I rose from my bed at an unreasonable hour today to spend an interminably long morning interviewing trainee teachers. So keen was I to get the fuck out of there afterwards that I didn't even stick around for the free lunch, and I was starving. But I needed to get away.
For those of you unfortunate enough not to be Irish; a little background. We have two official languages here, Irish and English, and though most everyone speaks English only a minority are fluent in Irish. It is, however, a compulsory subject in both primary and secondary education and as a consequence all primary school teachers in the country are obliged to have a proficiency in Irish (let's not open a can of worms and call it "fluency"). Teachers who have trained abroad must pass an Irish language exam before we let them near the kids and teachers training here study Irish language and literature as part of their course. Which is where I come in. I don't teach them (thankfully) but I am drafted in a couple of times a year to put them through their paces and make sure they've done their homework.
It does not make for an ideal Saturday morning, and it's a good job they pay me an obscene amount of money* to do it. I had the same conversation 19 times over with 19 young women, each of whom broke out in a nervous rash at the sight of me and then did their level best to stay schtum for 10 minutes in order to avoid making any grammatical errors. Eventually most of them twig that I can't/won't let them go until they've spoken to me so that I might assess their language skills but this usually takes about ten minutes of gentle cajoling from me and a lifetime of fucking fidgeting and avoiding eye contact on their part. The conversations are excruciating, banalities exchanged in pidgin Irish** punctuated by uncomfortable silences and nervous laughter. They do, however, give me a valuable insight into the criteria for primary school teachers in Ireland:
Not for me.
*It's probably not an obscene amount of money to anyone who has a real-life grown-up job but when you're a monkey like I am and you're accustomed to being paid in peanuts, it's quite the pot o' gold.
**Occasionally I get a fluent one and the conversation flows. It's still limited to Mullingar/Wexford and Cecelia fucking Ahern though.
For those of you unfortunate enough not to be Irish; a little background. We have two official languages here, Irish and English, and though most everyone speaks English only a minority are fluent in Irish. It is, however, a compulsory subject in both primary and secondary education and as a consequence all primary school teachers in the country are obliged to have a proficiency in Irish (let's not open a can of worms and call it "fluency"). Teachers who have trained abroad must pass an Irish language exam before we let them near the kids and teachers training here study Irish language and literature as part of their course. Which is where I come in. I don't teach them (thankfully) but I am drafted in a couple of times a year to put them through their paces and make sure they've done their homework.
It does not make for an ideal Saturday morning, and it's a good job they pay me an obscene amount of money* to do it. I had the same conversation 19 times over with 19 young women, each of whom broke out in a nervous rash at the sight of me and then did their level best to stay schtum for 10 minutes in order to avoid making any grammatical errors. Eventually most of them twig that I can't/won't let them go until they've spoken to me so that I might assess their language skills but this usually takes about ten minutes of gentle cajoling from me and a lifetime of fucking fidgeting and avoiding eye contact on their part. The conversations are excruciating, banalities exchanged in pidgin Irish** punctuated by uncomfortable silences and nervous laughter. They do, however, give me a valuable insight into the criteria for primary school teachers in Ireland:
- You must be from either Mullingar or Wexford
- If you don't play sports you damn well better play an instrument (preferably brass or woodwind)
- You must express a distaste for all things Dublin and a burning desire to move back to Mullingar/Wexford and Mammy as soon as possible (Mammy is always to be referred to by her full title and with a capital M)
- You must have no interest whatsoever in reading books (bar P.S. I Love You) or watching films (bar P.S. I Love You)
- Your summer holidays will be spend in Santa Ponza.
- Your musical interests will include Pink, Boyzone, Celine Dion and (bizarrely) Meat Loaf.
Not for me.
*It's probably not an obscene amount of money to anyone who has a real-life grown-up job but when you're a monkey like I am and you're accustomed to being paid in peanuts, it's quite the pot o' gold.
**Occasionally I get a fluent one and the conversation flows. It's still limited to Mullingar/Wexford and Cecelia fucking Ahern though.
