About Martin Eayrs

San Martín de los Andes, Neuquén, Argentina This blog is an occasional dumping/sharing ground for random thoughts and ideas, mainly relating to birding, photography, travel, the English language and the teaching thereof and assorted verse and doggerel. I am a retired teacher/lecturer and now work as a language and education consultant with an interest in evaluation and testing, quality assessment and moderation. I divide my time between homes and families in San Martín de los Andes, Patagonia and Manchester, UK.

Impractical English

Note: I found this today while clearing out old zip files and it amused me. It’s odd reading stuff you yourself wrote nearly forty years ago. This comes from way back in the 80s, when I was the owner/director of a language school in Buenos Aires. It was originally published in the Buenos Aires Herald.

Some sample pages from El Inglés Práctico

Some sample pages from El Inglés Práctico

At the end of every year I have the unenviable task of cleaning and clearing out the Victoria School book room. This means having to decide what to bin and what stays in, effectively a trade off between the squirreling instinct and the pragmatics of shelf space.

One book which seems to survive the chop every year is a rather tattered volume called El Inglés Práctico. No, not my long awaited autobiography (which could certainly never go out under that title, on account of how I am by all accounts un inglés bastante impráctico), no, this is a course book for learners of English from way back when. Look as I would, I could nowhere find a date of publication but judging by the wardrobe of the characters in the line drawings I would place it somewhere in the late twenties or early thirties.

I should perhaps make it clear that this is a wholly Argentine book, and the characters and situations are predominantly set in Argentina. The first vocabulary items presented in volume one are ‘the father’, ‘the mother’ and ‘the honest family’. In fact, honesty would seem to be the theme of this first unit. Consider some of the sentences in the first lectura y conversación:

The father is kind, the mother is good and the son is gentle. The family is good and honest. Is it good and honest ? Yes, it is. Robert is the child. He is very honest. The grandfather and the grandmother are very old and (yes, you’ve guessed it) they are honest.

I’m not making this up. Honest.

Another thing I liked was the pedagogical device of giving in each unit a short list of frases usuales en clase, basically a list of teacher-talk items useful for classroom management. In the list of these ‘useful phrases’ accompanying the very first unit, along with the expected ‘stand up’, ‘sit down’ and ‘exchange places’, appear enjoinders to ‘pronounce well’, and, presumably lest this not produce the desired results, to ‘pronounce better’. Would that things were so simple.

The second lesson introduces some rather more useful vocabulary, setting honesty aside for a while in order to concentrate on the wardrobe. A brief extract should give you the flavour:

Is this bodice flannel or woolen ? It is neither flannel nor woolen, but cotton. Have you not a pretty fan ? And has he not new braces ? No, I have a simple one and he has old ones.

Most teachers I know would be probably be happy if their students came up with these structures after two years, if at all, let alone two lessons, considering the inverted negative questions, anaphoric references, pronominalisation, etc., involved.

Leafing through to the end of the book I cannot resist sharing with you the visit to the peluquero de caballeros (all captions, instructions, etc., in the book are in Spanish, a trend, incidentally, which is returning now in much new ELT material). Consider the advice the customer (looking rather like Ramon in the illustrations of the famous Buenos Aires Herald publication Ramon Writes) is given:

Your hair is very dry and dull; you should put some brilliantine on it every day. I have some which is very good and makes the hair glossy without greasing it.

The customer (hereinafter to be referred to as Ramon and that’s without an accent, please, Mr. Typesetter*), agrees to the transaction at the confusing price of six dollars a bottle, at which the hairdresser somewhat alarmingly comments:

I shall give you a little friction, shall I not ?

Fortunately for sensitive readers, Ramon, after considerable thought (and no doubt working it out that if a bottle of brilliantine sets him back six bucks then a friction job is likely to leave him in the poor house) rejoins “No, it is not necessary’. After all, to sell El Inglés Práctico in schools they would have wanted to keep the ‘G’ rating.

Our students certainly come a long way by the end of the book. I quote from the final unit of what I must ask you to remember is a first year book:

Thus, from the hands of this prodigal son of the Independence, surged this sublime blue and white ensign, which today flies proudly and arrogantly from the masts of ships, public buildings and Argentine forts.

