Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Going to school, you act real cool

I have to go back to school. I’m 38. I have what could be a real opportunity to do a Masters program through distance learning (and yes, it is an actual English University, not a spam degree). Trouble is, I don’t have degree of any sort. Apparently, I may qualify on the strength of my personality, er, that is, by equivalent experience, for this scholarship.

It is aimed at African citizens working in the area of community development and communication, which I am, but with a name like Scott, I may not convince them that I am African enough…

Studying and I have never been close friends. My previous system has been one of procrastination and scraping by. But this time, it will be different- more relevant than, say, the Latin and Geography I did at school.

I am still recovering from being forced to wear a chiffon dress at clothing design college by the lecturer- we had to model our designs- which for that course, was evening wear. I’d spent all my money on fast living, so I made a dress out of my curtain lining. Had to model it in class. Eventually I dropped out, because the teacher had said my deskmates had complained I smelled of alcohol (I was a barman in a nightclub, and frequently staggered straight to college).

I won’t take you back to school: Suffice it to say that a boy wearing floral blouses and make-up at a rugger-bugger boy’s school put up with a lot of crap.

I did study advertising fairly successfully, but hated the advertising world. In Cape Town, as with any big city, it involves snorting mountains of cocaine and schmoozing with vapid people in order to get the account to write pithy ads about chutney and soap.

So. Back to school. Lunch box, exercise books and assignments. No smoking in the toilets. At least I am over the stage of brace-tangling snogging at the disco.

I did panic a little this evening, when my nine-year-old asked me to help with his homework, and I had no idea what to do. Ah, well, you’re never too old to learn, relearn and learn by mistakes. I’m an old master at that.


  1. Forget advertising -- what can you say about chutney that hasn't been said a billion times before? (What's chutney, by the way?)

    You and your 9-year-old can do homework together! Whenever you can't answer one the kids' questions, hit them with one of your own. That's parenting.

  2. @ Briane P: Chutney is , er, a pickled condiment (snort- still love that word). Mmmmm, chutney!
    My question to him was 'why the heck don't you write your homework down more clearly?'
    Minus ten dad points.

  3. I did French at school. Which I failed horribly, at least most of the time. Enter dad, who also did French at school and was going to be my guiding light and salvation. I averaged a miserable D through Standard 6 and 7. That term I got 17%. [That's like what, a triple F?] His comment when I confronted him with this, was that they're not speaking the same language. Clearly. Remercie le papa, n'aurait jamais résolu cela. Don't feel bad is what I am saying. Plus ten dad points for caring enough to try ...

  4. @SMP: I got 90% for french way back then. Can't remember any of it. Je suis un couchon?
    We dads have to try...

  5. Je suis un couchon? I sure hope not. And if you are, don't advertise it ;)

  6. Je ne parlez Francais pas.
    Comment ca va?
    Comme ci, comme ca.
    I understand a little, but glaaaaazed over at the verbs etc. Stll, it is a lovely language to hear. Even being insulted in french sounds good.


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