8th and final: Of elephants and bananas in the room

On this, my final day of my tour, a further word or two must be said about the candidates for the exams. For many of the blighters it’s their first experience of an exam and while understandably nervous, they do try. There was the candidate who was talking about Madonna for her presentation, wearing a Madonna shirt. Then there’s also the kids who you feel have bowed to the pressure from insistent mothers who get them to wear their, ‘I Love London’ T-shirts, to lend a certain theme to the exam. However, if you can’t wear an, ‘I Love London’ t-shirt during an English language exam, when can you wear it? I think the answer, as we all know, is that you simply just don’t buy an, ‘I Love London’ T-shirt, even if you do.

Then there’re also the candidates who bring in props and posters to help aid their topic presentations. A few years ago there was a lad who brought in a bow and arrow because he was talking about his visit to the Robin Hood Centre in Nottingham. Another examiner had the candidate bring in a nun, who stood silently during the whole exam – her presentation: religion. I had a couple of guitars brought in as well, this tour. Not played, but just fingered restlessly / stressfully during the presentation and questions. It’s one of those ‘elephants in the room’ which neither the candidate nor the examiner mentions, as we both wait to see who’ll bring it up first. Then, before you know it, the exam’s over and no-one’s mentioned the guitar (or whatever it may be) and it’s merely served the purpose of a curious decorative accoutrement. I’m sure it seemed like a good idea before the exam, though.

And then there are the answers to questions, some of which you’ll have already read about. One of the best things is finding out what the candidates think about different places. When asking about / eliciting differences, if the candidate’s been on holiday to London, we might ask, “What’s the difference between [candidate’s town] and London?” One response was that, “There are more traffic lights in London”. Interesting point to choose, but you can’t but deny the accuracy of the answer when you consider that all raffic management systems in Naples appear to have been abandoned in favour of a perpetual weaving and sudden parking of cars, mopeds and equally unpredictable pedestrians.

On eliciting differences, examiner Jo had this exchange: “What’s the difference between Naples and New York?" Reply: “New York is a city and Naples is a fruit". Well, yes. If you like. Examiner Vanessa has this one:

Vanessa: The boy is under the table. Where is the cat?"
Boy: Hmm, banana!

When we get past any confusion about why the boy might actually be under the table and what he is indeed doing there, the candidate's answer just places the casual listener into something more of a Lewis Carroll-ian world.

But apart from examining and waiting for hours at bus stations waiting for connections, etc., how have the evenings been spent? What down time has there been? Well, as the pictures have shown, when not responding to e-mails or marking from one of my other jobs, I’ve tended to take it easy.

When in Caserta, I did my best to search for the best place to have a healthily-measured gin and read my book, the key being to find the place with the best snacks as well. With the large lunches you get here, dinner is more of a nibbling affair, so light nibbles become key. The place you see pictured came out with fruit in a chocolate sauce – a little sweet for my savoury tooth, but they did answer terribly well. Through in a recent addiction to downloading and watching Battlestar Galactica (the newer version) with a bottle of prosecco or some beers, and you have yourself a very relaxing evening.

The phone in my bathroom in the hotel in Avellino put me in mind of Dr Strangelove (there's me taking an urgent call from the President...) and so thanks to free internet provision and Youtube, an enjoyable bath followed. And then there are the weekends. Last weekend was raining and so it was spent with examiners Ri and Jo with room service breakfast and the papers, but it might include a little travel and sight-seeing and certainly, some sun, if it’s out.

There's one of me picnicking in the Caserta Palace gardens and another of me from Castle San Elmo in Naples (above) when out with local friend Emy. This was me in my hotel room on Saturday with the sun shining on me as I looked out upon Vesuvius. All very pleasant, I’m sure you’ll agree, and certainly one of the best views of Naples (looking out of it - ah ha!), of which there are many.

7th: Dove una autobus...?

Public transport, eh? What can I say? ‘Always carry a good book and some music’, perhaps?

