I've had to teach German to refugees here. This was great fun because German was the only language I could be sure any of them spoke, and translations often went from Arabic or Syrian to Turkish to Kurdish or vice versa; occasionally we'd then have to translate to a Kurdish dialect. Mostly I'd take things with me into the lessons, including on one occasion my touring bike which sat on a desk while we translated the names of the parts.
Ironically I'm absolutely awful at learning languages; I just scraped a "C" in GCSE German and failed German at AS level.
I'm not going to tell you about my French grades.
My German teacher was Herr Ings. He had form, a small moustache and drove a Beetle. He had been interred in Germany during the war and still taught german.
His name was a great place to start. The fishy jokes were banal and multiple.
At some point I missed a fundamental point and struggled for the whole duration of my course. My father spoke good German and it was important that I respected that.
Hr Ings encouragement just before the exam was to tell me that if I passed German O level he would give up teaching.
My oral examiner was a mate's dad. I walked it. A discussion about fashion and men wearing earrings
The written I got 52%. But a pass is a pass.
For the duration of the 6th form I would greet him with "Guten Morgen Herr Ings immer noch hier" Always with a Cardiff lilt
The final irony is that I ended up running a German division and dealing with the company's most valuable customer, in German.
Before I took over this job I was sent for weeks at a time to learn, improve the business German I had picked up along the way.
Occasionally I would use what was judged to be an inappropriate word, phrase or expletive. My instructors who all seemed to of a particular class and style would exclaim " who ever taught you that word"
I often thought of Hr Doktor Ings. I would so love being able to tell Hr Ings that it was his foundations that a large part of my life were based on.