Well not quite, tomorrow’s the last day for most schools but this evening was our last English class until October. My pupils now have a 3-month break: well, not exactly. My two twelve-year olds have a project which should recap most of what we’ve done over the past three terms. They each have to write about their country’s of origin: Kazakhstan and Morocco. Two countries not as diverse as you might at first think. To help them with the structure, I’ve given them a number of topics from which they have to choose at least five of which two, cuisine and sport, are obligatory. This project has to be written in English and illustrated. At the start of next term they have to present their countries to me and one another. There’s a prize for the best project. Of course, there are two prizes, one each, but they don’t know that yet.
They’re going to be spending their summer’s quite differently. Sadly the one is going to be doing lessons all summer thanks to some mischief at school. I understand there’ll be no time off for good behaviour and he’ll only be able to ride his bike at the week ends. I have sympathised and said, on the bright side, this could leave him well placed to top the class next year. He looked unconvinced but tried to put a brave face on things. The other, who’s no less of a mischief maker, is going to be hanging out at the swimming pool, working on his tan. I think of them as two adorable little boys however looking at their facebook pages, which they were only too pleased to show to me, I see they’re a couple of babe magnets. These two boys, who’ve recently cornered the French market in hair gel, are bombarded with messages from pretty, pubescent girls wanting to be their friends. I don’t know about “lock up your daughters” it should also be lock up your cute sons before some Lolita leads them astray!
On the last day of school, it’s evidently custom and practice to bring something edible to share with your teacher and class mates: sweets, chocolates, biscuits. I’m sensing that this is fairly competitive as one of them said he wanted to ask me if I’d make him a cake to take to school. If he’d given me enough notice, I’d have been happy to oblige. Both of their mother’s work and one of them is a superb cook, I know I’ve eaten and greatly enjoyed some of her cooking. I suspect that the other one may not be, hence the shy request. Of course, not all French woman are excellent cooks. I drew the short straw with my pen friend. Her mother was a worse cook than my mother-in-law, and that’s truly saying something. She had two modus operandi: burnt or raw, nothing in between.
I think my pupils might need some encouragement during the summer month’s so I will organise a picnic (so beloved of the French), ostensibly to check on the progress of their projects but really to give them some added encouragement and, of course, to check on their tans.