Pre-lines, line lines & other kinds of lines

REAL Spanking Short Stories from The Life and Times of...

Perhaps it would help if I took it out of its wrapper?

For almost two years now I have been taking French lessons with a very traditional teacher who also happens to be a professional disciplinarian. I am exceedingly lucky that there is a premium quality languages teacher who is willing to utilise his ‘other’ professional skills in order to ensure progress is made.

It is unimaginably difficult to get Jacqui to do anything that she doesn’t really, really want to do. Even my HoH struggles from time to time to get me to agree to things that I don’t like or don’t expressly wish to pursue.

However, there is one line that I will not cross.

I will not allow myself to duck out of a punishment set by someone with whom I have such an agreement. So, I make shrewd agreements.

Typically, I operate best with three wise men. My HoH is ever present and then there are usually two other professional disciplinarians both of a certain vintage. Never younger than 40-years and more often than not, they are north of 50.

Good counsel, I find, tends to come from gentlemen with one or two grey hairs, that have had one or two bloody noses (not from me, I hasten to add), and that very much know how to handle themselves. That’s not to say that grey - or white - hairs are essential, nor does it preclude a younger but equally capable dominant!

I benefit enormously from my ‘three wise men’ system. The HoH deals with me daily - lucky, luck man - then one of the other two will usually be work based, something to do with my career, and the other is ordinarily something to do with sport.

Essentially, I enter into an agreement to allow all of these men to administer discipline - of almost any kind - as they see fit. I choose to not argue with these gents; indeed, I rarely even raise an objection - I elect instead to listen properly to them and to take their advice in the manner in which it is intended… mostly.

Obviously, these gentlemen are exceptionally carefully chosen as I not only allow them to physically hurt me, but emotionally too. It is hard hearing home truths and there will naturally be a certain amount of character assassination required in order to truly develop someone.

Real learning hurts which is why most people are more or less incapable of experiencing it these days. Too soft. Too full of excuses.

I take drastic action in order to ensure that I continue to develop both personally and professionally and I have to say that I have never regretted my decision for a single second.

(Occasionally, I have been known to very briefly lament my scheduling - two canings in a week is a bit much - but these are occupational hazards which one must expect if accelerated progress is to be made).

Anyway, as I am currently crocked - unable to partake in any kind of sport whatsoever, let alone anything serious - I am instead electing to take language lessons and believe me this has been a whole other kind of sport.

I spend most of my time in France and like most English people I am absolutely dreadful at speaking the so-called language of love and frankly speaking I’m not much better at reading, writing or listening to it either!

From what I can see, there isn’t very much to love about it at all but since my HoH retired it has been all but settled that we will remain in France and I will have to somehow or other become proficient in its rotten dialect.

At first, my HoH insisted that I take formal French classes because he’s a responsible, self-sufficient kind of chap. He thought that would be the end of the matter but little did he know that I’ve been seeing off French teachers since before I was out of knee socks (the first time around!)

Be they teachers, tutors, supply teachers, trainee teachers, cover teachers - you name it - I’ve managed to get rid of them all.

“I’ve seen off more French teachers than the von Trapps have governesses.”

~ Jacqui James

It’s fair to say that I’ve made an art form out of it… until now.

Roughly two years ago my HoH and I became aware of a professional disciplinarian who also happens to be a bone fide languages teacher and, if I may say, a truly brilliant one at that. (Mighty fine at both roles as it goes, but if you’ve been reading my books and my blog, you’ll already know all about his advanced skills in the discipline department!)

Suffice to say, if you can’t speak a language he’s taught you, the problem lies solely with you. Period.

Naturally, I agreed to take these lessons as this seemed like a more realistic way of getting me to do the hard stuff. As I’m genuinely a very strong-willed character it is the devil’s own job to get me to do your bidding, no matter how well-meaning or ‘good’ the cause is.

I am my own woman; I am very sure of who I am and what I am here to do. It is therefore supremely difficult to truly dominate me.

Coaches have described me as ‘having the heart of a lion’ (but also the finesse of a wounded rhino), and the phrase ‘indominable spirit’ would not be out of place either. So, you try getting me to learn a page of crap for a test that I have no desire to take - good luck with that!