Unfortunately I don’t have a copy of El Inglés Práctico – Segundo Libro, but I should be very interested to see it. The ‘Argentine forts’ seem to have disappeared too.

I am at present teaching a group in the Victoria School who are hoping to sit for the University of Cambridge Proficiency Examination at the end of this year, at a level corresponding to some eight or nine years of language study. With respect to my students, many of them would be pushed to come up with something quite so elegant as the above eulogy to Belgrano. Those teachers of long ago certainly must have known something we don’t know today.

______________

* there were typesetters in those days – how times have changed.

A pox on Encotel

Going through some old, very old files on some Zip disks I found –remember Zip disks?– I found this rather curious piece I had written back in the 80s. A word of explanation is perhaps necessary.

Encotel was the name of the Postal Service in Argentina in pre-privatisation days, and expats like me living in Buenos Aires who had the good fortune to receive packages from abroad had to go down to their International Office on Antartida Argentina and Comodoro Py (this is the junction of two streets in the old dock area). Here you had to queue for ever to pick up your parcel (if they hadn’t lost it), and, what’s worse pay the customs dues.

37443

The problem with this was that you had to pay the importation / customs fee not just before collecting the parcel, that would have been OK, but before knowing who it was from or what it was. My own particular problem was that being the owner of a language school publishers would frequently send me samples –books, audio and video cassettes (remember cassettes)– which were not always welcome. My mum and sisters would send presents for the children too, and I had no way of knowing which were which without paying first. And there were no refunds. Incidentally, despite Argentina being a signatory to the free importation of educational materials, in Encotel you still had to pay – but that’s a whinge for another occasion

bird-kite-2

And they decided how much. Quite how they calculated custom dues was always a mystery to me. I once received a paper and bamboo Siamese fighting kite something like the one above but rather more artsy fartsy. The customs declaration said in English ‘1 Siamese Fighting Kite’  and the guy on the counter asked me to translate. I told him what it was (and explanation was necessary because the translation didn’t really do it for him) and with no hesitation he quoted me a price as if he was used to people importing these items on a daily basis. And the price he quoted –with no consultation of any sort– was at least twice the cost of the kite in England plus the postage.

I was always pissed off about this, and one day, having a column to fill in the Buenos Aires Herald, I sounded off publicly. Nothing changed, but it generated a little humorous correspondence. Not quite sure why I chose to do this in cod Elizabethan, but guess it seemed like fun at the time. The original text is below – I have resisted the urge to tinker, although should like to.

A pox on Encotel

Manolo: Good even, Jorge: Wherefore goest thou?
Why art thou breathless, wherefore starest thou so?
For do I fear so as I love thee well
The stars have shone unwontedly on thee.

Jorge: Tis true, and vexed I am of late, for now
Hard from that place I come where many hours
Are customed men to wait in hope for news
From foreign climes by th’authorities withheld
And yet must waste for naught yet pay it dear.

Manolo:
What meanst thou? Sirrah, prithee, speak me plain
Nay, riddle me not, yet say thy meaning clear.

Jorge: Of Encotel I speak, yet, bear not hard
That I should so inflamed inform on this
Which wrongs the state: Oh, what would come on it?

Manolo: Yet speak you now.  I bid thee that you stand
Not on your love for state yet that I know
You bear for me. I pray thee tell it clear,
What cause hath brought thy countenance so low.

Jorge: I have a mind to tell thee all, I swear;
I’faith I shall:  a pox on Encotel.
Fashion it thus: this day upon the morn
A paper through my casement all sealed up
Did tell me presently to make repair
To Antartida and Comodoro Py
Where messages from foreign parts had come
And urged me if I would of this more know
Present myself twixt eight and four o’clock

Manolo: Why, sirrah, then a packet hast received?
And paid it well, in taxes and in time?

Jorge: Yet let me speak.  Would wert it thus, yet hark,
It was not so.  Methinks thou knowst the place?

Manolo: Indeed, an’t please you, many a time and oft
Cause have I had for frequenting that place.

Jorge: Tis well.  Then list, for I shall now unfold
Th’events which me befell ere night had dropt.
With motive plain came I to Encotel,
The yellow paper firmly grasped in hand,
Where to a table at the entrance plied,
A surly fellow was which tended me,
Sleek-headed, dank and bittered as the vetch.
My papers scarcely glanced at, me he sent
T’another table, documents to present.

