Who'd have guessed I'd be a role model?

Panthea greeted me today with her usual enthusiasm, 'I'm tired, I've got a headache, I need to go shopping...I'm reallly ill...' Half way through the lesson, after I'd persuaded her to do some ratio worksheets, she started questioning me about my job and whether I worked part time. Within minutes she had decided she would get an A in Maths and become a tutor too - 'If I work in the evenings I can spend the day going shopping'. She worked out the exact hour intervals when she would work and even informed me that she would earn more than me because she would 'work Fridays too'.

Before she could be persuaded to work again she sketched the shoe she apparently wanted to buy - complete with spikes, 5 wheels, a water bottle holder at the back and various doughnut carriers at the front, the shoe would make doughnuts. She is remarkably inventive, if a little crazy, and it almost seems a shame to teach her maths instead of English, which she loves. However, she cant be a Maths tutor if she doesn't learn, so hopefully she will be more keen on Friday.

Drama Queen

My pupil said to me today in the statistics lesson, 'I bet you're going to go home and tell your friends and family how crazy I am'. I replied, 'I've already written a blog about how mad you are and there are lots of subscribers....'

It got me thinking though, she is rather entertaining, and its fascinating how self aware she is, that she is analysing her behaviour with me and projecting my possible moves in the future.

She succeeded in distracting me from statistics for ten whole minutes of our hour lesson today by telling me about her boyfriend woes. She has recently broken up with her boyfriend because he kissed one of her friends. I wanted to know why she was still friends with this girl. Panthea was surprisingly pragmatic, 'Well I did the same thing to one of my friends, so I guess its just bad karma..'

Apparently the reason she couldn't concentrate on the lesson was because she was constantly thinking about him. Hmmmm

Another funny thing, my phone beeped a couple of times during the lesson and Panthea wanted to know if it was my boyfriend. When I said no she said, 'Oh is that because education is the most important thing in your life', she looked dead serious but laughed when my deadpan response 'Of course, what is more important than education?' came back at her.

She was, however, upset that she couldn't go a party on tonight because of my tuition - she was missing out on 'four hours' of dancing apparently. When I suggested people might be bored and just talking she said 'Talking's even worse!'. Panthea wanted to be at the party because her ex boyfriend would be there with another of his exes. When I suggested this was rather counter intuitive she said, 'I want to make her jealous, its my duty'. So its her duty to make herself upset? Should I feel guilty I wonder...

Well instead of the party she was off to watch a romantic comedy at the 02 centre with another friend, who happened to be best friend's with the friend who kissed Panthea's ex...and had a picture of her and the ex on her phone...Some people just want to be miserable

No more Mr Nice Guy

Mad panic, lesson in an hour, I print sheet after sheet of poems and story extracts and reading comprehensions and grammar exercises. I realise I have almost used up all the materials on BBC Bitesize as well as all my paper and ink and start to get into a frenzy. Do I REALLY have enough material to keep a lesson of two hours going? Can I honestly say I have prepared enough to earn my much needed £25?

When I arrive however it turns out the agenda has been set. The concerned pregnant mother wants her children to drastically improve their punctuation and grammar. So it’s away with compliments and free open discussions and on with a drastic critique of every word, sentence and paragraph written in their last homework I commissioned, as well as every phrase they utter. In the two hour lesson we went through a mere three pieces of homework.

Instead of a nice tick and a few useful comments for improvement, I initiated formative assessment in one devastating swoop. Far from making a few tentative suggestions for future essays, I massacred the work of my two lovely pupils, effectively making them rewrite it in its entirety.

They endured me with my cruellest persona yet: NO you are not allowed to use good as an adjective – it does not MEAN anything! Why are you repeating yourself? Did you really think that sentence was interesting or meaningful? Do NOT write ‘I think that’ write ‘It IS the case that’, Your younger brother does not write like that! REPETITION. That word is pointless, as is the sentence, in fact cross out the entire paragraph! What could you have written instead? Is that sentence logical? Really?!

It was rather a lot of fun and required absolutely no preparation, it even had the added bonus of making me feel I was genuinely teaching them something useful. Indeed, this style of lesson radically reduces lesson planning to as little as a minute – I decide what insane amount of homework I will give them for discussion next week. At the moment I seem to have a backlog of undissected homework, so I guess I can sit back and relax.

My fear is simply that too much criticism demotivates and demoralizes. I’m also dubious about the usefulness of the pupils writing down verbatim all the improvements I suggest. They need to think for themselves and be encouraged to do so. At the end of the day, though, I must do what I am told by the mother and wage payer. Who knows, maybe the kids will improve at a crazy rate. No more Mr Nice Guy.

