It Falls Itself to Me the Face of Shame

A literal translation of the Spanish expression that I used today in my classes. In other words, I wish the ground had opened up and swallowed me.

Today was the final day of presenting the semi-presential "course" that the powers that be have imposed upon us. Today was (thank heavens!) the last time that I had to tell my ill-informed, to say the least, students that not only did they have to shell out on expensive course books, do the work and then correct it themselves, but that they also had to find, by hook or by crook, the teacher's CDs in order to do the listening exercises that should be done in class.

All fine and dandy you might argue - until you find out that these CDs are not on sale to the general public, just to teachers. Indeed, if they are available, they are from overseas websites at over €100 a set. This is not exactly emblazoned in the large print of their enrolment form, nor indeed is it in the small print.

Some of my colleagues have lent out the CDs to be copied illegally. Others have uploaded them onto various P2P sites. I have done neither and I definitely do not intend to do so.

This practice is not only to be found in my department, but in most of the other languages taught too. I am not going to risk my house to pay copyright infringement fines and my freedom to supplement a half-cock course for a half-cock university. Others can do it if they wish. My face will keep on falling itself to me of shame. Better that than ending up homeless and in jail because my employer will not listen to reason and is prepared to abuse its staff and clients so scandalously.

Pigs, Pokes, Lambs and Slaughter

I have just finished my first week of teaching the new, improved, one-hour per week English course and have been surprised by my students' reaction. It was...

Nothing.

Even though they knew nothing about how the course was organised, what was to be done at home and what was to be done in class, they had duly signed up and were then sitting in my class waiting to be told what they had paid for.

When I presented them the online component, fundamentally nothing more than a tarted-up (to the best of our ability) list of answers to the exercises in the class book, what was their reaction?

Nothing

When I told them that to do the listening exercises they needed to buy the teacher's class CDs at 80GBP a set - if they could get hold of them because they weren't commercially available - what was their reaction?

Nothing.

After years of working in this particular establishment I am now accustomed to the fact that a large proportion of the students are incapable of independent creative thought when they leave their own particular field of expertise. Indeed, it is not uncommon to have university students bring their mum along to exam revisions etc. in the hope that she can persuade the nasty teacher to pass their little boy or girl. However, I do not understand how people can shell out money on a course about which they knew nothing beforehand and then sit quietly taking notes while they are given the details. Details that reveal an  embarrassingly evident lack of quality and depth. Let us not forget that this is a course which, in their infinite wisdom, the powers that be have imposed upon both the students and upon us, the teachers .

Where does this supineness come from? Is it desperation due to the economic situation? Is it the fact that as I mentioned in a previous post all undergraduate students now need a B1 level of a foreign language to get their degree? I honestly do not know. To give a different example, I would not phone an electrical goods shop and say "I want a fridge" and tell them to deliver it to my home without asking any questions about it. Neither, when it arrived, would I accept this article when the delivery team's patter could hardly avoid pointing out the paucity of its performance and its lack of basic features, such as the optional door that can only be bought from a foreign website at a prohibitive price.

My own and my colleagues' students have done just that.

I do not understand. At all.

STRIKE ONE!!!!

I am now too old to be an idealist, but today I am on strike, even though I know it will change nothing.

As I explain in the post below, I will definitely not be supporting the unions in this strike, I will just be making my own personal point. 

Let me explain.

The Spanish government, in its infinite wisdom (I hasten to add that my political sympathies tend to lean more towards this particular bunch than their predecessors, but not by much - perhaps it is better to say that I hold them in marginally less contempt) has decided to squeeze public employees, of which I am one.

When the first round of civil service paycuts bit, I did not strike. I thought it quite fair and logical that we all shared the burden on the road to recovery. Now however, all that has changed.

I have had a 15% wage cut (my taxes have been lowered to hide the extent of the cut). I have had my holiday pay slashed, as well as all other bonuses. "Ok", you might say, "at least you have a job". I agree wholeheartedly but... Where does this money go? To subsidise the profligate banks, that's where.

