UNIT 3 My First Job课文翻译大学英语二

UNIT 3 My First Job

Trying

to

make

some

money

before

entering

university,

the

author

applies

for

a

teaching job. But the interview goes from bad to worse...

While

I

was

waiting

to

enter

university,

I

saw

advertised

in

a

local

newspaper

a

teaching post at a school in a suburb of London about ten miles from where I lived. Being

very short money and wanting to do something useful, I applied, fearing as I did so, that

without a degree and with no experience in teaching my chances of getting the job were

slim.

However,

three

days

later

a

letter

arrived,

asking

me

to

go

to

Croydon

for

an

interview.

It

proved

an

awkward

journey:

a

train

to

Croydon

station;

a

ten-minute

bus

ride and then a walk of at least a quarter to feel nervous.

The school was a red brick house with big windows, The front garden was a gravel

square; four evergreen shrubs stood at each corner, where they struggled to survive the

dust and fumes from a busy main from a busy main road.

It was clearly the headmaster himself that opened the door. He was short and fat. He

had a sandy-coloured moustache, a wrinkled forehead and hardly any hair.

He

looked

at

me

with an

air

of

surprised disapproval,

as

a

colonel might

look at

a

private

whose

bootlaces

were

undone.

'Ah

yes,'

he

grunted.

'You'd

better

come

inside.'

The narrow, sunless hall smelled unpleasantly of stale cabbage; the walls were dirty with

ink marks; it was all silent. His study, judging by the crumbs on the carpet, was also his

dining-room.

'You'd

better

sit

down,'

he

said,

and

proceeded

to

ask

me

a

number

of

questions:

what

subjects

I

had

taken

in

my

General

School

Certificate;

how

old

I

was;

what

games

I

played;

then

fixing

me

suddenly

with

his

bloodshot

eyes,

he

asked

me

whether

I

thought

games

were

a

vital

part

of

a

boy's

education.

I

mumbled

something

about

not

attaching

too

much

importance

to

them.

He

grunted.

I

had

said

the

wrong

thing. The headmaster and I obviously had very little in common.

The school, he said, consisted of one class of twenty-four boys, ranging in age from

seven to thirteen. I should have to teach all subjects except art, which he taught himself.

Football and cricket were played in the Park, a mile away on Wednesday and Saturday

afternoons.

The teaching set-up filled me with fear. I should have to divide the class into three

groups and teach them in turn at three different levels; and I was dismayed at the thought

of

teaching

algebra

and

geometry-two

subjects

at

which

I

had

been

completely

incompetent at school. Worse perhaps was the idea of Saturday afternoon cricket; most of