I digress...

The day I look into the mirror and realise that I am an old man is the day I turn off my clocks.

Time, in my opinion, should be used as a guide. Time should guide us through life, allowing us to set goals and be organised. However, Time is sly and powerful. Before you realise, Time has stopped guiding you and instead it is controlling you. We rely on Time more than we rely on living. We need time to sleep, time to work, time to survive and time to live. However, when Time starts to control you and push you along, something's got to give. We have to sleep, work, and do those habitual necessities to survive. So, under the constraints of time we, as human beings, often run out of time to do the most important thing: to live.

I realise that this is a strong statement, and that it does not ring true for everyone. It is, though, unarguably true that Time is a constant threat. Whatever we do and for whatever reason we are doing it, Time is always there, ticking away. 

Time can only tick while there are clocks. Time may control us, but clocks are the true enemy. When we are bored, we concentrate on the slimmest hand. The hand that, during those periods of tedium, seems to move at the pace of a dying slug. When we are at work, the longest hand steals our focus as we wait for half-pasts and quarter-to's; break times and home time. When we are having fun, our attention is held by the sneakiest hand on the clock; the hour hand. The hour hand, during times of enjoyment and celebration, does not tick by, but thuds along hour-by-hour. Just as we begin to have fun, the hour hand decides to get up from its cosy armchair and go for a jog. 

My point is that I am fed up of watching clocks, waiting for future events, and feeling guilty for time I have wasted doing nothing. Of course, I have only myself to blame, but as I have said before, it is always nice to blame somebody else. In this instance, I blame Time or, more accurately, clocks. This is why today I made the decision that when I realise I am an old man, I will turn off my clocks and live a Timeless life. 

A life without Time is a life without constraint.

Back to the year abroad and my ever-deteriorating faith in teenagers. Stand-out moments of my teaching week include a girl who walked out of class rather than work with two boys. Of course, the only place she could go was to the discipline room (sounds worse than it is, I am sure) so she ended up in a heap of trouble. In the same class, two girls would not stop talking until one made another girl cry. It was one of those rare occasions where I full-on shout in French and the kids have a sudden realisation that they are about to get in deep sh*t. Goodtimes. 

My housemates decided that our house has just one too many problems, so called a house meeting. It was very reminiscent of my second year in Exeter and the house of mould, although that time round I could understand everything. Basically, in this house, not all the doors are fully-functioning, the washing machine broke down (resulting in a farcical episode of washing clothes), to turn on the hobs you have to pump on the knobs (don't be so immature) and there is mould everywhere. So I listened to the meeting, saying mainly "Oui, je suis d'accord" and "Oui, j'ai compris", both of which were lies. However, it has resulted in me perfecting my French telephone voice to arrange visits from the repairman. Language win.

Today I got out of bed at half past one, despite having an alarm set for nine in the morning. On Tuesday, I woke up at nine forty-five. I actually had a class to teach at half past eight so missed it... Pretty shameful seeing as I live in the school while I am teaching there. I initially blamed my alarms not working, however after this morning I am beginning to think that may not have been the reason. I am sat here now with my patchy facial hair, glasses perched on my wonky nose and wearing an odd mismatch of clothes. In one hour and a half I am going to meet some of the other assistants for a few drinks, so I should really say g'bye and get presentable. But I have one last thing to tell you.

Also today, I officially started a new project. I will not go into much detail about it, but basically during the last two months I have been evaluating my future plans. I have not managed to think of a career path I would want to take, except perhaps journalism. However, ever since I can remember, I have always wanted to achieve one goal: to write a novel. Therefore, since mid-October I have been planning ideas and writing vague story lines, none of which amounted to much. Finally, I had a breakthrough, and now I have most of the essentials sorted, I have begun to write a detailed chapter-by-chapter summary. 

I am going to finish this novel not to become a famous writer, not even to necessarily publish it, but to prove to myself that I can do it. Maybe one day I will be a successful writer or maybe I will fall into a different career that I enjoy. For now, I will merely prove a point to myself. I will prove that even someone who enjoys regular lie-ins and prefers to watch Misfits than Frozen Planet can finish a forty-chapter book. 

I do not care how long it takes me; I have turned off my clocks.