Anyway, it was all arranged that I would agree to accept discipline from my French teacher should the need arise (haha), and I thought that he would last for a while.

I suspected that he might be able to hack it for three to six months before quitting and that that would actually make a new record for a French teacher for Jacqui.

It simply never occurred to me that the teacher might have anything like the determination and steadfastness that I possess.

Back then, I had no idea that I had more than met my match. This guy certainly isn’t for turning.

Weeks then months passed by and soon there was actually a pile of paperwork - my work… in French - accumulating on the floor of the classroom. I told myself that it would all be in the bin or on the bonfire soon and that I had nothing to worry about.

But that son of a gun just kept on growing.

Soon I had to purchase a folder to keep my French work in and I don’t mean one of those wafer-thin ones, I mean one of those lever-arch bad boys.

To my horror, I filled a folder more or less right away and soon had to invest in another. This learning French malarky was getting way out of hand and I’d also experienced my fair share of sir and Sir’s other kind of ‘handiwork’ for my troubles.

Things came to a head shortly before Christmas, 2021. Monsieur le Professeur had not only made it through the first six, then twelve months, but was heading towards the half-way point of the second year. The horror.

He had TWO lever-arch files full of my work and my A4 notebook was also down to its final few pages. Frankly this teacher was taking the…

As it was so close to the end of the winter term, I figured we’d be winding things down somewhat and whilst I wasn’t exactly expecting him to get Monopoly out or to sick a festive video on, I certainly wasn’t expecting the third degree either.

Sir had though, decided to take a very close look at how my vocabulary learning had been going before breaking to celebrate Christmas.

Truthfully, I hadn’t really been doing any vocabulary learning at all. I didn’t really see the point in memorising a bunch of words that I was unlikely ever to need in real life. It’s not like I was going to ask my HoH to ‘please pass the salt’ in French and if I did, he would probably view it as impertinence and thrash me for my trouble.

Also, I simply could not believe that this teacher had lasted so long, I had been absolutely convinced he would be gone before we got down to any serious testing.

Bottom line is, I’d been learning barely enough to get by lesson to lesson and Monsieur le Professeur was about to find out.

You can read all about the delights of that process from last December here:

Why I was slippered this morning

It was a bruising process to say the very least and many of the incidents from December 2021 made it into that year’s annual:

SIX OF THE BEST 2021

That was when he did it. That was when my French teacher finally won. I wasn’t prepared to admit, at the time, that I had lost but I very obviously had.

Aside from loss of dignity, I also all but lost the will to resist.

I hadn’t been fighting my teacher, I’d promised both myself and my HoH that I wouldn’t do that. After all, it wasn’t the gentleman teacher’s fault that I had a long and disastrous history with learning French and it legitimately seemed like the only possible way I might be cajoled into making any further progress with it at all.

No, I hadn’t ever fought my teacher (good job too as I would have lost very, very badly… another thing I wouldn’t have admitted back then), but I had certainly resisted.

I had resisted learning by heart pretty much any of it, save for the things that were required every lesson. I actively avoided doing any of the hard yards what-so-ever and worse, I actually believed he’d let me away with it.

He didn’t.

I lost huge last December; there were lines, re-sits, slipperings all manner of reprimands and goodness knows what else.

I think it is fair to say that Mon Prof knew where to draw the line and he sure as hell knew how to dig in and defend that line.

I have genuinely never witnessed anything like it.

It is ordinarily me that is drawing and defending a line at work, in life and/or sport. I’d never before met anyone as equally well matched (stubborn) as I.

Stunned.

So, I cannot very well claim that I am now surprised to be where I am. Six months further on than ‘vocab-gate’ and I’ve all but capitulated.

I’ve just re-read my last blogpost: 'Lines or Pre-lines? No, not *those* kind and it really does document how far I’ve fallen.

I’ve gone from actively avoiding any home-learning, being physically disciplined for failing tests and being made to write thousands of lines… to doing it to myself.

I’m now writing ‘Pre-lines’ for heaven’s sake!

HOW did THAT happen?

This term, I have spent a large amount of my free time (I don’t really have any, so all of what is ‘free’ is soaked up) voluntarily writing out vocabulary and tables of conjugated verbs in order to avoid a repeat performance of last December.

