My English teacher was an odd character. He loved to perform in front of the class.
The way he got me into Reading was to read aloud from a book. We had English lessons almost every day. On Friday afternoons, he would spend most of the lesson simply reading from “the Hobbit” or “To Kill a Mockingbird”, or whatever other book had been set that year.
He did all the voices, and it was like listening to a radio play.
I believe that some of my beautiful English intonation stems from this teacher and his use of the English language.
I know the way I teach English to adults is based on the way he taught me.
The way he got me into Writing was to simply give a title and say, “Keep writing until you’re done”.
I loved writing. I wrote with a fountain pen. Actually a cartridge pen. I used to begin the essay with a blue cartridge, and swap to a green one when I felt I was halfway through the story, and swap back to the blue one when I thought I was coming near the end. In that way, the text started off blue and gradually changed to green and then back to blue again whilst I wrote.
Whenever the English teacher gave out an essay title, he would also give me a new workbook with a wink, saying “You will probably need this”.
I felt the challenge of filling a 30 page workbook for every essay that I wrote. It was a pleasure to deliver on his challenge.
I can’t for the life of me remember him teaching vocabulary. I can’t remember any charts or diagrams showing parts of the English grammar.
I do remember a day when punctuation was taught.
I also remember him correcting my work with a red pen, a fountain pen.
I always looked forward to getting his marks on my work.
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