DC

Croeso i Narbonne

Five days have passed since I last cashed in and I still have that ridiculous song playing on a never-ending loop in my oversized head. I suppose playing it consistently on YouTube doesn't help matters. I would say it is a guilty pleasure, but neither word is strong enough. Instead, I shall call it my absolutely shameful musical infatuation. Although, that may be going a tad too far in the other direction.

This weekend I was graced with the presence of my girlfriend. I showed her around Narbonne, which took all of an hour, and we ate lots of French cheese and bread. The few days that she was here were the quickest yet most pleasant few days I have had so far in France. It made me extremely excited to return to England for Christmas and after saying 'au revoir', I went straight on the internet and booked my flight.
The plan was to make it to Exeter for the last Friday night of term, but I decided that the school would not mind me having a day off so I can go home a bit earlier. Duty-free is not going to know what's hit it by the time I leave the airport. Neither is my liver.

Booking my flight home has given me two new incentives. The first is to really improve my French, so I am so comfortable speaking it that I can easily fall back into la vie francaise in January. The second is to gradually build up my liver's strength and my drinking abilities, so I can drink 'til my heart's content back home. Well, I had to counter-balance the overly sensible language-learning idea somehow...

This week I am continuing my lessons on social networking. They are going better this week, and thankfully these classes do not consider porn as a means of communicating with friends and family. They do, however, struggle to see how ChatRoulette and Skype differ. Maybe it's a French thing.

The weather has deteriorated and it has been raining all day. I don't actually mind this, in fact I find it quite refreshing, but I am not looking forward to my Monday meander to McDonald's. Rain is not a common occurence in this region, though, and my class sizes have been halved as a result, making the pupils more hyperactive than ever. The teachers are not happy either. I could not follow the whole conversational debate, but I definitely heard 'Sarkozy' and 'reforme', so I am guessing it is all political. I will worry about French politics just as soon as British politics begin to improve.
I do feel for the French, though.
It is difficult having a complete wanker leading your country.

I am now preparing to finish my working day with one final class. I have given up hoping that lessons will go a certain way, because they are all so different from each other. I have had the same lesson plan for a week and not one lesson has been the same. That is one good thing about teaching and working with teenagers; every hour brings something new. Now I need to find a second positive.

So, happy Monday everyone! I hope it has gone nice and quickly for you, although not too quickly... Remember: tomorrow you will be one day older, and you are no spring chicken.

DC

What Makes You Beautiful

When I was learning to drive, my instructor used to constantly tell me two things. The first was that he wanted to cut my feet off because I am so uncoordinated. The second was that at some point, no matter how many mistakes I was making at that point, at some point in time it would just 'click'. For me, driving took a long time to 'click' and just as it did, I left for university and have not been at the wheel since.


Learning a language is a lot like learning to drive. No matter how many books you read about it or how much you study the theory, you simply cannot learn it without actually going to the country; sitting in the driver's seat. The learning process is very similar, too. You make false starts, you stall and have start again, you start slow and as you become more confident you reach higher speeds, and when it seems as if you are going to crash, there is always someone there to slam on the breaks and help you out of the situation. And, just like driving, at some point in time your second language just 'clicks' into place. I am nowhere near fluent, I still make many mistakes, but I feel as if French has clicked into place in my brain and now I can join a conversation and say more than "oui" or "je ne comprends pas".


I have been in France for over seven weeks now. The first five of those passed by uncomfortably slowly and the last two have flown by unnervingly quickly. October feels like a lifetime ago yet Christmas is just around the corner. Of course, it all boils down to that age-old philosophy, 'time flies when you're having fun'. I am enjoying France a lot and as I look back on what were five of the most difficult weeks of my very short life so far, I can see that 'everything happens for a reason'. Forgive me for the cliché overload.


I met some other English language assistants last weekend and so had the first proper, real-life, sans webcam conversation in English with a fellow native speaker for six weeks. I felt like I had got back some of my identity. It was good fun. We went to a few bars, found a McDonald's (needless to say, I was far less excited than the others), and did a Lidl food shop.


I am having slight insomnia issues at the moment, resulting in me not being able to sleep until ridiculous a.m. and waking up at ridiculous p.m. Only in Narbonne, though. In Sigean, I fall asleep at around 4am and am up at 7:30. If there are typos-a-plenty in this post, you now know why. 