Manolo: And, so it is, good friend, thou knowst full well
The custom of this land is fashioned thus.

Jorge: So let it be, for ’tis no cause for pain,
Yet seems it strange to me what next befell.

Manolo: I pray thee, sir, to cut thy story short.

Jorge: That shall I. To a gentleman I hied
Whose office ’tis the fees to calculate
On packets here received from foreign lands.
What price, I asked: he answered twenty-six
With forty cents. For what, cried I?  Yet hold,
This packet, prithee, sirrah, please inform
The contents what they be, ere I do pay.

Manolo: Methinks thou hast a point: unknowing ne’er
Should man his coin dispense without just cause
and knowledge full

Jorge: I’faith a jot he cared
but I could pay or thence from whence I came.

Manolo: And, paidst thou, Jorge ?

Jorge: Ay, in truth I did
As curiosity doth master man.
And nay, why not, indeed?  For unbeknownst
To me a packet despatched might have been
And favourably had chance to be received.
Yet too methought should one consider on
How men desirous to promote their wares
Send unsolicitedly their marketries,
Thus giving me some worthy cause to wish
Their deeds undone wert I to bear their costs.
My argument presented thus rebuffed
So urged I was to pay or hie me home.
But pray thee, truthfully, I vainly cried,
‘Tis meet that I should pay when yet I know
Not what tis that I pay?  Ye Gods, ’tis strange,
‘Tis passing strange, perhaps I want it not.
Again they bid me quiet, again I railed
Till blue-robed clods were standing thick on me.
I hung my head, I cried in shame, I paid.
I ask thee, Manolito, canst be fair?

Manolo: The packet, what was’t, that caused thee all this trial?

Jorge: Ha, why, in truth, tell thee yet I can not,
For seeing only of what ilk it dealt,
And ang’ring as the flint that beareth fire
Left I it there: ‘Twas trash I needed not.
Of all the strange things that have reached my ears
It seems to me most wondrous Encotel
The hard-gained drachmas of a peasant poor
Should thus wring from his ignorance, for who
In presence of a packet from afar
Can yet resist, or, unresisting, live
With redress all denied tho cause there wert.
‘Tis strange, I swear, ’tis strange, yet ’tis, yet ’tis.

The Tagore cats gallery

Click on any image for slideshow; read on below for text.

Now that I am blogging again someone I know is going to get stroppy and soon if we don’t get some cats on board pdq. So to forestall ructions in the neighbourhood I thought I’d introduce some of the key players in the house #1 local cat community.

Majestic Maga

Majestic Maga

First is the Maga. Named after a character in Julio Cortázar’s brilliant hypertextual novel Rayuela (in English, Hopscotch), she comes first because of all the living cats we have had her the longest. We call her ‘Majestic Maga’ because she has dignity, is unhurried and always contrives to sit neatly and demurely. She also has the rather charming habit of announcing her presence when she enters a room, so that those in attendance can make their bow or curtsey and due obeisance. She is however not all she seems; as a vey young cat she was a stop out and gymslip mother, before being taken into care. We shall have more to say about Maga.

The ever so clean and permanently — sleepy Matti

The ever so clean and permanently — sleepy Matti

Matti came from the same rescue centre, and indeed was born there so has never known anything other than love and cuddles. Indeed, she is something of a love machine and is never happier than when sitting on top of you (or the piece of paper you’re trying to work with) demanding to have her tummy scratched.  She is also the cleanest cat in Christendom (if one is allowed to say that in these PC days). When not hassling, eating or washing she sleeps and it seems that sleeping makes her tired because she has the most incredible facility for it. When asleep she sprawls in the most unladylike manner.

The Baticat, as he comes through rehab (though still as batty as ever)

The Baticat, as he comes through rehab (though still as batty as ever)

The Baticat has nothing to do with bats or Batman, rather he is a batty cat, doolally, three olives short of a pizza, the lift doesn’t go to the top floor type of cat. He first came into our lives appearing once in a while and howling in a deranged manner outside our front door: the filthiest, mankiest cat imaginable. Clearly he was homeless and long overdue for a service; definitely a suitable case for treatment. F has taken him in hand, showering him with love and affection, feeding him proper food and brushing him regularly. He has responded well and his coat has improved enormously; he now howls outside the back door but is allowed in (he doesn’t understand the cat flap thing) at feeding time and is looking much better. Still completely batty though.

