Friday Fresh Fruit

'The apple is red, but the red has NOTHING to do with Bemfica.'

'What colour is this?'
'It's red, but it looks yellow on paper!'

With pride: 'Teacher, for the colour orange I drew an orange'.

Belligerently: 'Teacher!'
'Yes?'
'Não sei que toilet?'
'You mean May I go to the toilet?'
'Isso mesmo. Ummm, yes.'
'Yes, you may'.
'Obrigada. Ummm, thanks.'

Urgent matter: 'Teacher!'
'Yes?'
'Do I write in pen or pencil?'
'Pencil is always better. If you make a mistake you can rub it out and start again.'
'O.K.'
That same moment, the child sitting next to this one waves his hand desperately: 'Teacher?'
'Yes?'
'Pen or pencil?'

'Tell me a number between one and five. In English.'
'Seis'. (Portuguese for 'six')

At the end of the day, teeth brushed, Kira in bed, lights off. Silence. Then she asks:
'Mica, can you die of stress?'

Lords and Ladies

Lords and Ladies

After meetings and discussions, a decision: There Shall be a Christmas show this year! Parents are invited.

This is a big deal. Every school show so far has been planned, rehearsed and performed just for us, children, teachers, cleaners and cooks – most of whom had already been bored stiff at rehearsals and made costumes and brought the snacks too.

I've always wondered why no parents? Christmas, Easter, End-of-Year – and never a parent in sight. Their kids are already away most of the time. Why aren't they breaking the gate down on the last day of term, invited or not, demanding to see their kid in a show?

Anyway, a few English carols are on the menu, and we are rehearsing. The fourth years are learning Away in a Manger. We read the words, we translate.

We get to 'the little Lord Jesus'. 'O pequeno menino Jesus' they say what their carols say. The little baby boy Jesus. 'Lord doesn't mean menino' – this one should be easy. 'Senhor, they shout devoutly, o pequeno Senhor Jesus'. Muito bem, excellent. By the time we get to 'the little Lord Jesus asleep in the hay', many are misty eyed with the beauty of the scene.

I take them a step further. OK so 'lord' is 'senhor', what is 'senhora'??? They don't know. 'Lady', I say and smile, so glad to see that look of delight and understanding burst on their faces. So foolish of me.

'Lady Gaga'! they shout, they are so pleased to have found such an illustrious example. Some jump and chant. O senhor Jesus e a Senhora Gaga!

I think we're getting right into that Christmas spirit. We'll sing 'Away in a Manger' and 'Alejandro', possibly together as an energetic pop-soul mix, set against fluorescent straw bales and dumb beasts dressed in tan leather.

When I Grow Up

Cristiano is quiet , a rare moment. Earlier he was trying to punish his pal Dario, on my behalf, for fidgeting and distracting the whole left side of the room. He pushed Dario's head down onto the desk, to 'sleep'.

I say 'When you are a teacher, you can decide how to deal with noisy kids. Not now.' He nodded and frowned and frowned and frowned.
'Is this red or yellow' I ask the class pointing to my red pen. A red pen is to a teacher what a scalpel to a surgeon, or a ladle to a cook.
Cristiano's hand shoots up.
'Yees?' Chuffed he's finally paying attention to the lesson.

'I don't want to be a teacher' he says firmly.

Away with you, colours of the rainbow. This is too interesting.
'Why?'
'It's too hard, and too boring, and the kids never listen.' My life, summed up by a 5-year old. Not bad. He continues:
'I want to be a goalie.'
'But that's the same', I remark. 'Hard when they shoot at your goal, and boring when they don't.'
He doesn't believe me and doesn't dare contradict me, so he just sits frozen, trying to stare me down.
In the meantime, I'm still holding up my red pen, and there are 16 hands in the air.
'Yees?' Come what may.
'I want to be a cook.'
'Vet.'
'Hairdresser.'
'Person who tells the weather on TV.'
'Singer, singer, singer!'

I am spellbound. In this class of 17 we have: 2 bakers ('because bread is healthy'), 2 vets (one of whom is scared of large animals), 2 cooks, 2 hairdressers, 4 football players (the one with no teeth is the attacker), one goalie, then the surprises. A plump little girl is the singer. A quiet and minuscule boy is the weatherman. Both candidates to National Television are – truth be told – far from beauties. Ella wants to be a gynaecologist ('a doctor who takes out babies') – how I wish I were so sure and clear so early on.

Finally, little Tania peeps up:
'I want to be a teacher.'
Thank goodness for that. I can't keep doing this much longer. My hand still holds up the red pen, and it's beginning to hurt.