describe a faintly surprising incident". When explaining grammar to her, I often find myself at a loss to make any strong case for logic.She has become slightly more resigned to this of late, and sighs "Crazy language..." when I say that these are the cases in which the definite article is employed before a noun,except when it isn't. It was often quite dreadful with the Frenchman. Of a temperament inclined to argue with his own fingernails, there was many a heated debate.Adjectives, then crockery, were thrown. I think it is unwise generally to argue with someone about (and in) a language which they have learned, and you have not. You will just be getting into your stride, when they will stop you, with an enquiry about participles. Or opine that it is incorrect to say "I will swing for you" ,as this implies a completed action in the future tense.The present was always tense chez nous, and the future clearly imperfect.
My GB can be pedantic in two languages, but also speaks Teenglish now. A clear-voiced darling of the English Speaking Examiners when a child; he has now adopted the novocaine-numbed loose-lipped mumble of his peer group. I have uncannily good earsight. As the bat in other respects; practically blind, nocturnal and with a habit of getting into people's hair, I have developed compensatory high-end hearing. I would like to swop this for a pair of functioning eyes, because all it does is turn me into a bore who is always finding the volume too loud. I cannot tolerate racket. Bellowing televisions and car stereos make me feel quite violent. When I was a CrouchEnder, I bought a delightful flat. The vendor had shown me around twice, and all seemed tranquil.I bought it. On the first evening, I realised, drooping exhaustedly over packing cases, that what I had imagined to be a full-fledged Carnival and clog-dancing festival in the street was actually my upstairs neighbour. She had wooden floors, a penchant for heels, and a liking for the sort of music that you hear playing from cars full of young men trying to look like Mr Fifty Pee. She also had a teenage daughter, a loud and lumpy girl given to challenging her mother's authority. I know all teenage girls do this, but not many of them hurl wardrobes across rooms to emphasise their point. Sensing that I had arrived in a bit of a 'mare, I went to see The Housing, as the lady concerned was a council tenant. The vole-headed man with specs sighed when he typed the address in, and produced a large,over-stuffed folder. "Ah" he said, "There's a bit of a history with this lady".There was. It was roughly the size of the volumes that Churchill produced so assidously, between war and water-colouring.
Fortunately I was not a homebody,and spent a great deal of time out. But every now and again I weakened and felt like a bit of sleep,or something pansy like that. It stopped, eventually, as a result of some serious diplomatic work and United Nations intervention. But I have never forgotten the sinking feeling brought about by the sudden understanding that I had bought a flat which featured hot and cold running clogs, and a general level of noise described by a visiting friend as sounding like "a rhinocerous in a washing machine". Just when things had quietened down a little, I went mad and produced a baby. It was a boy baby, given to banging things and wielding hammers almost from the moment of ejection, but I didn't mind as much. I finally developed the ability to sleep through bawling,yelling,and Iron Maiden,which has stood me in good stead on many an occasion. Sometimes I might have a drink or ten, and then my old hypersensitivity to noise returns. You know,a morning when, as P.G Wodehouse describes it, " a cat stamped into the room".Although for a really effective deterrent to boozing, let me recommend having a small child who clambers up on Bed of Pain and prises your throbbing eyelids open with insistent fingers,saying"Mummy, are you IN THERE?"
My GB can be pedantic in two languages, but also speaks Teenglish now. A clear-voiced darling of the English Speaking Examiners when a child; he has now adopted the novocaine-numbed loose-lipped mumble of his peer group. I have uncannily good earsight. As the bat in other respects; practically blind, nocturnal and with a habit of getting into people's hair, I have developed compensatory high-end hearing. I would like to swop this for a pair of functioning eyes, because all it does is turn me into a bore who is always finding the volume too loud. I cannot tolerate racket. Bellowing televisions and car stereos make me feel quite violent. When I was a CrouchEnder, I bought a delightful flat. The vendor had shown me around twice, and all seemed tranquil.I bought it. On the first evening, I realised, drooping exhaustedly over packing cases, that what I had imagined to be a full-fledged Carnival and clog-dancing festival in the street was actually my upstairs neighbour. She had wooden floors, a penchant for heels, and a liking for the sort of music that you hear playing from cars full of young men trying to look like Mr Fifty Pee. She also had a teenage daughter, a loud and lumpy girl given to challenging her mother's authority. I know all teenage girls do this, but not many of them hurl wardrobes across rooms to emphasise their point. Sensing that I had arrived in a bit of a 'mare, I went to see The Housing, as the lady concerned was a council tenant. The vole-headed man with specs sighed when he typed the address in, and produced a large,over-stuffed folder. "Ah" he said, "There's a bit of a history with this lady".There was. It was roughly the size of the volumes that Churchill produced so assidously, between war and water-colouring.
Fortunately I was not a homebody,and spent a great deal of time out. But every now and again I weakened and felt like a bit of sleep,or something pansy like that. It stopped, eventually, as a result of some serious diplomatic work and United Nations intervention. But I have never forgotten the sinking feeling brought about by the sudden understanding that I had bought a flat which featured hot and cold running clogs, and a general level of noise described by a visiting friend as sounding like "a rhinocerous in a washing machine". Just when things had quietened down a little, I went mad and produced a baby. It was a boy baby, given to banging things and wielding hammers almost from the moment of ejection, but I didn't mind as much. I finally developed the ability to sleep through bawling,yelling,and Iron Maiden,which has stood me in good stead on many an occasion. Sometimes I might have a drink or ten, and then my old hypersensitivity to noise returns. You know,a morning when, as P.G Wodehouse describes it, " a cat stamped into the room".Although for a really effective deterrent to boozing, let me recommend having a small child who clambers up on Bed of Pain and prises your throbbing eyelids open with insistent fingers,saying"Mummy, are you IN THERE?"
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