Distraction therapy: 01 (London)

I was examiner for ‘O’ level Mandarin Chinese, University of London Board, for four years in the 1980s.

There’d be two lots:  a really big one in the summer when I’d be given 200 scripts, and a re-sit in January.

The paper comprised a number of questions/tasks: translate into Chinese, translate into English, essay.

In spite of the fact that it was meant to be for non-native speakers of Chinese, it was clear from all the names that they were Chinese speakers, mostly — if not all — Cantonese speakers, from the language usage.

It was excruciating to read the English.

At first, I’d go for distraction, just to get away from the agony.  After a paragraph, I’d go and wash the dishes.  After another paragraph, I’d go and clean the floor.  After one more paragraph, I’d go and wash some clothes.  Scrub the walls.  Clean the windows.  Do some dusting.  Until I had nothing left to clean.  I was quite tempted to ring up my friends and ask them if they’d like to send round their laundry.

After a while, I came up with a half-full approach.

I decided that the bad English can be treated as hilarious rather than painful, perhaps to be published one day as a collection for a laugh.  So, I started to have a notepad and pen by the side, and jot down all the howlers as I went along.  After a while, I switched to typing them up, using my manual typewriter, set up on the table or a spare chair beside me.  This held up my marking just as much, but at least I wasn’t tearing my hair out.

When I later mentioned this to my SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London) classical Chinese teacher, Mr. George Weys (d. 2019) (featured in blogs Skiving off skiing and The swing doors ), he said he’d also done some marking in earlier years.  

He said he was sometimes so exasperated that he was quite tempted to take the whole pile, go to the top of his staircase, and throw them down the steps.  

Whichever landed on the top step, he’d give a distinction.  Whichever landed on the bottom, he’d fail them.

(London, early–mid 1980s)

Skiving off skiing:  https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2011/07/skiving-off-skiing.html 

The swing doors:  https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2011/07/swing-doors.html 

Skiving off skiing (Courmayeur / London)

The oil company cohort I’d worked with as a temp in the summer found a skiing holiday deal that allowed the eleventh person to go free (of charge), and as it was in March as well, nearing the end of the skiing season, it was a deal I just couldn’t turn down.

Since I’d been a model student, going to every single lesson so far, I thought it might be all right for me to skip one week’s classes, as I’d be able to catch up, being the swot that I was.  (I hope my students are not reading this…)

After a week of being in the sun with sunglasses on, and being one to tan quickly, I acquired the nickname of Panda, so I couldn’t even hide my tan by covering up with clothes.  I didn’t own a balaclava at the time.

First day back at university, last week of term, I went really early to the classroom, choosing a seat right at the back in a corner.

The classical Chinese teacher, Mr. George Weys (d. 2019) called out each student in turn, getting them to read, then to translate. 

Finally, everyone had had a turn, and there was one sentence left.  

He looked around, and spotted me: “Ah, you’re back!”

They’d apparently been feeling very sorry for me throughout the week, thinking I must’ve been really ill to be missing a whole week’s classes.  Sheep*.

Then he said, “Oh!  I see where you’ve been.”  Gulp.  Double sheep. 

I did my sentence, and got one bit wrong, a hilarious mistake which had the teacher collapsing in a fit of giggles, covering his mouth with one hand, his face reddening from the effort of trying to control his giggles.  (Teachers are not meant to laugh at students’ mistakes.)

Lesson over, everyone got up to leave.  He called out to me, “Can you stay behind, please.  I need to talk to you.”

Oh dear.  I knew what it was going to be about.  I was going to be lectured on skiving off before the end of term, even though my attendance had always been punctual and my work exemplary — until just now, when I made that silly mistake, so skipping classes obviously affected my studies.

He waited until everyone had left, and there were only the two of us.  Obviously to save me face during the ticking off.

Mr. W:  “Where did you go skiing last week?”

Me:       “Courmayeur.” 

Mr. W:  “I’m going that way next week, and was wondering what the snow conditions were like last week.”

* For those who might need help:

sheepish (adjective)

showing or feeling embarrassment from shame or a lack of self-confidence, e.g., a sheepish grin.

(Courmayeur/London, March/April 1979)

See also The swing doors:  https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2011/07/swing-doors.html 

Update 230625: For those who might be interested, the white horse going past a gap sentence came from the 史記 / 史记 / Records of the Grand Historian text we were reading (留侯世家 /  / The Family of the Marquis of Liu / The House of the Marquis of Liu):

(Traditional script) 人生一世間，如白駒過隙

(Simplified script) 人生一世间，如白驹过隙

rénshēng yī shìjiān, rú bái jū guò xì

A lifetime in a human life is like a white horse going past a gap

but the original was in

(Traditional script)

《莊子·知北游》

人生天地之間，若白駒之過隙，忽然而已。

(Simplified script)

《庄子·知北游》

人生天地之间，若白驹之过隙，忽然而已。

The swing doors (London)

I had a recurring problem with my classical Chinese teacher, Mr. George Weys (d. 2019), within my first few weeks (already!) at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies), until we eventually — and reluctantly — arrived at a compromise for the sake of the bystanders. 

Whenever we happened to arrive at the same time at a set of swing doors en route to the classroom for our lessons, I’d push open my half to let him through first, because he was my teacher, older and male (in that order, note!). 

As a European gentleman of a certain generational upbringing, he’d always walk on the outside of the pavement, which made it awkward whenever we turned corners as he’d keep switching sides, sometimes almost colliding with me in his haste to be on the correct side.

At the swing doors, he’d hold his half of the swing doors open for me to go through before him, on the Ladies First principle.  

As we deferred and haggled, a long queue would build up behind us.  

In the end, we had to come to a compromise:  go through the swing doors together.

(London, 1978)

See also Skiving off skiing:  https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2011/07/skiving-off-skiing.html