Wednesday was a day off from work, a national holiday, because it was South Korea's day of local government elections. I'm glad I was here to see it, for in the run up, the chance to witness the election campaigns was rather special. Each party and their members took to the streets in open top trailers, emblazened in brightly coloured shell-suits, depending on their party. There were bright greens, yellows, blues and other colours which I won't get into. I'd love to see David Cameron sporting a pink shell-suit (in public that is, not in the private confines of a conservative sex party). They blasted their policies through megaphones from the early hours of the morning, shamelessly waking up all in the land with fantastical promises of better lives under their management, or so I imagine. I hardly think they were criticising the people for how shit their boroughs became, or recanted on how the current party was actually doing quite well and there would be no need to vote for them. One such rally I happened upon outside a super shiny shopping mall involved crowds of people chanting the party's name with small candles in their hands, like a vigil gone horribly wrong, where everyone was happy and dancing. Men in suits, just off work and clearly boozed up to the eyeballs, were dancing like epileptic turtles; rigid bodies and unrhythmically flayling arms, attempting a beat that constantly eluded them.
Talking of dancing, I have recently discovered that part of my job role is to dance. Yes, to dance. I have to teach these kindegarten children through a CD-ROM based English textbook that is projected upon a white screen that you can press with a magical pen, and one of the lessons is to sing a song and dance in time to it. Watching CBeebies on a regular basis I have come to despise these grown adults talking like spazoids and prancing like fairies. And now I have become one of them. "Dance for me! Dance for me!" the children mentally cry at me, amusing themselves at the downfall of what was once a proud man from England. I will get used to it though. I don't know why I didn't think I'd have to do things like crawl around on the floor and cut out picture of cats and dogs; it's a kindegarten school! The worst thing about it is having to wipe away the snot that just streams out the noses of some of the kids. I've never been a big fan of snot (who is?), so when I realised that another part of my job is to clean child goo with a ready roll of toilet tissue, I started to lament my condition. But that's just one side. I actually do enjoy it though on the whole.
The school is big, clean and colourful, and the staff are very welcoming and friendly, asking how I am and so forth. I haven't got any words out of the young female teachers though, only hysterical giggles and screened faces to disguise their blushes, as they step back into the sanctuary of their office. The children are all very sweet and shout things like "Hello!" and "Ameen teacher!" and keep on touching me as though I was famous, generally taking to me like a hippy takes to judgement. How can one not be affectionate back? I hear that back home, you can't touch children in return for fear of paedophile charges. Luckily, unlike Britain, there are no paedophiles in Korea.
One child is the exact replicant of the little boy in The Grudge. He rarely smiles, just stares, that vacant all knowing stare, penetrable and unnerving, and those of you who have seen the original film, it's just fucking scary. I sometimes expect him to open his mouth wide and crackle that inhuman groan. If he knew about it he could have so much fun with me, disrupting lessons by sending me running away in fear. It could backfire. I may decide to fight back and slay the possessed soul of a child forever doomed to live a life, in-limbo, locked in the real world of intangible reality because of his unfulfilled destiny. But you and I both know such a being cannot be killed.
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