The Pooh of Tao

Searching for a teacher isn't as simple as it used to be.

Gone are the mythical days you trudge along a dusty trail till you turn that serendipitous corner to find a suitable master sketching words into the sand. Turns out you don't find Confucius that way! What you do is spread the words amongst the snoops, the gossips and the internet for someone suitable.

Said a flat no to the kindergarten tutors. Although my knowledge of the language is sadly rudimentary, that doesn't mean I'd want to sit through a school lesson with babbling toddlers around me. Had enough baby spit at work, thank you very much.

Would be great if they'd be able to find a serious, buttoned-up - but terribly shaggable - Mr Siao for a Mandarin teacher.

Sure enough a name comes up.

Friend : Found someone for you.
Paul : A teacher?
Friend : Yes, he teaches adult students. Even a couple of foreigners.
Paul : Sounds great.
Friend : And his name is Teacher Tao.

At least it's not Lao Tzu.


Was that Tao, Mao or Pao?
From the mysterious name on my cell, I expected a wizened, humpbacked octogenarian harrumphing and dry-coughing throughout the lecture even as he added bits of esoteric oriental wisdom to the crumpled notes along with the green tea he served. Wondered if Tao the Yoda carried a bamboo whisk.

Tao : Learn Mandarin, you will.
Paul : Yes?
Tao : Good student, you will be, grasshopper. A cup of tea, you will get me.
Paul : Will caffe mocha do?

All wrong of course.

Teacher Tao. Relatively young. Probably a few years older than me. Few wrinkles. No humpback. Definitely no dry cough. Had the crumpled notes and tea though.

And so the classes begin.