The Princess Diary: Part Three – The Great Day (27/012012) - HRH & the Lesson

HRH and the Lesson

Finally, the epic tale reaches its thrilling climax… (see, told you I’d bore you rigid with it!)

At last, as I’m beginning to run out of things for the kids to draw, and my feet are starting to ache in the heels, nine o’clock ticks round. There’s no sign of the royal party, but it has gone quieter, so I assume Russell and co., have gone downstairs to greet her.

One girl decides she needs the toilet. A YLA ushers her out into the corridor to consult a woman in khaki uniform. Khaki woman is sympathetic, but no go. HRH will be arriving any moment. Pity. I’d quite like to go too. The YLA puts an encouraging arm round the girl’s shoulder and brings her back into the classroom to wait it out. (Much later, they make a rapid exit as soon as HRH has gone!)

‘Right,’ I say as breezily as I can muster, ‘Shall we start?’

The YLAs nod enthusiastically. The kids aren’t that fussed one way or the other.

We get through the first few minutes without a hitch – (re-) introducing the characters, and predicting what Goldilocks might find in the Bears’ cottage. It seems the kids aren’t quite as familiar with the story as they claim (or they’ve forgotten it), and some of the obvious stuff is omitted in favour of more creative suggestions, such as ‘Everything in the whole world!’ It’s a very big cottage.

Ken gets his wish and we click onto the next page of the flipchart, with the hyperlink to the video and story on the BC LearnEnglish Kids website.

We’ve barely got halfway through the first sentence, when the PA system out in the foyer starts belting out the National Anthem (though it doesn’t sound quite the same as when we have to stand up for it at the cinema) and drowns everything out. Clearly, HRH has arrived. I wonder briefly if I should perhaps stop everything, but the YLAs seem unperturbed so I press on.

The National Anthem finishes. So does the story.

‘Right,’ I say, even more breezily, ‘Shall we listen to the story again?’

‘Nooo!’ groans Ken.

I ignore him, and click on ‘Play the story again’.

I turn to find a man in white and gold-braided uniform from the royal household standing in the doorway, frowning slightly. Okay, maybe I should’ve stopped everything after all. Nope, that doesn’t seem to be the problem. What is the problem?! A YLA comes to my rescue.

‘He says, can you turn the volume down on the IWB, please?’

Whaat?!! Your National Anthem drowns everything out, and I’m making too much noise?!!!

Duncan tells me later that they asked him to keep the teenagers quiet too. And he was in one of the back rooms.

With the volume on the IWB turned down (just a touch – I’m not giving in that easily – it’s a kids’ class, after all), the lesson continues. A woman in pale purple walks past the window and stops outside. Russell, Boss Duncan (Deputy Country Director) and Chris (Country Director) line up behind her.

A short pause, and they disappear in through the door to look round the exhibition in reception. And at this point, something clicks over in my brain. I’m in the zone. I’m teaching. There is almost nothing and no-one except me and the kids. Nothing can throw me.

I catch sight of Johnny (my immediate boss after Russell) standing just outside the door of the classroom, giving me the thumbs up. I must be doing something right.

I turn away to help some of the kids with the worksheet I’ve just handed out. (Fab YLAs just stay quietly in the background until needed to help hand out materials or shepherd the kids into position). I turn back round and… a tidal wave of photographers and cameramen wash into the room. Er, right, okay…

There must be more of them than there are kids. I can’t see the kids and the kids can’t see the IWB. Not that the kids seem bothered.

Still unfazed I carry on, burrowing my way through this wall of suits, uniforms and cameras (some of you have seen the photo!) to reach the kids, and gesturing to the paparazzi to move out of the way.

‘Erm.. sorry gentlemen, but the children need to see the board for this next part.’ Very English. Very polite. Fairly ineffective.

And they’re taking pictures of everything. Me, the kids, the kids’ worksheets, the IWB, the materials piled on my desk, the BC logo I stuck on each page of the flipchart…

The YLAs manage to persuade some of them to shift a bit. One very nice, smiley, middle-aged female photographer in that white and gold royal household uniform sits down next to a little girl and chats to her. She can come again.

And then there She is. Just behind me. Just behind her, Russell and Boss Duncan are grinning from ear to ear.

First thought: She’s early. Twenty minutes early. This is the boring bit with worksheets. She’s not supposed to come in until they’re singing or acting out the story.

Second thought: Mmm. Yes. She does look just like her pictures.

Third thought: Better acknowledge her.

Russell had already told us that, as a university teacher herself, she wouldn’t want to interrupt. And I figured if she did want to talk to us, she’d ask him to call us over.

I do some kind of nod-bob, and carry on with what I’m doing.

Which, to judge from all the photos that have come to light since, involved flinging my arms out wide, in ‘Big… small… tiny…’ demo-ing fashion. Aside from looking ridiculous, these pictures worry me slightly. I know which bit of the lesson that was. I just have no memory whatsoever of HRH being in the room at the time. Like I said – in the zone.

And, no, before you ask, they are definitely not for publication.

Anyway, in the zone or not, the adrenaline is definitely pumping now and I’m having a ball. And the kids are amazing. They appear even more unfazed than me. I had wondered beforehand how they would react when HRH came in, respect for the Royal Family being what it is here in Thailand. But no, nothing, not a flicker. They hardly seem to notice, but then maybe that’s still the wall of cameramen blocking their view.

In my memory HRH is only in the room for a few minutes. In the photos, it seems like she lingered for hours.

She leaves, the cameramen trail after her, the room clears a little and the lesson continues. Finally, we reach the ‘interesting’ bit with the song and the play.

Ken is momentarily distracted from his opposition to any form of performance art by the slow reveal game that precedes the song on the website. Even so, when Russell tells me later how thrilled he was to hear the kids singing as HRH left, what he doesn’t realize is the sound is four parts video, three parts Pippa and the YLAs, and only one part eight year olds, participating in a resigned ‘suppose we better humour the grown-ups’ kind of way.

And it’s over. HRH has left the building. I am buzzing. The kids go wild over a board race, and there’s a stream of senior management thanking and congratulating me and Duncan. For a second I feel quite emotional, and think I’m going to well up. But there’s a much stronger euphoria underneath. When Boss Duncan asks me, ‘So, do you feel good, right now?’, I manage to breathe something like, ‘Yes, very.’ The response that’s actually whirling round my brain is more like, ‘Good?!!! I feel %$*&)@ invincible!!!’