It has been a long time away. I ran my own private language school in the third world. I got cancer & emigrated to the UK. I started work at a massive (& superb) academy.
My phone buzzes during poetry class. The plumber is coming, and I can't afford to miss his text. I blush, and check the phone as surreptitiously as I can, which is to say, in full glaring adolescent spotlight.
So Holly is learning English with me, and at the local uni ( pffft! ), and simultaneously on the internet. I realise this when she knows every slang word to every pop song, and when she drops her pencil, and accompanies it with a loud "Fuck!"
But that wasn't why I stopped writing. I got a job - in addition to the other two jobs I was working - training future English teachers, in a local pedagogical institute. Twenty hours a week, contact time (teaching time, to the un-industrialised): it didn't seem a lot.
It's a shock, the transfer from teaching at a British state school to teaching at a small school in private sector Peru.
Like a naughty child avoiding her homework, I've secretly started teaching again.
Do I miss teaching? Yes, of course. There were moral certainties involved in a job like that (which appeal to someone lazy like myself, because then I don't have to sit around and invent my own moral certainties).