Few of us after the university were going to work in school, and therefore most of the students treated pedagogical practice with easy snobbery – “it’s not the tsar’s business!” And in the fourth year all had not only to teach “materiel” and pass the methodology of teaching Russian language and literature, but also teach lessons under the supervision of the best teachers of the city of N.
I and my friend got a charismatic lonely philology, which treated all trainees as their unreasonable children. As it turned out, she was right!
Our mentor not only shared with us the secrets of pedagogical skill – she tried to introduce us to the culture and integrate into the local beau monde, however, both of them were unsuccessful: I still did not learn to distinguish Stadler from Sądecki, admire Italian neorealism and support Bazaar in the local intellectual get-together. The main format of our meetings was a tea party, after which Margarita Genrikhovna told us about literature, theater and cinema. We chewed on the old dry biscuits (“friends brought from Eliseevsky!”), Reverently took sugar from a massive silver sugar bowl (“real Faberge!”) And rested after knocking out carpets or washing windows. This was not particularly difficult, because the apartment was always sterile – probably it was in principle: “who does not work, does not eat,” or “with a black sheep at least wool clocks.”
This time the sheep was given, in general, an uncomplicated mission. I had to take medicine from the head of pedagogics at the Faculty of History and Philology and bring him Margarita Henrykhovna. Teacher for so long and tediously explained to me why I should not at all lose these pills (“very expensive, very rare and vitally necessary for Margarita Henrikhovna!”), Which made me laugh. “For whom they hold us?” – I thought, for every fireman hiding the brinerdin in the hidden pocket of his jacket, from where she could pull this little box with great difficulty.
Disappearance showed up in about fifteen minutes, when I was looking for a trifle in the trolley bus. I still do not know how this could happen. I do not remember what the head of pedagogics told me and what his face was when, after returning to the faculty, he smiled foolishly and told him about the loss. This, as it turned out later, is called protective braking. But I still remember the eyes of the girl who was at the outside, who was watching this scene. So look at the dog that the tram moved. The girl came up to me and said: “My mother works in the Kremlin hospital, I’ll try to get you a brinerdine.”
And she got it! Two days later, apologizing that the packaging was not new, explained that the patient for whom he was taken had already died, that there is not enough one pill and that I owe nothing to her, “you just had that face then” …
One thing I can not understand: why, from the entire course, did I get a triple in pedagogical practice? It seems not more stupid than the others …
And I had to work at school. As much as ten years. But this is a completely different story.