ICT Class

Surely every year on whatever for school you apply, there is always one of those completely useless courses taught by a fossil. Now this one is clad in a dirty green” colbert”, too small “plastron” and brown too-high-fitting slacks. I originally looked forward to this course impressively titled “Computer Science with Introduction to New Communication Technologies,” but it turned out otherwise.

He didn’t know what to give, happened to stumble upon a free technically prehistoric computer science course and now dishes out all the blah blah blah, so to speak, the basics about the IC of the chip, control buses and “faisable links” that you can place. Facts I can completely forget while covering a war or writing an historical screenplay about Ireland’s independence. Does a writer need to know how the neural pathways in his hands guide his way to his pen? The rotten part is that we also have to study it for an exam. That you can fail because of it. Not with me. If necessary, I’ll block that thing blindly out of my head. Even though my motivation for this is particularly low.

Today was a short class. The sun was burning through the high glass roof, and I did put on my old, hole-ventilated jeans. I entered the “control unit” torn and weary, ready for an hour of battle with myself, a test of character in obediently obeying the monotonous command of the executioner in front. I had barely entered the room, or already the axe fell at my feet.

‘You there, with your hole in your pants, what do you think you’re doing here?’
‘PJ, sir, the name is PJ, sir, you know that,’ I continued jokingly, ‘and better a hole in my pants than one in the budget.’

I smiled. He didn’t.

I thought to bring up some arguments then: ‘In the summer people even wear shorts, sir (I have to stay friendly) and there’s nothing a little tear like that against that, is there?’

His head began to swell slightly, suddenly his vocal cords dilated:

‘This is a high-class academy and…’ at which I interrupted him ‘And you want to turn it into a torture dungeon, surely?’
Anger, roaring sounds, I still wanted to save my skin:
‘Sorry, we’re adults after all, let’s not argue about this.’

But it was too late, a heavy screen wiper flew in my direction: ‘Get out!’

Teaching has already taught me a lot, including how not to teach.