​The English Teacher

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.