Fluffy White (not his real name), who bit me …

Fluffy White (not his real name), who bit me …

The cat we know as Fluffy White lives in a neighbour’s house and we don’t know too much about him (or even if he is a ‘him’). He appears periodically to show an insouciant disinterest in us, ignores our food and occasionally hisses at Maga and Matti. Maga hisses back – Matti doesn’t understand aggression at all. Fluffy White is feared by the children in the Close, who claims that he’s a biter; I can vouch for this, having been bitten myself. Nevertheless, he is a bona fide member of the Tagore cat community.

Clockwise from bottom left: Fluffy White, Maga, Matti and Jinxie

Clockwise from bottom left: Fluffy White, Maga, Matti and Jinxie

Jinxie is (or, we think was) a beautiful black cat who also lived a few doors down and had the loveliest disposition; always cheerful, always ready for a rub or a tickle, and not unknown to enter the house when he felt like it (and somewhat disinclined to leave it when asked). He was a good community spirited cat, but we feel he may have moved away and we haven’t seen him for several months now. People in the Close do come and go, and so, presumably, will their cats.

Missy, an iPhone capture: she really is much prettier than this!

Missy, an iPhone capture: she really is much prettier than this!

The last cat currently around is Missy. Missy lives outside the Close, and we feel doesn’t get much love from her owners. She has taken to F and appears for breakfast each day but strangely Maga will not allow her anywhere near the house so she is fed in next-door but one’s garden. This is odd, because Maga is fairly passive to visiting cats and quite indifferent to the Baticat, no doubt aware of his restricted intellect. Missy is an adventurous cat and has been seen all around the neighbourhood; one feels she doesn’t have much of a home life.

Well, that’ll do as an introduction. We shall continue the adventures of the Tagore cats in future episodes, and no doubt talk of other cats of the past such as the legendary Gino, the historic Mitten and perhaps Morgan, who really was a suitable case for treatment. And there are other cats in house #2, in Patagonia, who miaow in a different tongue and about whom there are also tales to be told. But all in good time.

Gino, the best and only cat, about whom more later …

Gino, the best and only cat, about whom more later …

Molly

I thought of my mother today. She died in hospital a few years ago, and I visited her at night not long before she died. Our last conversation (she never lost her lucidity) was about her days as a trainee nurse and her fear of the Matron finding her without her cuffs on. Last year, as a writing exercise, I incorporated the memory (with embellishment) in this short piece.  I found the photo in an old album of hers some time later, wearing [spotlessly clean] cuffs.

FME-nurse

Damian likes his new car, pokey little Japanese thing, white and chrome, faux leather. Pa had a proper car, dignified, Austin Westminster. Black like cars should be, shiny shabby leather seats, proper leather, dividing arm in the back with the ashtray where Doug and I used to …

“You finished you drink, now, Mrs Elliot?”

Me, Molly. In hospital. Born in one, gave birth in one, shall die in one, not today I hope, though I don’t mind. I’m ready. Met Phil in hospital too, at the Molyneux, he wanted to drive ambulances. Day war was declared. Drove me home. Shock for Pa and Mom. Morris Ten, was it? Green? Or was that the one he did up for me when he went to the States? Don’t know any more. Small car, that one, double declutch, double declutch, Damian doesn’t double declutch, no one does now …

Yes, dear, thanks, I’ve had my Ovaltine. Was an Ovaltiney once, got the badge somewhere, Radio Luxembourg was it, or was it SNOL, don’t know any more …

“You sleep well then, you hear. I’se back in the morning”

Good night, Deirdre, sleep well too. Slip of a thing. Jamaican, is she, Trinidad? One of those islands. Family came for the buses probably. Windrush, was it? Not like my day at Molyneux. We worked hard then. In the sluices, all of a lather, cuffs at hand in case Sister or Matron came in. Mustn’t be caught without cuffs. Worse, with dirty cuffs. Everything’s changed. Used to be order, uniforms, coloured belts, knew who was who then. Don’t know any more.