Life as a Parliamentary Intern

Admittedly its glamorous: your pass gives you unfettered freedom to walk around the beautiful Parliamentary estate, bump into MPs you may or not recognise off the telly and occasionally go on trips to see the Olympic stadium or to glamorous events like the Lib Dem Arts Launch with such notables as Sally Phillips from Smack the Pony, Richard Dawkins and famous directors.

Yet day to day life revolves around a stuffy fifth floor office, choc a bloc with documents, not enough space and a tiny TV showing Parliament News 24/7 or Euronews for variation.

It wouldn't be too bad, but the room is like a sauna. This is the result of efficient workmen, who when told we wanted new windows to keep the rain out, decided it would be a fantastic idea to glue them shut instead. Well, it solved the rain problem, but it also meant we were unable to get fresh air and respite from the heat. Fun things to do in the attic-like office are look out of the window at Houses of Parliament, Big Ben and the like and watch the motorbike protesters, or the woman who always seems to have a megaphone.

Every day there seems to be a new protest, and whilst some protesters are clearly crazy, many have a valid reason to complain, and so it annoys me when my office make disparaging comments about them. Protesters are there to be noticed and listened to, they are meant to annoy in fact, and when people miss that point, it is very frustrating.

No one knows better than a Parliamentary intern how far 'appropriate action' will get you. Writing to Ministers, nine times out of ten, they will reply, 'Thank you for your letter informing me about your constituent's concerns. We understand their concerns and already have this regulation in place which actually makes everything OK and means their point is invalid. I hope this is helpful'. Well surprisingly, no it bloody isn't.

Take another form of daily work: telling the MP which EDMs to sign, sort of mini petitions ranging from This House shows our respects to servicemen who died in the war, to This House urges the Government to stop battery farming, to This House speaks out against Christian persecution in Mosul. Potentially helpful, but on average about 10 MPs sign each one, with about 10 new ones being written every day, and considering there are 647 MPs, let alone Lords, the chances of an EDM being noticed are pretty slim.

Similarly, tabling Parliamentary Questions, whether oral or written, is a daily job. We write maybe 10 a day, the MP has to OK them, then we wait for the Minister to reply. This is admittedly quicker than writing them a letter, but the answer is generally the same. They will provide statistics begrudgingly, but they will not say: Yes, I see our actions were wrong and shall remedy this asap.

Despite most answers to Parliamentary Questions being a few lines or seconds long, they cost a staggering amount of money according to Parliament's website. A written question is said to cost £154 on average, whilst an oral question costs an outrageous £425. How on earth can this be justified?

So do I end the day feeling fulfilled and glamorous or frustrated and small? All I can do is hope that in small way my actions are subtly encouraging the Government Ministers they need to change their actions and listen to the needs of the people. If this is not the case, maybe I'd be better off joining the protesters.

The Habit of Art

Sitting on my own in the second row in a packed theatre earlier this week I was quietly optimistic about the performance I was about to see. I couldn't help but feel pleased I had paid a mere £5 for the seat unlike my fellow theatregoers who were discussing using the National Theatre Entrypass scheme before the play. This is the third play I have seen this year for £5 at the National, and it was most definitely worth it. Forget Oxford student plays in the dark cramped Burton Taylor Studio for £4, the calibre of the acting on stage at the National was phenomenal. It certainly helped that two of my favourite actors from the film of The History Boys were playing lead roles in Alan Bennett's newest play.

Richard Griffyths, who plays the unorthodox teacher of 'life' in The History Boys, was called upon to portray another morally ambiguous character in the play within a play about WH Auden and Benjamin Brittain. Bennett decided not to write a straight play, and given his track record of fantastic plays, this is easily forgiven. Moreover, it works. Bennett has his actors, director and writer argue on stage whilst rehearsing a play. Griffiths forgets his lines and takes issue with the writer on the way he has to portray WH Auden: he feels that Auden's sexual and toiletry habits should not be his most emphasised features in the play.

Certainly there are some very silly moments in the play, where it seems Bennett is taking liberties with his audience, such as when Griffiths comes on wearing an Auden mask, and the narrator appears dressed in drag and a ruffle, apparently to increase the authenticity of the production. However, Bennett is poking fun at experimental writers when he introduces talking furniture who discuss Auden's inner turmoil and comically, the play within a play, which is the point of the production, and as such, is meant to taken seriously, is often undermined by the actors' reluctance to perform such outlandish scenes.

Having said this, the conversation had between WH Auden and Benjamin Britten is very poignantly performed, and raises questions about what causes people to produce works of art, whether poetry like Auden, music like Britten or anything else. The disparity between the two men and Britten's obvious awkwardness in his formality suddenly disappear in this discussion, although at times Britten breaks off, puts on his formal front and attempts to leave. It is the awkwardness that makes the moments of coming together so special, as two lost souls find agreement briefly, despite being dissatisfied with their lives, something which seems to be a prerequisite to being a success in the field.

