The list

There is a list. A list of things. Things I say. Funny things. Different things. Strange things. My colleague keeps it – the list. She told me about it. The list of things Gisela says. 

I say Grade 1 –  they say Year 1. I say homeroom – they say classroom. Gym – sports hall. Washroom – toilet. Snack time – morning tea. Garbage can – rubbish bin. Eraser – rubber. Pencil crayons …

Art class in Grade 1, err Year 1. Simple task – colour in the picture. Or, at least, so I thought.

“Ok. I want everyone to color in this picture with pencil crayons.”

Dead silence. Twenty-one pairs of eyes staring at me. Confusion written all over my students’ faces.

“What do you mean, Frau Koehl?”

“Well, I would like you to colour this picture with pencil crayons. No markers please!”

Confusion slowly turning into bewilderment.

“You mean textas?”

“Err, yes. I mean, no. No textas.”

“So what should we use instead?”

“Pencil crayons please.”

There was that silence again. Which, by the way, is extremely rare in a classroom filled with 21 students, and therefore even more unnerving.

“So we can use anything we want?”

“No, not anything you want. Pencil crayons please!”

This was way more complicated than I had anticipated. Maybe we should have used water colours. At this point some water spilled here or there seemed minor compared to the drama that was unfolding in front of me.

“But which one is it – pencils or crayons?”

Ah, finally it dawned on me…. Another word on THE LIST: pencil crayons. Apparently a pencil crayon was not a thing in Downunder. 

“Ok. What do you call this? I asked, holding up what I thought to be a pencil crayon.

“A pencil!”, twenty one tiny voices shouted in unison.

A pencil? My turn to be confused.

“So what about this?” I continued, a pencil in my hand, held up high for everyone to see.

“A lead pencil!”

I was beginning to understand the problem.

“And this?” I presented a crayon.

“A crayon!” the kids shouted, perplexed and probably wondering under which rock they found this chalkie.

“Well, then. Please use your pencils – coloured pencils. No crayons! And absolutely no textas!”

Fast forward a few weeks. Swim lessons. 

Gym class, I mean sport, had proven to be another obstacle course of words. It was the sports hall (not the gym), joggers (not running shoes), and the water fountain was the bubbler. You play tip (not tag), footy (not soccer), and flag football was called Oz Ball.

Taking 21 year 1 students swimming is a challenge in itself. Trying to get them all to remember all required items in Australian slang, almost impossible. 

The Rule of 5 – bring the following:

1. swimmers (not the kids who can swim, but their swimming costumes!)
2. thongs (not the fancy underwear, but flip flops)
3. cap (a cap)
4. goggles (goggles)
5. towel (bigger than a face washer)

      Optional: rashies (watershirt – makes sense)

      No sunnies! 

Ready to take a dip!

Exhausted from yet another week of trying to say the right thing at school, I treat myself and go out for breakfast on the weekend. Brekky and a cuppa! A weird long black. Smashed avo on toast. Poached egg on top. Bacon and egg roll.

“Excuse me!”

I wave to the waiter, who is young enough to be my son. 

“I was just wondering – what exactly is a bacon and egg roll?”

There was that look again. Disbelief? Bewilderment? Pity?

“It’s bacon… And eggs… On a roll.” Babytalk. Elderspeak. Slow and simple and overly pronounced like I’m a three year old.

“On rocket.” he finishes.

“Rocket?” My turn to look puzzled.

“Rocket. Salad. Arugula.”

Arugula becomes rocket. Peppers turn into capsicums. Fries are chips. Chips are chips. Cookies are biscuits, and so are biscuits. Ketchup is called tomato sauce and you put it on your sausage sandwich. A fizzy drink or a chardy? Plinkity plank. Plinkity plonk. Plinkity plink – and you wonder why I drink. Plonk from the bottle-o. Defo!

Ah, all the words with o! The bottle-o. Liquor store. Servo. Gas station. Smoko. Avo. Arvo. Good afternoon. Garbo. Hospo. Journo. Povvo – like when you are down to 2.99$ on your bank account. Devo. You get the idea.

And last, but not least: the things you should not say, but say anyway, because you don’t know any better.

You take a sickie, not a sicko. It’s not a fanny pack, but a bum bag (not sure how that makes it any better). And to root means to have sex. So, to all my Canadian friends, leave your ROOTS sweater, err, jumper at home! Cheers!