Now, I like trains. Yes, even given the air of unpredictability and likely cancellation (see previous comments about the cancelled ‘rail-replacement bus’ for the cancelled train) they seem to have down here at the bottom of the peninsular, I like them; but then, there are limits. Travelling from Caserta to Benevento last weekend to my new area for examining, I opted for the train. I say opted, but there wasn’t really a choice of a bus – if there was, it remained cleverly hidden. Anyways, why but it when there are trains a-plenty? Quite cheap as well. For the 40km journey I could get the express, non-stop Eurostar from Castera to Benevento direct at only 15 euros, taking only 35 minutes - far better than the 5 euro slow train taking an hour and a half to cover the distance. The only hurdle is that for the Eurostar, you can’t get your ticket at the local tobacconist’s (purveyor of all things necessary for journeys, including tobacco) but have to go to a station with a ticket desk and speak the Italiano. Not a special ticket desk, just a ticket desk.

While every station has platform folk brewing up espressos and chatting to the folk that come by to share their coffee, it’s the preserve of larger stations to have a ticket window/desk, normally helpfully understaffed with one person (see picture of Caserta’s ticket desk). Although I had plenty of time before the train (I always allow plenty of time when travelling, you know), faced with a long queue and speaking the Italiano, I took the easy option of the ‘volice biglietta’, or ‘fast ticket’ machine – you can see one to the right of the ticket desk. This has the added bonus of having an English language facility, meaning the ‘no-speaky-Italiano’ folk like me can travel and buy tickets with ease.

The machine was helpful, I selected my seat and went to put my money in the machine. 15 euro ticket, 50 euro note. The machine says it can give me change of 35 euros, so all’s good. In goes the note, out comes the 15 euro ticket and 3 x 5 euro notes. The Quick-minded reader will notice there’s a 20 euro short fall. Well, I did too. Noticing the short-changing (even the machines do it down here), I looked at the screen – ‘Go to window’, it said. Bugger. Speaky Italiano after all (or at least a very rudimentary pidgin of it), but this time with more explanation to get my missing 20 euros. Knowing my very basic Italian wouldn’t stand up to the job of explanation, while in the Q, I drew a picture of the machine, a 50 euro note going in, a ticket and 15 euros coming out and a question mark over a 20 euro note – clever, huh?

My communication concern eased when I noticed that the man at the window had a little union flag on his name badge, indicating he could speak English. Or at least that’s what I thought it meant. It turns out that this symbol means nothing of the sort, as this chap couldn’t parle anglais - I think that it’s more an indication of where the wearer thinks / once thought they might possibly like to go / have gone on holiday. No problem. The drawing. I gesture to it with my ticket, murmuring nonsense like those annoying people slowing up the queues at Victoria station. The guy thinks I want another ticket and goes to print me off another. ‘Non, bene’, I say, waving my ticket. The guy’s ignored the drawing and is focussing on the ticket. How to backtrack? Well, it’s lengthy and there’s already a sheen on my brow, but it’s done. Chap with the key for the machine, though, he’s not there. Won’t be back until Monday when I should come back. Trouble is won’t be there because I’ll be in the place I’m trying to sort a ticket for. A call’s made and he goes to get a print out from the machine – I will be vindicated through hard evidence and the perseverance will have been worth it! Or maybe not. The computer says, ‘no’, it gave me my money. There it is there in black and white in the print out showing all the transactions and buttons pressed. Yes, I concede it’s got the details all down, but it’s wrong, and I point to the ‘errore: malfunzione’ in the text, right next to where it said I’d been given the money. By now the queue’s built up nicely and I can feel a weight of eyes on my back, the guy shrugs and there’s nothing left to do but either pay a 30 euro return fare on the Monday to get the guy in charge to return 20 euros or get a beer from the tobacconist’s and wipe the gloss from my forehead. I opt for the latter with beer, and more pleasing it is, too. Those machines – they’re plotting, don’t you know. Anyway, short video footage of Benevento for your perusal, literally paid for with the sweat off my brow.