As a result of this overall pay cut of about 25% I am finding it increasingly difficult to pay my mortgage and pay for my children's studies - as indeed is my ex-wife who is also a civil servant. 

Recently I went to my bank to express these concerns and to renegotiate my mortgage. The result? they offered to refinance my mortgage at 9% + Euribor! Therefore, I have been forced to give 25% of my salary to the banks so that I can then go begging to them for a loan at an interest rate that would have seemed excessive to Shylock. Shame on the banks! Shame on the government!

This is why I am striking. Yet I insist, I am one of the lucky ones. 

STRIKE TWO!!!!!

Today there is a general strike in Spain and I am striking.
This is the first time that I have ever been on strike because up to now I have never really agreed with the motives (ususally political here in Spain) behind them.
First, let's examine the unions and why I disagree with them so strongly:
When Franco csme to power, obviously all left-wing organisations were banned, to put it mildly. This included UGT, the Socialist trades union, CCOO, the Communist one, CGT, the Anarchist one and a plethora of other workers' organisations.
In post-civil-war Spain the Left had no place, but to throw a sop to the idea of democracy, "representative" organisations of all types were invented that ran on what was known as vertical democracy. In essence, what this meant was that the shop floor voted for the candidate(s) that the regime provided them with. These in turn voted for the next layer of representation etc. etc - a sort of 20th-century feudalism. By the way, this still exists. In the "democratic" university where I work, the Rector is not voted for directly by the students, teaching and services staff but by the abovementioned system.
In 1978 Spain voted for its democratic constitution and the left avidly took over the selfsame organisations that Franco had established. Now, however, it was indeed  "democratic", even though in some cases the patronage and favours system merely got handed down from one generation of the ruling bourgeoisie to the next. The political parties changed, but, in some cases, the families did not.
Suddenly, the old trades unions were back in business, their patrimony restored and their status of guardians of the people unquestioned.
But.
In Spain Trades Unions are subsidised by the State. Obviously their members pay dues but the State (ie the tax payer) picks up the greatest part of the tab. Therefore, we all have to pay for the Communist. Socialist Anarchist, etc. unions, whether we want to or not, through our taxes.
Furthermore, instead of being organised by economic activity, they are organised by political party. The closed shop was bad enough, but this???
This can also lead to conflicts of interest between sectors within the same union. Imagine company X decides  to close its plant in Spain and move to Belgium, transporting its finished goods to Spain by rail. How can the same union represent the losers in the manufacturing industry and the winners in the railways at the same time?
How can such organisations represent all of its members simultaneously?
The answer is that they don't. They represent themselves, posturing and strutting in front of the cameras, spouting demagogical nonsense that appeals to the least-formed intellect and basest emotions while picking up their rather large pay packets. Obviously, when the unions call a strike, we can't expect the union officials to lose their pay. No way. They still get paid on strike days while the people they claim to represent lose money they can ill-afford to do without. The unions are just as corrupt, at least in ideals, as the rest of the political classes here in Spain.
That is why although I am on strike, I will not be on any of the marches. I want to make a personal protest. I do not want to be represented by the unions, even though they will claim to have represented me. I've got better things to do such as listen to Radio 4 and drink tea in my cosy bottom-of-the-garden shed

OUR BEAUTIFUL LAUNDERETTES

Reading Silver Tiger’s post with the alluringly alliterative title of Drips on a Drab day took me back to the working summers I spent in Northampton during the early 2000s, where I used to stay with my father in his small pensioner’s flat. As he didn’t have his own washing machine I used to take the week’s laundry to the local launderette where I would ask for a “service wash” meaning that the ladies who ran it would also load the machines and driers and then iron the clean clothes while I was at work.

When commenting on this to acquaintances in Spain they almost invariably assume that the British must be grindingly poor if they can’t afford their own washing machines. In fact, I cannot, offhand, say that I’ve ever seen a coin-operated launderette in Seville.  I don’t deny that in some cases poverty might be the reason for their existence in GB, but I feel that practicality also plays a part. Small flats and houses mean that space is at a premium and so a large washing machine and the almost obligatory tumble dryer might be too bulky for some homes. Most people probably use the space more satisfyingly with a dog or cat basket and its corresponding furry occupant.