Teaching this week has been extremely tiring. My lesson was a debate about social networks and whether they are good or bad. However, talking about the internet with hormonal teenage boys was not something I had considered as a problem. After hearing almost all the boys in almost all the classes proudly shout out their favourite porn websites, and laughing about ChatRoulette, I then managed to grab their attention and move onto Facebook and the like. The most difficult thing I found this week was to keep a straight face when this happened. Well, for the first lesson anyway. Each class was so disruptive that by Monday afternoon my sense of humour had evaporated and my face had forgotten how to smile. Teenagers do not shut up. They do not listen. They do not care. Once you realise and accept that, it becomes easier... Because you, too, stop caring.


At the end of my fifth class on Tuesday, the students had been so bad that I told certain boys that I was going to report them to the head of English. I was fair and far too nice; I gave them all at least five warnings each. After ignoring their pleas, I made to leave. However, one boy stopped me and begged and begged me not to report him. I simply said that it was not my problem and that I did not care. As tears welled up in his eyes, I very sympathetically told him to get out of my sight. By sympathetically, I mean I silently held the door open and ushered him out.
Did I feel bad? No. Do I feel bad now? Slightly.


This weekend, my girlfriend is coming to Narbonne! I get to play the awkward tour guide who has to try and think of places to go, despite me having no idea myself. My indecisive gene will surely help matters.


I know it is bad to end on a negative but I have to share this tragedy with you.
Yesterday, I was browsing through music on YouTube and found this.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?NR=1&v=VpnuubCJjCU


It has been sixteen hours and still it is playing on repeat in my head, hence this post's title.

DC

Botofogo go go!

When I last graced the blogosphere with my presence, it was not the most cheery visit. But things have changed.

So, I had almost given up hope and was on the verge of accepting that this year abroad just would not provide me with 'the best experience of my life'. I returned to Narbonne on Friday in the pouring rain and went for a couple of beers with Lucile, the English teacher at the school. I trudged home in the miserable weather, wanting nothing more than a hot shower and my bed. However, the combination of beer and a shower triggered my memories of pre-prelash, freshening up with a can of Stella on the window sill. 

Inspired, after twenty minutes preparing French in my head, I asked my housemate if he wanted to go to the pub. After a polite rejection, I did not lose hope! I instead sent a text to the Spanish assistant I met in my school and asked him if he would be free to meet up for a beer sometime. I received an immediate reply inviting me to go out that very evening.

Predrinking in a small, French studio flat with four Spanish and one German assistant was fun. The wine was flowing and the French language was spilling from my mouth. The language barrier somehow seems less intimidating when you are with other assistants, because you don't feel as pressured to get every little syllable right. In fact, the main focus is simply to convey some kind of meaning and I achieved that for the most part. Screw perfect grammar, pronunciation, and that mysterious but oh-so-important 'flair', I speak French the Dan Cash way. 

Let me tell you this: when you party with Spanish people, you party. They were busting their Spanish dance moves with a bit of Samba and some Flamenco (I'm making this up, I have absolutely no idea what dances they were doing but they were very good)! When we got to the club, Botofogo, for the first time (yeah, right) in my life I wished I could dance properly and not like the awkward little white boy I am. French nightclubs are a different experience to those of a British origin. For one thing, there were not patches of vomit on the walk there. Also, the club did not smell of a mix between the Gent's, sweaty teenagers, and regurgitated beer. 

Believe me, I do not write this with even a subtle hint of irony, but God do I miss British nightclubs.

The next evening I met some of the same group of people to go to a pub. There, we met with a Spanish teacher from one of the assistants' school, and her daughter who is learning Spanish and English. With conversations in both Spanish and French, and English music on the TV, my head was going crazy trying to figure out what was going on. I sat there sipping a pint, enjoying the company and what conversation I understood enough of to join in.

After chilling at the guy's flat, I left for home at about eleven, completely shattered and ready for bed. Instead, I ended up going to Declan's Pub with my housemate and his friend. It was nice to go up to a bar and order a proper pint. It was also nice to drink lots of ale and then go to Botofogo for the second night. This time, it was ten euros to get in with a drink included in that price. It was wicked, people were notably more drunk than the night before, and more people were dancing the classic robotic English boxstep. It was a good night out where I spoke even more French, this time with native speakers, and experienced more differences between our cultures. At one point there was a fully naked man having an absolute rave, loving life.

