on children's books

One of the peculiarities of teaching both the little emperors and poorer than poorers of Beijing is acknowledgement of the possibility of cross fertilisation of ideas for lesson plans. A particularly poignant point of divergence comes with story telling. The likelihood that "My Dad's New Car", "the rooms in my house" or "Henry's New Book" will generate considerable empathy in minds of most migrants is somewhat hard to believe. 

Teachers in all but the private schools of the world would want to be wary of the new car phenomenon generating friction between the have nots and the have yachts. One supposes most kids in the rest associate homes with rooms, and most would have a new book, at least once or twice a year.

There therefore exists a gap in the market for relevant reading materials for the great unwashed. Margins may be low, but with four million migrants in BJ there is a market there.

So an an initial speculative venture into the rapidly growing education market, I propose to start off a set of books, beginning with;
My dad got a second hand Flying Pigeon, followed by
My bedroom is my kitchen

Other ideas are highly welcome and interested illustrators may wish to submit work pieces.

PS: The inspiration for this piece came from a somehwat shocking moment when a mother came into the school office to pay fees and was kindly if a little loudly informed that "Xiao haize pigu you shi"

which roughly translates as

"Pardon me madam, but there does appear to be fecal matter attached to your child's bottom"

what a wonderful world

on riding one in nine million

According to one Mujib Lexy Gallagher the unbreakable code of cycling is thus;


1. Thou shalt not be overtaken.


2. Though shalt not stop.


Now the application of such rules has some all too easily demonstrable problems for the budding cyclists of Beijing, but one must bear in mind that the progenitor of the code was prone to late night inebriated adventures aboard his own rusty steed. The favourite was a real life version of road rash two, ah yes the fine console that was the Sega Mega Drive, in which one would utilise the punch function to assault unwary members of the public. All were at risk, including pedestrians, fellow cyclists and unfortunate cabbies that kept themselves awake by rolling their windows down. At most risk was our fearless protagonist himself, who was want of steerage when flailing at the god fearing people of edinburgh and often ended up regretting that he had not as intended bought one for the ditch. Sympathy however is is a bit like penny chews; coming in mixed bags as they do.


The code does have some uses however for Beijingers wishing to save a few pennies and shed a few pounds by selecting man's most noble mode of conveyance. Having rejected the human but halitotic air conditioning of the bus system and the luxurious but loping taxis, and feared that one might leave one's head in a water melonesque state to be scraped off the streat by BJ's finest streat cleaners after a night on the soup and scooter, one must as one moustachioed marmite motorway marhsall once sang "get on one's bike and ride". 


When cycling, the brakes, like shite, would ideally remain untouched. Lights should be considered as indications of the state of traffic rather than instructions, and one should never hesitate in enlisting the help of a few comrades to stop traffic for the sake of the highly important business cyclists must attend to (outweighing of course the wants and needs of the ponce in the black audi with his thumb cellotaped to his horn).


Not matter how audacious one feels one's cycling is, fear not for it has all been done before by an eighty year old on a rickshaw with her husband on the back coughing up love for the game.

aviating musings

Unbeknownst to myself my presence was required at work some 30 minutes before I had planned to arrive. When informed, I ditched my trusty steed and hopped a cab where 40 of Beijing finest little emperors were waiting. I thought little of my late arrival, and the stress that it caused until about 40 mins into the journey when I realised the strict timeframe to which one should adhere when transporting the newly nappiless. The sight by the side of the road was not dissimlar to the Edinburgh Shinty team on the way home from Oban following an effluently strict two-stop strategy.

The Aviation Museum itself is impressive, highly militaristic and well worth the visit. My teaching assistant pointed to a picture of fighter jet and asked me if that was how I flew home. Kindly I pointed to a boeing and said that while it was somewhat slower, the difference in the g-forces was kinder to my skintone.

While one is keen to explain the ins and outs of the world as best one can to those that are set to inherit it, one cannot help but be hesitant at the prospect of describing the singular functuality of the vast majority of military aircraft on display. I cannot help but think that many that are fascinated by the military machine are rather to far removed from the reality of war to have an objective opinion. I recall a school trip to a PLA camp when I felt it necessary to sit on the bus rather than pose with kalashnikovs with my school mates having each unleashed five rounds of andrei's finest down a shooting range. Was it the fact that I recall traffic being directed by soldiers with M-16's in sunny Belfast, or that I feared for the sanity of some of my classmates, but I didn't trust the casual nature of our instructors to be of sufficient protection should someone choose to let their five rounds fly in another direction.

Thankfully the kids weren't that interested, and I still have no need to learn the Chinese for gun, bomb or missile.

punishmente corporale

So I walk into a beijing school for migrant kids, where currently I am under the delusion that i am doing good by furthering the sterotype that english is a white man's tongue. I am confronted with the rather unpleasant site of a well dressed man kicking lumps out of a pair of distraught ten year olds. Having learnt in a night class on chld protection that while violence may be an appropriate remedy for poor housekeeping it does nothing to calm a crying child, I was somewhat perturbed. It brought back the memories of myself getting kicked at school by a number of delightful Irish Irish repbulicans who no doubt thought the "cause" and my prosterior were somehow aligned.

The fact that corporol punishment in state funded schools ended in 1988 meant little to the Irish language movement that continued to subsist on charity, hand outs and elbow greas; and modern theory on child behaviour is little read by the qualified education professionals that subsist on 50 pounds a month, teaching 50 kids with next to no resources.

So I watched the assault uncertain of what to do, until I was ushered by the director of the school up to my class. The thing that struck me most was the anger in the teachers' eyes as he landed blows with foot and fist. Here was not the gravitas that I recall in my fathers eyes as he punsihed me for bricking the neighbours new car. This was the violence of a frustrated adult unable to enforce his will on his charges. 

In contrast to my other work, I have four assistants to teach 10 kids.Even with this level of support and, and a wealth of resources at my disposal I feel the anger welling up, and indeed my assistants are often rougher than I would like as they entret the children to do as asked.

The question I ask in both contexts is how much influence I have to change the situation, and how much influence overall will I loose if exertions in one particular area lead to my being fired.

So I can't blame the teacher who lashed out, I've seen it done, and given the school is Dickensian without the warmth, the act must be considered in context.

I brought it up with th director who told me that only for very bad things would one be beaten. Something tells me that the crime was not on par with firing a bus or stoning the army, and even had it been the punishment would likely have been more considered that the angry outlash I saw.