Although I used to ask for a service wash on weekdays, if I did the wash at a weekend I would invariably do it myself to let the whole sensorial experience – er – wash over me.

I love the smell of clothes being laundered. This might be a throwback to Monday washdays with my mother which were a very exciting event for a small child. These were the days before automatic washing machines and what we had was an enamelled tub filled with hot water from the geyser with an agitator at the bottom.

As the clothes swirled around the tub they could be pulled out with a large pair of wooden tongs and then passed through the mangle before being hung out on the line[1] Later the mangle was made obsolete by a primitive manic spin-dryer that hopped across the floor, water spewing out of a chute arrangement at its base, water that the overturned bowl in the opposite corner of the kitchen would have collected had the spin-dryer not decided to go hopabout.

For me, going to a launderette therefore brings back the smells[2] of those days, as well as providing me with an ever-changing array of conversational companions – indeed, at “Bubbles” in Northampton freshly-brewed tea and coffee was on offer for a few pence.

Perhaps the launderette is to some extent replacing the disappearing pubs as the hub of an area’s social life and information exchange. Perhaps it always has been. 

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[1] There’s a beautiful anecdote about Yorkshire-born artist David Hockney and his mother. Being shown around Beverly Hills for the first time, and admiring all of those beautifully manicured lawns, she turned to her son and asked why, if it was such a nice sunny day, they hadn’t hung out the washing to make the most of the good weather.

[2] Proust had his madeleines, I have boiled sheets!

Roald Dahl and I

This week I suddenly realised that I share quite a lot with Roald Dahl. Being crotchety old men and possessing infinite depths of grumpiness apart, we also share certain tastes in the accommodation department.

Apparently Roald Dahl would breakfast in his house and then retire to a shed at the bottom of the garden to do his writing.

I now live in a shed at the bottom of the patio of a Maltese Countess' rather palatial house here in Seville. Perhaps this needs a bit of clarification. I am renting a granny flat (perhaps that should be potential grandpappy flat!) from a very good friend of mine. 

And a jolly good flat it is too. I have WiFi, a bathroom and bed-sitting room. It is all very snug and has met with the full approval of my youngest daughter who is dying to stay over one weekend.

I have always had a soft spot for sheds at the bottom of the garden. My mother bought me one for my 21st birthday and I loved sitting down there on rainy nights drinking tea, reading and listening to Radio 4. Now, over 30 years later I am able to repeat the experience. I am extremely fortunate. 

Guys and Dolls - a Quick Gripe

Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, bulls and cows, boars and sows, and a long etcetera.

As is probably quite obvious, I am an avid listener of BBC Radio 4. When I was younger - a lot younger - I imagined that R4 was a station for crusty old colonels, probably listening in from Cheltenham or Tunbridge Wells who, when not listening to the radio, were snapping off letters to the Times or Telegraph bemoaning the inevitable decline of our nation's standards since the loss of Empire and the disappearance of its culture under a tidal wave of American products, idioms, ideas etc.

Habitual listening to R4, however, soon disabused me of the above image but now it turns out that it is I who is becoming crusty and scandalised by some of R4's content. Not a lot of content, I admit, but the following grates:

Why oh why do so many people insist on talking about males and females?

What is wrong with those completely acceptable words man and woman?

Obviously I have no complaints if we are using the words male and female as adjectives. "Female bank robber" or "male model" for example are fine, but sentences such as "two males were seen running away from the scene" or "if you are a female, then..." are, in my opinion, plain ridiculous.

Man and woman can only be used to refer to humans. Have you ever heard of a "man toad", for instance? Or a "woman fish"? No. Obviously not. Animals are male or female. People are men and women. Is this political correctness gone mad? Would we rather compare ourselves to animals, fish or plants than to other members of our own species?

Please in your own writings and speech, try to avoid the use of male and female and use the proper nouns man and woman. There is absolutely nothing wrong with these two words.