Getting the CELTA

Cathy and I arrive early and sit in our seats properly. We fidget a bit. Nervous future English teachers enter the classroom as well. They are all dressed far more casually than we. While the classroom fills slowly, we all sit in stressed silence until someone finally turns to someone else and asks her name. Everyone begins to chat quietly. Our tutors enter, and I am separated from Cathy and assigned to Kate, the best tutor that the course has to offer, although she was obviously nor marketed that way. Later, after quick comparisons of all the tutors, it is unanimously decided that my group must have the best karma out of everyone, having received such a wonderful tutor. Cathy's group, however, was left with the weird cross-child of Hitler and John Cleese, without all the funniness of the latter and with all of the unfortunate grimaces of the former. Our first day is exhausting; after a few hours we are thrust into our classroom with nothing but our lesson plans to hold onto for support. Kate sits in the back of the room and takes copious notes of our nervous tics. At the end of my first lesson, she likes me more, but tells me I need to stop repeating everything the students say and learn to write like a normal human being. Apparently my handwriting, while delightfully artsy in some circles, is frowned upon by Cambridge.