Teaching Ping Ping to Sing Sing Sing...

Have just been assigned a new student, the delightful and diminutive Shufung Fu Zheng, 1.20 m. of teeth, wooden clogs and nervous arm-waving syndrome. She is a 'Survival One', which is W:S:I speak for "haven't got a clue, please show me how to get one using sign language and bright colourful picture books". Somehow, one of the witchy consultants has convinced her that in less than three months she will succesfully join multiple word groups, and possibly a whole verb together to form a semi-convincing sentence. And I am the jibbering git who has been entrusted to complete this death-defying task. I silently wee my knickers.

I shall be entertaining dear Shufung with my witty repartee and Rolf Harris-type board drawings for another 30 hours between 20.30 and 22.00 every Tuesday and Thursday night, thus excluding any possibilty of watching the latest season of England's proudest export, Midsommer Murders, dubbed badly under the slightly racier name of "Ispettore Barnaby" on La Sette from now until Christmas.

We began with the alphabet, which-in short, was absolutely excruciating, especially after she insisted on having it sung to her with accompanying Birdie Song dance steps to which she clapped along in a toothy-grinned frenzy. Mouth frothing in a terrifying display of overenthusiasm.

WHen it comes to Asian students in general, cultural Sensitivity begs patience in the face of the great "L" versus "R" pronounciation debate. Let's face it, most Brits are pretty cack-handed with the piffling 24 letters we have to deal with in everyday life, let alone Chinese characters and the complexity of a language in which one small difference in vowel inflection when adressing your fellow man could mean the difference between being offered dinner or having your face rubbed in it.
However... WHen it's heading towards ten o'clock and you've been locked in a sweaty school for 9 hours gritting your teeth as endless streams of people butcher your language into liver patè and plague you with nitty gritty questions such as "Please Miss Teacher, what means the saxon genitals?", trying to get correct pronounciation from dear Shufung Ping Pong was like searching for poo on a Swiss pavement.

It took the best part of an hour to teach her "Who's that?" which inevitably came out in various guises ranging from:

"Foo Bobo?" to "Potty Patty?" to the incomprehensible "ping dong tocky tocky?"

Naturally I smiled and nodded and grinned and tried to disguise the noise of splitting sides, cracking ribs and shameless begging to God as signs of encouragement and deep impression. She responded by showering me with spit as she proudly demonstrated the complex tongue to palate motion required to eke out a "thththththththtththth" sound, her favourite acheivement of the day.

Conclusion? We shall review the alphabet next lesson and I shall hire both a speech therapist and psychiatric nurse to assist me in this tremendous ordeal. I make it my personal goal to have Ding Dong Ping Ping Zheng whateverhernameis chanting Shakespearian verse backwards by mid-November without the need of a face transplant due to contortion and excessive mouth frothing.

and now, home to watch Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise get wierd and naked in Kubrick's "Eyes Wide Shut". Maybe even a pint!