In which I eat some cheese and call it dinner

Teaching English is pretty fun. I mean, think about it. Half the knowledge you need is already there if you're a native speaker. (The other half, the teaching bit, takes a little more effort to acquire, but it's doable, thus far.) You get to meet all sorts of people. And they're generally happy to see you. Unlike the me-being-a-doctor scenario, which involves children associating me with needles and evil people who poke them and are connected with being sick. I mean, aside from people who are being forced to learn English for whatever reason, most people come to lessons voluntarily. Some are even being given a little break from work in order to attend.

The trouble with teaching English, though, is that the hours are pretty ridiculous. Sometimes you have a lesson at 8am and some more sprinkled throughout the day and another that finishes at 8:30pm. Sometimes you arrive at home and take your heels off and your feet hurt and you've forgotten which of your five businessmen students is an Inter fan (again!) so you won't know who to ask about the match next week.

At such times, the last thing you feel like doing is hauling out the pots and pans and knives and torturing some food into a semblance of edible. (Edibleness? Edibility? What? What am I even talking about?) So you take a piece of Pecorino Toscano out of the fridge, lop off a few slices, and call it a day, sitting in front of the computer and staring vaguely at the computer while wondering what you meant to do when you sat down in front of it. (Hint: probably it involved checking your email, genius. Just click on Internet Explorer and you're halfway there.)

So, sometimes, that's what happens at my house. You know what, though? There is calcium in cheese. That's good for you. So there.