Chez Moi

So, I finally have my own place to live! I wouldn’t call it a house. Or even really a flat. Almost like an annexe, I think. It used to be a garage, but the family converted it to a mini-studio.



I only looked around it for about five minutes before agreeing to have it. But, from what I could remember, it seemed pretty nice!

It has a mezzanine double bed thing. Basically a bunk bed, but built-in to the house. Underneath is a wardrobe and bookshelves and a desk. I think. There was definitely wood there, anyway.

A TV with proper signal and a DVD player. Always good.

A mini-garden. I can plant plenty of flowers and make the view from the windows all pretty.

A front door. My own front door. I’ll bring out the French handwriting and put ‘M. Gavin GREENE’ on a little label.

A kitchenette. ‘Ette’ being a key part of the word. From what I could remember, there were two hob-rings, a sink, fridge and cupboard. Oh, and a microwave. Notice the lack of oven. Can you cook a pizza on the hob?

The bathroom is pretty small, but has a shower in one corner, then a sink and a toilet in the other corners. Small, but good enough.

It has WiFi too. Which means I can finally catch up on various programmes that I’ve missed.

Once I’ve moved in (on Wednesday evening) I’ll take some photos and put them on here. Until then, the drawing at the top of the page will have to suffice.

Crazy French Farmers...

The centre of town was rather busy today. Though not with commuters. Instead, there were 315 tractors, 5000 farmers, and numerous blazing piles of hay. I think that photographs are far more apt at conveying the extent of the protest, so i'll leave it to them.

Oh, and I think they were protesting about milk and lack of money for farmers, but you couldn't see the banners due to the smoke. Counterproductive farmers...

Trop de Leffe.

A couple of nights ago, I went to a bar in the Quartier Bouffay, which is the area between the Cathedral and the Castle. Not a place you’d generally expect there to be much trouble…



We were innocently sitting outside a bar, when a drunk guy (who we shall name Pierre) stumbled over to us, asking for a lighter. Another assistant, Ceri, willingly obliged, and handed his over. Pierre clumsily lit his cigarette, returned the lighter, and then promptly sneezed, launching the freshly-lit cigarette from his mouth. Not a good start.

Ten minutes passed before Pierre came over again, once more demanding a lighter. This time, however, it seemed that the large amounts of Leffe had hindered his manners, and he started to get louder and aggressive. (I think it was aggressive, anyway. My French-understanding is still somewhat lacking. It was definitely louder.)

The barman thus decided that Pierre had enough, and it was probably time for him to go to bed. Pierre, however, seemed to have other ideas, and started to get more and more agitated. I’m told there was a head butt involved, but I didn’t get to see that bit. Shame.

The next thing we knew, there was a squad of police marching down the road towards the café. Bear in mind Pierre was just one guy. The first ‘wave’ of police officers grabbed him, and pulled him away from the doorway, deciding it was easiest to hold him by his throat. The second ‘wave’ then turned up (another five officers), to stand around and generally look threatening. Before poor old Pierre could tell what was happening, he was frogmarched down the road, off to spend a night in the cells.

All in all, quite an exciting evening. I even found a pint of beer for 4,70€. Bargain…

Je voudrais une wétherspoons á Nantes, svp.
(Interestingly enough, spell-check just informed me that ‘wétherspoons’ is feminine.)

DISCLAIMER: For any worried mothers, fathers or siblings reading this, I was not in any danger at any time. I’m being sensible, honest!

Fin de Semaine.

Another week is over at school. I feel so sorry for all my teachers from secondary school now! All that time I thought they were just trying to ruin my day, they were actually trying to teach me...! I guess the clue was in their title: teachers.

A lot of the people from my classes have started to add me on Facebook, so they've all been thrown into the 'Limited Profile' section. Can't have a bunch of 15 year olds knowing too much about me. Although now they have a major advantage for their 'write-a-paragraph-about-Gavin' homework.