But trains, you see, they’re not buses, and how glad are we for that. Thursday saw me getting the bus from Benevento [lit: good wind, and it was a good wind that got me out of there] to Avellino, up in the hills a full 35km away. Questioning told me the bus journey took two hours. Two hours for 35km (not even miles). While one part of my mind thought it was probably a mistake in my understanding, another darker part of my mind recalled being at school in Scotland and having to travel for 30 minutes on the local bus for the 4 miles to the place where I could then get the school bus (taking another 30 minutes for a further 4 miles to get to school). No, times had changed. It’s the 21^st century. Buses don’t take two hours to travel 35km. Or do they? Yes, it would seem. They do – the memory buried deep in the darkest corners of my mind rose, like a ghoulish spectre from beyond the grave, ready to haunt my waking day and, 16 years on, my professional life. Not only do they take two hours but they involve two changes and a visit to all the hill-top towns in the region. The change thing threw me, as once again, I’d applied my knowledge of how things work in the UK to rural Italy. Fool, that I am. There was me thinking that a bus with a sign saying it was going to Avellino was, in fact, going to Avellino. No, it was going into the windy hills far, far away. Whereupon I’d make a connection. And then another. More video footage of Motefusco this time (place for second connection) – a place the interweb tells me has 463 families but 754 housing units (?). What does that tell you?

Although travelling quite so far, the whole thing was rather reminiscent of something, and it was only while waiting in the intermittent rain that I realised that all these hill top villages were all familiar to me. It was back to Scotland but this time the University of Glasgow. When studying there, we all learnt, amongst many other useful things about alcohol and how to mix a decent G&T, etc., that the university library was designed so that viewed from a distance it looked like an Italian hill-top village. And here they were, hill top-villages all around.
I’ll let you decide for yourself how successful the architect was. In case you get confused, the first picture is the village. Or is it the library. Damn. Even I get confused, and I studied there...

As the memories came flooding back I was reminded of a further Scotland-Italy similarity. The most ardent admirers of Scotland’s fair city of Glasgow will tell you that it’s just like Rome; not in terms of style, fashion, monuments, weather, food or architecture, but that it’s built on seven hills, just as Rome is. Any other similarities to Rome and Italy end when you come across the first fish and chip shop that sells deep-fried pizza. And that will be the first fish and chip shop that you come across.

My most recent bus journey out in the hilly wilderness here was my trip to the exam centre this morning. 45 km away = give one hour 45 minutes to get there. With the exams starting at 9am, that means a pretty early start, although the scenery is quite something at some points. See the delightful bus station at Grottaminarda where I caught my return bus this afternoon. There are, of course, real highlights, and those will come in the next instalment. See how I keep you coming back for more with these tales, eh? Joyous.

6th: Hold the front page!

We’ve had a few days examing since the last blog, so what can we tell you? Well, as you can see from the headline news, courtesy of the Woking Informer, today was something of a severe day for those being examined. Not a primary or middle school, but a high school, with lots of seventeen and eighteen-year olds taking the basic exam and failing the first hurdle of being able to tell me what d ay it was. Some even had trouble with, “What’s your name”. It was then that I knew the butcher’s bill for the day was going to be high. Still, what can you do, eh? The centre, before learning of results, were keen to make me as “at home” as possible, even providing tea in my break. Tea, which is so, “typically English”. Yes, but perhaps not so typically English if the stuff is orange, heavily sugared and with four ice cubes in it (on a cold day). I can imagine the folk at work and their disbelief. Still, I am grateful for the stuff – kept me going through the darker moments of the day. There’s a picture of me on a train, returning from exams. Lovely.

Some mildly humorous comments from the past couple of days include one lad’s recollection of going to London. The most interesting thing he noted was that “there are more traffic lights than in my city”. Little to argue about there and much to the chagrin of drivers in both cities, I should imagine. Interesting how the world is viewed through other people’s eyes, eh?

Then there was revelation that ‘poodle’, with a minor change of the first vowel, sounds just like ‘puddle’. It took me a moment to realise what was going on when the girl told me she had a “white puddle”. At first I thought there’d been an accident, until she went on to say, “her hair’s as soft as a pillow”. A curious metaphor, no doubt, and leaves one wondering a little about the safety of the dog.

There was also the lad who let me in on a little secret about a side-line Her Majesty’s got going on over here. When not opening supermarkets and inviting old Etonians to form governments (I read with dismay that most of the new cabinet are millionaires), she’s got a thriving musical career. Oh, yes. When talking about music, the boy informed me that his favourite singer was “The Queen – I listen every day”. I wonder if she pays tax on that.

