
PROLOGUE
On a sunny afternoon, in early Summer,
I present myself for an interview
At the EF Institute in Cambridge.
I have just completed a degree in Humanities.
I feel relaxed, at ease with myself and the world.
The last three years have been the most enjoyable
I have had in my life, so far. I have relished
The student life; loved living in Cambridge.
I would be happy to live in Cambridge
For the rest of my life, but I have been accepted
For a place on a postgraduate course at Chelsea College,
And am already looking forward to the excitement
Of moving to the metropolis.
I have two and a half months to wait,
Before the move to London.
What to do, over these summer months?
I have seen posters advertising part-time work
For TEFL tutors at the EF Institute.
I soon find out the acronym TEFL stands for
Teaching English as a Foreign Language.
It could be interesting, I think,
And more lucrative than doing nothing.
Why not give it a go?
I am greeted, at the entrance,
By an enthusiastic, energetic-looking woman.
As soon as I give my name, she says “Great!
The kids are ready for you. Just go
Down those stairs. They’re waiting.”
I stare at her, uncomprehendingly.
“There must be a misunderstanding.” I say.
“I’m only here for an interview.”
“Interview?” She seems puzzled, then amused.
“Oh, no! There’s no interview! No, you just start,
Straight away. They’re waiting for you.”
I can’t believe this is happening.
“But I’ve never done this before!” I protest.
“I haven’t a clue what I’m supposed to do!”
“You’ll be fine.” She assures me.
“Just chat to them. Get to know them.
Take them out for a walk if you like.
Cambridge is an interesting place.”
I am completely taken aback by this,
And on the verge of refusing to do it.
But then I start thinking. I don’t want
To destroy my chances before I’ve even started.
Maybe it won’t be so bad;
This woman must know what she’s doing…
Two hours later, I emerge, visibly shaken,
From the place I now think of as a Hell-Hole.
The experience has been more harrowing
Then I could ever have imagined. I am
probably suffering from Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder.
One thing has become clear to me.
One illuminated sign is blinding me with its light,
Sending its dazzling message into what remains
Of my crumbling, shattered brain cells.
Whatever happens in my life, from this point onwards,
I must never, ever again have any contact whatsoever
With this existential entity, this testing, tortuous trauma;
This malignant miasma known as “TEFL.”
About two and a half years ago, I started writing an account of my experiences teaching English as a Foreign Language, at a language school in central London, in my early thirties. I originally intended it to be a sort of prose-poem, but, as it progressed, I realized it was looking more like chopped-up prose.
It finished up as a sequence of fifteen episodes. Humour was quite a strong element, as some of the scenarios were semi-comic, or slightly absurd. I decided that the most honest description of the whole project would be “A Picaresque Memoir in Chopped-Up Prose”. I then decided it needed a prologue, explaining how I first encountered “TEFL”.