Damian will be home now. Sleep well, Damian, Julie, the kids, the dog, what’s her name.? We had a dog at Budock Vean, Nigger, can’t say that now, no one does now. Everything’s changed. The world’s gone, and I’m going too.  I’m tired, that Ovaltine had something in it. Silly idea, Molly. Silly Billy, silly Molly. Used to be jolly Molly once. Just tired Molly now. Sleep well, Molly …

Pennington Flash, August 2014

Click on any image for slideshow; read on below for text.

Pennington Flash Country Park is a premier bird watching site in the North West of the UK. The core visitor’s area is a 70 hectare lake, with paths around part of the shoreline and some seven or eight hides strategically located around the site. Here’s a (rights free) general view of part of the site that I found on the web.

General view of the Flash, courtesy Colin Davies at ‘Occasionally — Birding St Helens’

General view of the Flash, courtesy Colin Davies at ‘Occasionally — Birding St Helens’

One of these hides looks on to a feeder area that attracts a large number of species (see pics further down) , although visitors are warned that the place where the feeders are is heavily shaded and the light levels can be low; photographers should choose a day with high overhead sun or use fill in flash (which can upset other people in the hide). You can get there by car (it’s near Leigh and Wigan) and there is pay and display car parking on site. I went by bus: X34 from Manchester Piccadilly and then 600 from Leigh, getting off at the Robin Hood pub.

Kingfisher in the distance – this was the closest — I could get to him

Kingfisher in the distance – this was the closest — I could get to him

I spent a few hours at the Flash (an English dialect word for a non-specific ‘lake’) and took some good shots, the weather ranging from cold, wet and overcast to hot and sunny. A typical Lancashire day, in fact. As it was the school holidays the park areas were full of schoolchildren, running, jostling and generally having a good if noisy time. The park is for all of us, and somehow the birding didn’t suffer. I managed to get a shot of a kingfisher who for once perched within distance, albeit farther away than I would have liked, but this was more than compensated by close shots of a couple of great spotted woodpeckers and three or four jays, together offering a whole rainbow of colour.

A jay, photographed — in the feeding area

A jay, photographed — in the feeding area

[ABOVE} a jay in all his finery, taken in the feeder hide when the sun came out. [BELOW] a great spotted woodpecker.

I don’t like photos of birds on feeders, but this great spotted woodpecker — was unmissable

I don’t like photos of birds on feeders, but this great spotted woodpecker — was unmissable

I didn’t make a list of the birds I saw, but working from photos I processed on my return I saw at least: black-headed gull, bullfinch, chaffinch, common (mew) gull, common sandpiper, great crested grebe, great spotted woodpecker, green sandpiper, greenfinch, jay, kingfisher, lapwing, lesser black backed gull, mallard, moorhen, mute swan, pied wagtail, snipe, starling and willow tit. The last of these, the willow tit, was a first for me; they seemed common enough here, but in other parts of the UK are quite a rarity.

A willow tit, with no visible weakness of intellect

A willow tit, with no visible weakness of intellect

[ABOVE} willow tit (Poecile montanus), almost indistinguishable from the marsh tit but the locale is a good indicator. [BELOW] a young bullfinch, who will in time develop a beautiful deep red chest but is still in his juvenile plumage. Both of these were shot in the feeder area.

Juvenile bullfinch

Juvenile bullfinch

If the feeder hide was something of a feeding frenzy, down at the lake there was no shortage of activity either. One problem here was that so many waterfowl were in intermediary plumage, and my identification skills are still rather rudimentary. There were mallards of every shape and hue, and black headed gulls galore. One lesser black backed gull perched on a nearby rock while I could see a single common gull in the distance, perched on a green buoy. A single snipe was rooting around in the mud, in the company of moorhen and green and common sandpipers.

A lesser black backed gull

A lesser black backed gull

[ABOVE} lesser black backed gull [BELOW] snipe, a little fuzzy I’m afraid – it was heavily cropped due to the distance.

A snipe in his habitat

A snipe in his habitat

Verdict: a good day’s birding, at an exceptional site which I highly recommend for the non-specialist birder. On the downside, although there are onsite toilets there was no information office and no site maps available – the few signs around were limited in scope and offered little guidance. It’s probably a good idea to take your own food and drink too – what was on offer from the vans in the car park looked a little dodgy, and at very inflated prices.