There’s the perennial problem of aspiration (extra ‘h’ sound), with a girl telling me about ‘hair pollution’ (although I had to admit that in parts of Napoli, both ‘hair’ and ‘air’ pollution are certainly a problem), and a final favourite, which is the lad with the unfortunately named, ‘Luca Matitti’. As a boy, not so bad, although it does remind me of a couple of students in London, one who’d taken his father’s German name of ‘Meidich’ [pron: my-dick] and from his Italian mother’s side, the first name, ‘Luca’. The other was a French beauty named, ‘Angelique Lecoq’. My, my.

Just one more day in Caserta before I set off for the mountainous region of Benevento.

5th: A 'Rich Tea' Royalty?

I start today’s blog with a couple of reminiscences from today’s examining (picture of me and cakes at break), in the lengthily titled, Santa Maria Capua Vetere,

home of the second largest ampiteatro in Italy (after Rome’s coliseum). One candidate was telling me about her annual trips up to Milan, where there’s a “great castle – the bubonic built the castle”. Lightly concerned about the health of the northern region of Italy and the source of its wealth, I soon managed to piece together that the ‘bubonic’ was in fact the ‘Bourbon kings’ – not a empire of biscuit royalists, but royalty opposed (generally when with the support of others) against Napoleon in the 18^th and early 19^th century. I can’t really comment on the girl's pronunciation, mind. While waiting for my train back to Caserta this afternoon, I attempted to order a beer in the station bar and made such a hash of it that you couldn’t possibly imagine that the Italian for ‘beer’ is the incredibly similar sounding ‘berra’. I’m thinking the barman was just so taken aback by debonair manner and inherent sophistication that he temporarily became hard of hearing.

Napoleon features in the second examining instance. It was near the end of the day and my mind had long since given up the ghost by the time one lad comes in telling me that the topic he’s going to talk about is his hobby, ‘reading’. Marvellous. One of the points on a prepared form to us to talk around is his favourite book. Fine. Another is Mickey Mouse and comics. Gee, swell. The final point is ‘my future dream’. Given the kid likes reading, I’m guessing he wants to write a book. Lo! And it is his future dream. Ensuring I take an interest, with the view of reliable examining, I ask him about the topic of his book. “Napoleon” replies the lad. I sit up, interest suddenly aroused, my mind turning back on and the lights behind my eyes starting to flick back into life. Readers will know of my interest in the period and, especially in ‘The Immortal Memory’ and wondered if he would feature in a book about Napoleon. Thinking this is the time when I can stretch exam timings under the guide of confirming my exam decision, I probe further: “Is the book about the time when Napoleon was a soldier, first consul or emperor?” I ask. “Emperor”, rejoins the youth. A good period. Eager to learn more, yet knowing about the drier period of Napoleon and the Bourbons with their eponymous biscuits, I press further. “Is it about his brother becoming king in Italy or the decisive battles of either of the two wars?” The boy, perhaps taken a-back by my line of questioning, looks a little crest-fallen, saying, “Napoleon. No more. Stop”. Turns out, it’s a book he wants to write about in the future. While I didn’t mean to ‘out-history’ the lad with verbal bludgeoning, I at least hope I’ve given him a few ideas to think about for his future research...

Back in the non-examining world, it was the weekend! Huzzah. The first thing to say here is that no matter how much people may criticise British public transport, be thankful it’s not Italian, and especially southern Italian. I’ll spare the details of the this blog’s first entry and suffice by telling you only of cancelled last trains of an evening, rail-replacement bus services which are then cancelled, a lack of anyone in a fluorescent jacket to direct questions / disgruntlement at, crowded buses (a different occasion to the cancelled replacement one), near run-over-ings, under-staffed ticket desks and a succession of broken-down trains. Still, all fun of the fair when overseas and all the more time to read the book you’re sooooo glad you’ve got with you. All of this actually mildly fun as I didn’t have anything but some sitting in the sun reading a book to do anyway, so sitting in the sun at a cafe or at the station reading made little to no difference - witnessing the local passengers’ gestures getting exponentially more passionate was almost a reason to have planned it this way.

Amongst the weekend events were a trip to the Castle San Elmo and attached monastery with an old friend (see Emi and me in the pictures), a particularly good lobster dinner and the forced night in a central Napoli hotel (on account of the cancelled train). At 55 euros, I can’t complain; the orange decor and questionable bread role for breakfast was really icing on the tiramisu. Another highlight was a Sunday trip to the Teatro San Carlo, the oldest surviving theatre in Europe, for a Beethoven, Albeniz and Prokofiev piano recital – pretty cultured, huh?