So all in all, this weekend proved that things can seem to be absolutely awful and hopeless and then, without warning, everything changes. Your rollercoaster speeds upwards again you throw your hands in the air and enjoy the ride.

Then it was back to Sigean and teaching. I was looking forward to returning to work and to a routine, but Sod's law governed that I would get a cold on Sunday evening. Monday, then, was a complete write-off and I returned to school on Tuesday, which is today. It was the most tiring day I've had in the last five weeks I think. The pupils are on some kind of sick, twisted post-holiday high and the teachers are drained after spending two days of shouting, persevering and attempting to insert just a grain of knowledge into these young and uninspired minds. It does not help that the day begins at 8:30am, when it is dark outside, and finishes at 5pm, when it is dark outside. While it is easy to see why people would be interested in pursuing a career in teaching, it is also easy to see why these people may, at some point in their lives, go completely and utterly cray-cray. However, none of this has remotely affected my good mood and high spirits.

Now, I am preparing for tomorrow's morning of teaching (all hail half-day Wednesdays) and my journey back to Narbonne for my luxurious four-and-a-half-day-weekend.

I'll see you lot on the other side,

DC

(The new background image for this blog is courtesy of me, and my amazing photography skills. It depicts the gloriously brown canal of Narbonne and two random people.)

Two bedrooms and a house.

These photos are of my room in Sigean, which I have reason to believe was once a medical room.

My curtains are drawn here because the sunlight blinds me when I am sat at my desk. Of course, now my lights are broken the curtains are open much more.

My bed and an unopenable filing cabinet. The poster you can see on the door outlines the French school system. Neat.

This is my sink, wardrobe (shelved cupboard) and you can also see my Exeter photo scrap book sitting on the filing cabinet of mystery.

I personally like the soap and tissue dispensers. They really give the room that homey feel.

This is the noticeboard on the wall facing my bed. To give you a general idea, the topics covered include: AIDS, contraception, bullying, child abuse, drug abuse, neglect, and rape. Nice and cheerful.

This is my 'reason to believe' that the room was once a medical room.

I considered showing you a photo of my 'shower' but it is far too embarrassing to put on the internet.

Narbonne

This is my squeaky double bed in Narbonne. Armed with my collection of DVDs and a few beers, life is comfortable here. It's also nice not to have your feet hanging off the end of the bed.

This is the room I will never again take for granted: a kitchen. A place where I can keep cheese and milk, make warm cups of tea, cook my every meal and sit down to eat it. Also, the curtains and table are green. Icing on the cake.

My green haven! Green door curtain, green chairs, green sofa... and a TV. This room is good. We like this room.







So there you have it, these are my two living spaces. One is significantly larger than the other, providing more entertainment, more comfort and food. The other is in Sigean. At leas that one has internet I suppose!

I am going to post one last photo, but if I posted it before explaining why, you may start assuming things about me that ought not be assumed.
It is a toilet, but the thing to focus on is the amount of room between the porcelain and the door. There is none. For a guy with long, gangly legs like me, it is quite frankly the least comfortable squatting experience I have encountered.
Except for the long-drops at Reading Festival of course.

I will soon post photos of the surrounding areas of both Sigean and Narbonne. 

Right now, I must get back to planning a week's of lessons about Bonfire Night, Guy Fawkes, and Ottery St. Mary. 

DC

Rollercoasters.

It has been said many a time that life is a rollercoaster. Using this as a basis for my life, before I moved to France, my life was like The Stinger at Paulton's Park: it had ups and downs but for most of the time I just sat there waiting for something exciting to happen. Now I'm in France, my life is more like Space Mountain in Disney Land Paris: shooting upwards and then spiralling down and down and then suddenly shooting up again. Also, three lights in my room have broken, so life here is also almost as dark as Space Mountain.

I have not written for a while for a few reasons. Firstly, I was lazy and kept telling myself that I would write tomorrow. Then, I decided to move to Narbonne and just like that I was living in a house with two other guys, but without internet. The third and final reason, is that I returned to Sigean with every intention of blogging away, but the internet was not working. Deciding it was the final straw I cracked and wanted to book a flight back to England... although I could not, because the internet was down.