Every couple of weeks I get a written test which takes a good hour to complete and then Mon Prof goes through it with is monocle and tut-tuts, finger-wags and makes threats (promises).

Aside from one horror-show at the start of last term, which was so bad I voluntarily hand-wrote a letter of apology and a tonne of corrections before being required to re-sit under pain of (probably) death. Aside from that, I’ve basically done okay. The tread on the slipper is no more worn than at the start of term and the junior cane remains hanging in its place in the schoolroom having seen no action whatsoever.

So far.

But despite my best efforts to ‘keep a clean sheet’ I am pretty much facing a penalty shoot-out where even conceding one goal is going to cause me a whole world of pain.

On Tuesday last (like yesterday… only it feels longer ago), Mon Prof out-witted me once again.

I thought that I would likely be sitting another written test as it was the second to last class before we are supposed to break for the summer and usually, he likes to torture me with a report card in the final lesson of a term, knowing full well that my HoH will be inspecting said card and wanting to know all about it shortly thereafter. Oh, the joys! So, this would be the last chance for him to set me a test.

Now, I’m pretty desperate for a summer break from school as I didn’t get a proper break at Christmas as sir was still busy ‘training’ me (see above) and I was not doing so well! Since December, I’ve had less than 2 or 3 lessons off, and two of those were through ill-health (once his and once mine).

I need to be allowed off for Summer just to get away from the wretched vocabulary regime that was instituted last December in the aftermath of ‘vocab-gate’. Namely, being tested orally (viva voce-style) weekly and then fortnightly in written form. It is relentless. I am always a few lazy days away from a whipping for not knowing my bloody words.

Looking back, it is a miracle that I have managed six months without anything more than a minor rebuke… until Tuesday last (yesterday) that is.

Before I give you a fine sample of yesterday’s more serious reprimand/warning etc., I have to share with you that I am very worried that I won’t be allowed away to summer break until Mon Prof is satisfied with my test result.

The same thing happened over Christmas and this one isn’t shaping up too differently.

Now, before you start wagging YOUR finger and telling me this is all my own fault (it is, I know), hear me out.

Sir surprised me yesterday by testing vocabulary lists #1 through #10 - approximately 500-600 words that - granted - I ought to know but were ‘acquired’ before December last. That is to say that these lists are the ones that I never even attempted to learn properly in the first place.

I only became intimately familiar with them to get me off of a third straight slippering and God only knows what else last year.

I did spend about 20-odd miserable, miserable hours over CHRISTMAS(!!!!!!) learning these wretched things well enough to get Mon Prof off my back and the slipper put back in the desk drawer where it belongs.

But that is where the problem lies.

I did what I needed to do to get through last December and it was time alone that dictated that these things would only really go into my short-term memory… and some of them my super short-term memory if I’m being wholly honest here.

Why did I not go back over them I hear you say?

Well, that’s because we now have #19 vocabulary lists and I have been keeping all of the ones that have been created POST Christmas up to date and in working order.

By my reckoning #13 through to #19 are all in good working order and Mon Prof would have a job making a charge stick on any of that stuff.

However, #1 though #12 is a very different matter.

As ‘luck’ would have it, sir decided to test #1 to #10 yesterday and he did it in a more difficult format - a viva voce (oral test). This is worse for me than in written form because my pronunciation still sucks big time, I have less time to correct mistakes than I would if it were written and I am not in control of what I answer and when. With a written test, if I am struggling in one area, I can go somewhere else for some respite and come back to the trickier sections without feeling ‘thrown’.

With a viva, once things start to go south there is nowhere to hide and precious little hope of pulling it back round.

Here’s a sample of how it went down:

“Bit embarrassing is it, Jacqui?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If I had stood you in front of the class and tested you on vocab #1, how would that have gone for you?”

“No better than it just went, sir. Badly.”

“Seriously, Jacqui, it’s not looking good for you now.”

We then had an excruciatingly embarrassing little conversation about the different types of accents in French and sir discovered that I have baby names for all of them - I couldn’t actually name any of them properly at all.

“Oh dear, young lady, oh dear!”