All sumptuous and quite the ticket. My thanks to Emi for sorting it out, and lucky for us that it fell between two strikes relating to cut-backs in state funding for the arts (apparently the theatre folk are looking at a 40% drop in pay).

But hey, it could be worse. It could be Greece. Or even a premier-less democracy with just as much debt...

4th: Of power naps and pizza slices

Today was a glorious Friday of non-exmaining. When overseas, what should one do with a day without work in the delightful south of Italy? Perhaps a day trip to Naples or further south to the beautiful coastal town of Sarlerno. Maybe even a trip up to Rome on the fast train. Or perhaps, just a day relaxing in the gardens of the Palace in Caserta (where I am - see the lovely picture) after a hearty four-course lunch. Scintillating stuff, I know, but read on to see what I got up to!

First thing on the agenda was a leisurely breakfast – nothing quite like spending half-an-hour over a pot of tea while doing absolutely nothing, just noticing the paint on the walls and other minutiae that really don’t matter. Having breakfasted, it was time to see what was happening with the UK election courtesy of the hotel internet service and the live feed from the BBC with a tired-looking Dimbleby and others going over the ground they’d gone over the night before after the exit polls. This was obviously quite exhausting, so by 10:30am it was obviously time for a nap. I’d get to the cultural highlights of Caserta, or maybe even Rome, after lunch.

Waking up a little before one, I decided that a trip to Rome was a little arduous, so I opted for an afternoon of gentle strolling and reading in the Palace gardens – very beautiful. But first, a healthy lunch. There are no end of pizza-slice outlets around (good for a snack but not for much more), but I was after a proper restaurant and so set off in search of one, not bothering to eat at cafes with sandwiches or the like. Nothing but a large meal of starters, pasta plate, main course and desert would do me, oh yes. At a little after one, an undeniably respectable hour to eat, the first restaurant I found that was open, for many only open in the evening, was behind a police barrier and situated under large flags, set in a courtyard immediately adjoining the region's finance ministry. Not thinking I’d make it past the sentries in trainers and jeans, I moved on to the second restaurant - one that I’d been to two years ago when here, and three years ago when visiting on a day trip with a certain Mr Sweeney.

Getting near restaurant number two, I noticed something amiss; there was a large group of lively school children gathered at the front, seemingly having strayed from the expansive grounds of the palace. Wary of small children at the best of times, I approached with caution. The buoyant mass was crowded round a couple of lucky (?) street vendors, selling carved elephants, mobile phone covers and other pieces of object d’art that pocket money is meant to be spent on when ten years of age. While it seemed that they were just hovering outside, closer inspection revealed a plague of children inside the restaurant as well, clattering their plates and making the kind of noise you associate with a school canteen. Whatever happened to packed lunches of limp peanut butter and jam sandwiches, an overly bruised apple and a carton of ‘fruit’ juice’? I blamed the likes of Jamie Oliver and decided to move on.

Countless cafes and pizza-slice outlets later, I come across another restaurant. Same school children conundrum there, so on I went. It was getting close to two now and I was becoming concerned I’d miss the lunch window and be stuck with nothing but a pizza slice until the restaurants opened again at eight o’clock. More cafes and then, a restaurant. It seemed quiet outside. No school children. A full menu. Perfect - perseverance paying off, I told myself. In I strolled, with the purpose of a man about to eat and drink well, wondering as I did so whether or not to go for a half bottle of red or a full one. Entering, I see that it’s actually quite busy (everyone avoiding the school kids, probably), but the first waiter doesn’t think it’ll a be a problem getting a seat and shouts through to the main man. He’s harassed and looks unhappy. I begin to feel doubt. The main man waves his hands in the air, looks around and mutters something in Italian before racing off to deal with a larger man gulping down wine and signalling something about his pasta. I'm glancing enviously at the fat man's repast when the waiter breaks into my thoughts and apologises. I get the drift. No need to offer explanations. I shuffle out, hopes of gastronomic discovery and wine dashed on the rocky shores of hunger.