Bennett is obviously questioning not only the two protagonist's need to create art, but his own, and the audience feels privileged to be privy to his reconstruction of his thoughts on stage, with his consideration for the voice of every stage member, from actor to stage manager. We truly feel we are present at a rehearsal of the play, and seeing actors both in the play and behind the scenes, we can empathise more fully with the fate of those condemned to work for the theatre.

Waching this play on my own reminded me of Germany, where I often watched plays on my own because I hadn't found any hardcore theatre fans, and I thought it would do wonders for my German degree to watch authentic German theatre. It was definitely an experience: I was surprised, bored, and amazed by what I saw. Sex, campness and interesting use of staging seemed to be the done thing. In Chemnitz, formerly known as Karl-Marx-Stadt, I sat through the ballet "Romeo und Julia", set in Communist Russia with only massive concrete walls for scenery. I was bewildered by a version of "Kabale und Liebe" by Schiller with practically no scenery, so that we could see the actors dressing and drinking cups of tea in the darkness of back stage. I very much enjoyed a performance of Shakespeare's "Othello" set on a beach with the characters appearing on stage in bikinis and scuba masks delivering lines whilst running in and out of the water; Iago dancing crazingly in purple disco light whenever his scheming seems to have succeeded.

The actor who played Iago was my favourite in Chemnitz and I was delighted when he appeared in the German musical version of Charley’s Aunt (Charleys Tante) as the pole dancing, depressed butler. I played the character of Charley's aunt in an OULES production three years ago and we went to see the play done professionally in Richmond beforehand, so I was curious to see the German interpretation. Despite the main focus being a man dressed in women’s clothes, Chemnitz managed to camp up the play up even more by turning Charley, originally young and straight, into a bald homosexual with a wig in love with his best friend, who is completely oblivious, and by using any excuse to simulate bumming.

Indeed it seems that the German (or a least East German) way is to add sex to everything: in Chemnitz's performance of "Nathan the Wise", an eighteenth century German play by G E Lessing, with an enlightenment message of religious tolerance, a young woman and her older female servant embraced in a very erotic way on top of a washing machine in the middle of the stage, a washing machine which seemed to serve no purpose other than to facilitate this affection. And in Midsummer Night’s Dream (Sommernachtstraum) Theseus spent most of the time lying on the floor, his head engaged in activity under Hippolyta‘s skirt, coming up for air only to speak. Moreover, Puck and Oberon seemed unable to hold a conversation unless one was astride the other. And in case anyone was offended, at the end of the Shakespeare's comedy we were thrown toffees wrapped in quotes from the play: a nice touch I thought.

Karaoke in the Gloucester Arms

We were the only ones in Oxford's No. 1 Rock Pub for ages and got through a great deal of their song repertoire, possibly choosing the cheesiest and most poppy of the 'heavy metal' playlist:

Fridays I'm in Love by The Cure

Complicated by Avril Lavigne

Don't stop by No Doubt

In too deep by Sum 41

They still didn't have Mr Brightside or In the Shadows

But then Drew turned up and we did some proper hardcore singing - In the End by Linkin Park - it was awesome!

Annoying and stupid event - my mate got IDed - she's 26 and had no ID on her - surprisingly she thought she wouldn't need it. So she couldn't get a drink. I bought her one in the end but that made them kick her out :( We were all 21/22 and she was 26, it was ridiculous

Highlight of the evening : Bohemian Rhapsody by 'everyone' - we teamed up with the next table for a truly wonderful if out of tune rendition of the classic - the DJ even took lots of photos of us.

First Day in 59 Banbury Rd

I'm living in college accommodation for ten days whilst I 'sort out my life', that is, try and work out what an earth I should do next having studied a German degree for four years and failed spectacularly to get a job despite having applied for over fifty this year. I guess it's a tall order, but I can also look forward to a holiday in Chemnitz and Brussels as well as working in Oxford as a Residential Advisor for Japanese students again.After that I'm doing the Hertford Telethon for two weeks, putting off the world a little longer and possibly making contacts with the alumni I call up. Come October though I will need a real job.

I've never lived on Banbury Road, scorning it as too far away from the centre of Oxford. I never bought my friend's logic in trying to get me to live there: she reckoned having a garden would be great. I though living next a river somewhere more central with a catered dining hall was infinitely preferable. I could come downstairs in my slippers at 5.30, watch Neighbours with my friends, get my dinner and maybe watch the Simpsons too.

But having a garden is actually pretty cool. I just played croquet for the first time in over 7 years. And then badminton. It's strange how you realise there are more and more great things about a place just when you have to leave.