English as a Second Language

I used to live in Spain. A silly romantic idea that Velazquez paintings were all needed to truly survive fueled that debacle.

No. They fed my soul, but the chorizo and tortilla de patata day in and day out were not up there on my list of amazing culinary delights to start, after 7 months it was wearing thin. Whatever happened to the odd Chinese takeaway or curry, Spain?

Food aside, the language was a huge barrier. I remember getting deathly sick with Spanish Influenza a couple of times and stumbling into the odd farmacia barely able to talk in English, let alone in Spanish. Read: 'Hola...estoy muy, uh, um, err...sick? Yo...um, hurt.'

What does this have to do with art?

Nothing.

However, it does make me sympathetic to people who live outside of their language comfort zones. Point in case: My friend, Afghan Hound.

Afghan Hound is Swiss and she struggles with the finer points of writing in English. I know she's done all the work, so why shouldn't she get the marks? God knows I wish someone would have helped me in Spain, and I wasn't even writing 3,000 word papers.

So, I'm her proof-reader.

While it's an ideal situation for getting a head start on other assignments or even nicking research, I've always written on different subjects. I'd get too bored writing about something I've already proofed.

And even the proofing bores us.

Instead we begin coming up with alternative study methods over copious amounts of tea. Tonight is was drawing rude sketches of ceramics designs with banter, something along the lines of 'Would someone pass me a fig leaf already?'

Last paper I proofed turned out to be a classic in goofing off moments.

As MA Fine & Decorative Art students, we're expected to have the ability to recognise different woods on sight. We started naming off the characteristics of woods. 'Pine is a soft, light-coloured wood with lots of knots in it...' etc. 5 minutes later I've managed to contort myself into a pretzel on my seat and I'm saying in some strange horror-flick voice, 'I've been poorly all my life, I didn't grow up normally, I have inky black rings when I'm cut and used in a veneer. I'm highly prized by English and Dutch cabinetmakers. Who am I?'

'You're Diseased Walnut! Do another one!!'

While Afghan Hound laughed and even snorted once or twice I launched into my best old boy accent, 'Rah, rah, rah, yes, I'm quite a prestigious yet humble English timber. My grain is quite broad and noticeable. You could get your fingernails stuck in. Rah rah, someone pass me my pipe.'

'Oak trees don't smoke! That's not normal!'

Going back to my usual voice, 'Well, neither is what we're doing.'

We both started to laugh and then Afghan Hound began to shout, 'Another one! Another one! This time do a cactus!'

For the record I stopped at orange blossom. All of this started because I wanted to help my friend study.

I swear someone put something in that tea.