A set back, but not fatal. I decide that I should pass the nearby supermarket, pick up a half bottle of red and some provisions and make a picnic of it in the Palace gardens. Yes, I persuade myself, this was actually what I wanted all along (see the picture of my doing this two years ago). In the shop I go, buy the items with ease, but I just have to pick up a knife and bottle opener from the hotel en route... No problem. As it’s a picnic, though, I think a quick hot ‘something’ would be nice. So, as I’m going to be eating more later anyway, I think that a quick slice of Margareta from the outlet over the road from the hotel would be a good idea after all. Buy that and gobble it down. Fine. Made a mess of ordering it in Italian (pointing and saying ‘one’ is all good and well, but when they start throwing questions about drinks at you, it becomes another matter all together) and leave with an embarrassed grin on the chops, but happy with the idea of my picnic. Back in the hotel, I make my gorgonzola and prosciutto sandwiches (better to do it where there’s a sink than out on the grass). But they look very tasty. Why take them out when I can eat them in the hotel now? Why indeed. OK, change of plan, I’ll eat them in the hotel and take the wine and a book to the Palace gardens. But then it's probably good to have the wine with the luxury sandwiches together. OK, do that. Feeling rosy after the wine and looking out the window, I see it’s a bit overcast (hard to see the clouds in the picture, but believe me, they're there), and suddenly, a wave of tiredness overcomes me and the thought of a post-prandial stroll seems a bit too much of an effort. OK, time for a quick power nap and then to the gardens. It’s half two. I can be out in an hour, I agree with myself

Or maybe not. Waking up at half six in the evening, it’s almost dinner time and the day is but over, except for an episode of Battlestar Galactica and an update on the election. Some might call this a complete failure to reach all of my original objectives. I, however, ... well, I'm still wondering what spin to put on it. At least decisions were just as successful in the general election. Perhaps it's the current phase of the moon or maybe some other celestial event guiding our actions in a way only people with crystals can tell us about.

Indeed, while speeches were being made, party alliances being formed and a minority Tory government gathered momentum in the offing, I napped. And while it wasn’t Rome, Naples or even the coastal town of Salerno, it was still particularly good. Anyway, not that the tourist thing isn’t being done as there’s a castle and a monastery on the agenda for tomorrow, all things going according to plan, of course...

3rd: Anyone for tea and biscuits?

I know that in ‘the States’, they say that thing about Southern hospitality, and I’m sure it really just depends on who you’re with. I remember being in Tennessee and found everyone particularly rude – couldn’t get a decent cup of tea anywhere. And when I tried to get a biscuit, well, quite the different thing over there. Anyway, there is one thing you can be sure about in Southern Italy, and that’s that they realise that a happy examiner is going to be a good examiner. Now, I’m not saying that I can be bought off with cakes and tea and substantial lunches of the kind that mean I don’t need any dinner, but it is nice to be attempted to be bribed with hospitality every now and then. I suppose the cynics would call it a bribe, but I’ll call it good protocol. After all, we all know where we’d be without appropriate protocol. Answers on a postcard not required, this time.

Was examining at a school in Aversa (just north of Naples) yesterday and it was the first time they’d done the exams – a mother and daughter team with a pioneer spirit, going against the wishes of the rank and file teachers who were concerned about getting their teaching externally moderated. They needn’t have worried, all went well. But the anticipation of the results was quite something. I don’t think I’ve been ‘whooped’ before when leaving the centre, and I think it’s also the first time there’s been a photo with the group. The fact that everyone passed really had nothing to do with the fact that I was taken to lunch at a posh pizza restaurant (it seems hard to imagine pizza gets posher than ‘Pizza Express’). Of the few notable points from the day was the comment that, “it’s difficult to eat lunch when you only have one hour...” You can only pray that this blissful state of belief holds out against private sector pressures for as long as possible. It was the same the day before when, after over an hour of banqueting, I had to request to get back to the centre as we were already late for the afternoon session with candidates waiting. I left the majority of the teachers there waiting for the fourth course. Perhaps a little tighter team-keeping wouldn’t go a-miss, though.