So, I will take this back a couple of weeks. Things were good. I had finished teaching for the holidays and they had finally fitted internet. Of course, for something to go well something else has to go badly. So, on the same day that the internet was installed, the main light in my room broke. But that was fine, it left three others and one in the shower room. As long as I could Facebook, Tweet, Skype and blog, I was happy. (I know I may seem obsessed with the internet and social networking, but I just like to have as many ways to procrastinate as possible.)

Also on Internet Day, I had the first full conversation in French where I did not feel like a complete ignorant foreigner. I was sorting out my social security with the school secretaries and ended up talking about all manner of things. It was brilliant, I was happy and I was insured. Tidy. Then, I went to the staff room and with a new sense of confidence, asked Lucile if she wanted to go for a pint in the evening so I could speak more French. The pub was good but I still resent the fact that I cannot go to the bar to order a drink. The French do pubbing backwards and it is wrong. Although, in my first university report I wrote about this cultural difference in a less black-and-white, biased way. I then returned to my room where light number two decided to illuminate no longer, and I Skyped and YouTubed the night away.

On Saturday, I had a rendez-vous with a landlady in Narbonne. I met her in the afternoon, took a glimpse of the house and decided to take it. It was like luxury. There were fully-functioning lights, a fridge-freezer to store food, an oven to cook food, a double bed, a television, a shower that was warm! It was as if I was moving from poverty to richness, from Hull to Chelsea. The lack of internet put me off slightly, but I would be in Sigean for half the week so I remained positive. I had made a rash decision and for someone as indecisive as me, I was full of doubt. Asking for a sign that I had done the right thing, I arrived in my little room and a third light busted.

Monday rolled around and, full of apprehension and fear, I decided I would not move yet. The following day I spent hours phoning various taxi companies but nobody was available. Feeling annoyed, I eventually found an available taxi at 6pm and arrived in Narbonne just half an hour later. I moved in and met my first housemate, Mathieu.

He is so French it hurts. The only way I can describe him is to refer you to Simon's exchange student in The Inbetweeners, but less of a prick and not as good looking (no homo). He said he was going to the supermarket so I seized an opportunity and went with him. For the first time in a month, I could cook. I was not going to let this opportunity pass me by... I bought pasta, rice and Nesquik cereal.

I explored Narbonne and it is nice. It has a lovely town centre, where a canal runs through and a patch of Roman road rests in the centre. I looked in shop windows, saw the price tags and almost choked on my Cornetto. (I was not eating a Cornetto, I lied.) I then returned home, where shortly after my second housemate arrived, Jean-Baptiste. He spoke in slow French and was very welcoming. The next evening we went to a quirky little pub, where people are more interested in playing wooden games than getting drunk. Slightly disappointed, and my hair full of rubble from the low, cave-like ceilings, we left for home. It was nice to meet new people and to have a pint, but I could not help but still feel lonely. The language barrier was not helping.

During the next few days, both my housemates were busy seeing their girlfriends. Unfortunately for me, the landlady chose to furnish the house with squeaky beds, so I knew exactly how busy they were. When they were not making my ears bleed, they were cuddling on the sofa or cooking together. Feeling lonelier than ever, I returned to Sigean on Monday evening to get on the internet and talk to people. Returning to my dark, gloomy, room at the school I turned on my laptop ready to have an English conversation and feel less isolated. It did not work. After hours of trying to get the internet to work, I fell apart. Big time...

Now, the internet is back up and running and I have spoken to family, friends and my girlfriend. I am happier and I am feeling more positive. I have not spoken French properly for over a week, but I no longer consider that my main priority. I will return to Narbonne tomorrow for two days and then I will fall into a routine of work and play. I still feel lonely, and there is no denying how isolated I am in this small town, but hopefully things will improve. It is difficult when you are alone to remain optimistic, not to get lost in your loneliness.

Like a rollercoaster, there are ups and downs. On the way up your excitement mingles with nerves and apprehension. You are waiting for the downs to come and when they do, they take you on a free fall; you are out of control. The most difficult thing when you are alone and your rollercoaster starts to plummet is finding the energy to begin climbing up high, again.

DC