I wandered around the nearest supermarket today, 'Auchan'. They had live crabs and live crayfish. One particularly adventurous crayfish fell off the counter, and scuttled underneath. Clever little creature. Though he'll just die in a different place; I doubt his new-found freedom will bring longevity.

I've also just booked my Eurostar tickets to return to England over half term. They cost £180! No wonder France's economy is doing well at the moment - i'm singlehandedly keeping it going. I'm back from 24th October - 3rd November, which nicely includes Hallowe'en.

I'm not sure of this year's outfit yet, though. Hopefully something delightfully impractical. Though not racist, like last year's attempt. 'Bats' was a good idea to begin with, but in practice was just a little bit difficult. And wandering around Leamington Spa with 'blacked-up' faces was always going to be a bad idea...

Almost done a week...

This time a week ago, the ferry was just going past the Spinnaker tower in Portsmouth, and I was happily eating squashed sandwiches with Dad. Quite a change in a mere six days!



French observations:

There is no bell in my school - just the first four-and-a-half seconds of the New World Symphony by Dvorak.

People do not drive on the right in France - they drive wherever they want.

A pint of beer can cost up to 6€ - no wonder there's no binge drinking.

I must look very English - before I open my mouth, people say 'Hello'.

Many a French man's idea of romance is creepily sidling up to a girl at a bus stop and grabbing her.

Everything is about three years behind England - phones, computers, technology.

Anything important is done at a casual speed. Generally, the more important something is, the longer it takes to do. Examples of this include: Renting appartments, serving in a restaurant and driving an emergency vehicle (often done with a casual cigarette in-mouth, while looking at girls on the nearest pavement).

Jusqu'ici tout va bien...

I did another day of teaching yesterday, which went much more smoothly, which was a relief! I had the cutest-ever 6eme class (year seven in England), and we spent the lesson making speech-bubbles with classroom phrases in them, which then were stuck around the board.

I am now the proud owner of a French bank account, with Crédit Lyonnais. It did, however, take 2 hours to complete all the paperwork. Complex banking-language was NOT part of ny language lessons in Reading!

I am off to the centre of Nantes soon, to meet some other assistants by the castle. It will be nice to see a bunch of people who are in the same boat as me - we can compare notes on teaching, if nothing else!

First Day of School.

Wow. I didn't expect that.



I woke up at 7am, and went down to the school for 8am, where I met the Prinipal, and hundreds of teachers; Then, at 8:20, my first lesson started. I stood at the front of the class for an hour, under a barrage of questions about England:

"Do you have aneee bruzzer or seester?"
"Where is 'Orsham?"
"Do you like ze Twilight storieez?"

It all went fairly smoothly, and I managed to pretend I like Twilight, so the female contingent in the class now like me. I hope.

The next class was the same format, but with a slightly lower standard of English, which meant I had to whip out the 'louder-and-slower' card, which worked very nicely. Although one pupil asked me if I am Homer Simpson. Slightly disconcerting; maybe I have jaundice?

I then had lunch, which was a very nice Italian-themed meal, complete with Italian music, flags and propaganda. From the outside, it may've looked a bit like a far-right Italian rally, but never mind.

After lunch, however, the fun really began. Take some Cornish Pixies, 25 tired fourteen-year-olds, and add them together for an hour, and you get an interesting outcome. Oh, and I was on my own. Conpletely. EEK!

I resorted to playing a bit of hangman, and asking them questions in English, but it's amazing how slowly an hour goes when you have a classful of bored stdents seeking entertainment. They were loud, but with a carefully placed 'Silence!' and the occasional 'Sssshh!', they seemed to enjoy the class, and maybe even understood why the pixies were in Cornwall. I, however, am still none the wiser.

Now i'm back in the haven of the English-teacher's house (and ,ine for the forseeable future), and it's much more relaxing. I feel exactly like the teacher in that film, The Chorus. Except with less singing. And worse-behaved pupils.

Strangely though, given the situation, I don't feel like running home yet. I reckon that with a bit of time and effort, the classes will be manageable and fun. I just hope I have le temps et l'effort!!