Today, however, they got it just right. After four hour’s examining I wasn’t driven to a restaurant ten miles from the centre because that’s where somebody knows someone and they personally recommended the spaghetti vongole there, lunch was ordered in. A small three courser arrived in tin foil trays for me to eat in the privacy of the exam room without having to make polite and slightly stilted conversation. Ever the one for conversation gambits, it can wear a touch thin every now and then. So today started with a lasagne first course, followed by pork cutlet in a cheese and mushroom sauce, with a little chocolate biscuity thing for dessert. It was quite delicious and made me wonder if the candidates who’d been examined first thing had been primed before entering the exam. They should ask questions as part of the test, and sometimes, I found that they were asking questions off topic about my favourite food, or certainly food that I liked. And lo! What should happen if some of the things I mentioned only turned up for lunch. Gold star for the teacher who prepped those kids.

As well as a continuous supply of tea, biscuits and savouries, something which helps the day go by is the odd examining gem. Non-examiner readers, apologies as these gems are of the slightest possible nature. Today there was a large kid who could barely fit into the chair – I was almost worried he’d spy my pastries and gobble them down with a frog-like tongue, swatting them and curling them back into his mouth within the blink of an eye (thankfully a carefully e-positioned satchel prevented any possibility of this from happening). So this fellow, who’s not doing terribly well but would scrape a pass, tells me he’s got a cat. My first thought is, ‘I’m surprised he hasn’t eaten the cat’ (you get the idea about this guy). I ask the cat’s name, only to be told in flawless, perfectly intoned English that it’s, “I haven’t got a train ticket”. I check, but yes, that’s the cat’s name. All language around the name is broken and badly inflected, but the name itself, a piece of perfectly chunked English. Language pedagogists, take note, please.

The other thing that works well when dealing with examiners is a) reducing their workload, and b) addressing them correctly. As you can see from the fax I received yesterday, the centre has pretty much got it right, allowing me the day off on Friday and getting far nearer my correct title than any other centre has yet. It's even enough to make you forgive the odd missed comma...

2nd: Rum baba or bust

And so to examining. These days, my current job takes me away from the chalk face of actually having to interact with learners and so I set to my first bit of examining for the year with renewed motivation and interest at being back in the thick of it – well, as ‘the thick of it’ is when someone’s done all the teaching for you and you just have to interview candidates one at a time when they’re well behaved and slightly scared of you. A kind of sanitised ‘teaching’, you might say. Who am I kidding. It’s not teaching at all. Anyway, I’m mingling with students again, so that’s got to be a step away from the somewhat detached world of training.

My excitement didn’t last long as I saw the list of candidates I was to examine – 123 grade one candidates. That’s five minute exams, one after another, for 10 ¼ hours. Still, not much to do but get stuck in and pick the blighters off one at a time. It’s easier if you think of it like that. The cream came right at the end when I had one 18-year-old girl at Grade 8 (upper intermediate) talking to me about The Picture of Dorian Gray. Quite the treat.

When it comes to examining in Italy, there are certain things to look out for / expect with the candidates. The first is that when about to start off on a memorised monologue, they’ll start with, ‘alora’. It’s almost like a verbal indication that you’re inhaling breath for a long turn. Not a good sign generally. The other is that unknown to English native speakers, ‘kitchen’ and ‘chicken’ are remarkably similar sounding words. Just swap the first two consonant clusters around and you’ve got the other word. You point to a chicken and they say it’s a ‘kitchen’. You point to a kitchen, they’ll call it a ‘chicken’. You can lay money on it happening. Statisticians note: the first ‘chicken / kitchen’ mix up prize goes to Giacomo at 11:30 (29^th candidate of the morning) and the first ‘alora’ is taken by Alfonso at 11:55 (34^th candidate). What I did get and which I didn’t expect was that when eliciting items in the classroom, the ‘teacher’s desk’ became the ‘chicken desk’ – and well might it be depending on who’s hiding behind it. It was Alessia at 10:35 on the second day that gets the ‘new to an examiner’ prize. Well done there. And the final award goes to Salvatore (a particularly common name for boys in the centre) at 12:05 on the first day. He wins the prize for looking most like a 10-year-old vesion of ‘the Chief’ from the Battlestar Galactica TV series (I’ve become a recent addict – do try it!). The likeness is uncanny.

Apart from being caught up in a local power struggle between factions in the school, the most interesting part during the examining was the array of cakes and coffees brought in for me. The first break at 11am on Monday saw 12 dense cakes (6 x 2 types) arrive with some sweet tea. I could only manage one and had to insist on the other 11 being shared around the staff. Tuesday break saw the rum-soaked babas. Only six this time. When the cakes arrived, they came with a host of teachers, bearing them as if in some procession, setting them down amongst teas, coffees, waters and what-ever plates are to hand, all resting precariously on and around the exam materials. Monday saw the head teacher join us and Tuesday another group of teachers keen to watch the examiner eat a cake. ‘Does the English examiner man eat like us? Yes, he does! How interesting.’ Then after five minutes, out they troop and it’s back to the grade one exams. Lunch was a similar affair, but off to a restaurant. A brief three courser yesterday and a kind of banquet today, culminating in a really quite good ‘fruit of the sea’ steamed pasta in tin-foil job. Excellent mozzarella for one of the starters, too. But hey, it is the south of Italy.

Feeling a little tired at the end of the day, I very nearly passed up on the invitation to accompany one teacher (with no English) and her 17-year-old daughter (who kept being ushered forward with a wink from the mother) on a brief guided trip around their historical town of Capua. Often keen to mix it with locals with no more than gestures and beer, I set off with them from the school on a twenty-minute drive, during which, through a lengthy guessing and gesturing process to convey the point, I was strongly recommended to see the Turin Shroud. It really is the real thing, don’t you know.

So, into the Romanesque town of Capua and the daughter (Giusi?) and I get out while I assume the mother parks the car. No, she’s not parking the car, she’s going home. OK. Before I realise this and while still looking around for the mother, who I expect at any time to join us, we meet the daughter’s friend, Danielle (not bad with the old English, this one). The way they act together, I assume they’re boy friend and girlfriend. Assumptions, eh?

There’s a picture of them here next to a Saint Lucy (?) who had her eyes gouged out – she’s holding the eyes on a plate in her left hand. After a tour around some unremarkable churches (at least to the untrained eye), the cathedral (with a fresco where the apostles are all painted as women) and a variety of closed tourist sites, I start making queries about the age for drinking alcohol – it’s after six, I’ve had a busy day speaking to people and I’m thirsty. The two of them, quick as a flash, get my meaning and take me to a bar that they go to, and every other underage kid in the town. Apart from the dozen 15-17 year old kids, the only other patrons seemed to be a trio of men in their early to mid twenties taking a mild interest in the girls in the group of kids. Nice.

Now, there’s a notable thing here. Growing up in Scotland (and indeed in the UK), if you give an under-ager the chance to drink when with friends, they will, and drink a lot. Some might even argue too much. And here were these young ‘uns having a beer and, dare I say it, seeming to ‘drink responsibly’. Even Danielle declined a second beer when I moved onto a healthy-measured G&T. Interestingly, they hadn’t heard of a G&T before (“tonic and gin?” exclaimed the youths), so hopefully I’ve put them onto a good thing.

Hanging out with 17-year-olds done, I make a move to get the train back to the billet. But no, the daughter won’t hear of it and, after taking leave of Danielle, we go to her house where her mother will drive me back. It’s at this point that Giusi’s English blossoms and she tells me that she’s deeply in love with Danielle, but that he’s 'a little timid'. A ‘beautiful and sweet heart’, mind. I suggested something along the lines of gin in his orange juice to prompt the issue, but she seemed uncertain. Apparently we’re going to be facebook friends, so no doubt I’ll be told more then. There’s also a business about who he was “meeting” before and all kinds of things you quite forget that teenagers talk about.

Arriving at the house, I’m expecting the same Subaru or such that we arrived in to be my carriage home. But the car was “closed” and so it was the old Fiat 126 500cc to take me, the daughter, the mother, who flows with the largess of life, and her husband back to Caserta. A short journey that the little car made pains to make seem longer, by conveying every bump and pothole in the road up through the light suspension and iron frame of the vehicle. Not the best car for cobbled Roman streets, but you can’t deny the Italian
experience of it all. And when was the last time you were in a car with a choke? All very jolly and all somewhat random after a day of examining. Very kind folk, even if they were a little too keen on finding me a wife and forcing pasta down my throat.

Tomorrow a new centre. And why Italian tomatoes? Why, because it’s the south of Italy and that’s what it’s all about here!