French groundhog

The second year at high school foreign classes went better than in the previous year. A new teacher without any kind of apparent mental disorder was contracted and we all, finally, began to study in a systematic and formal way. She was expert in Latin, but the school’s principal believed that she could teach foreign language classes, which means French classes. However her relationship with the language of our famous neighbours living on the other side of the Pyrenees mountains was vey weak. Maybe for this reason the content of the classes was exactly the same stuff that we had studied three or four years ago in the primary school. That seemed the groundhog day, the Bill Murray continuous returning to the past. At this point I began to suspect that we would be beginners for the rest of our lives. There were few possibilities for breaking this spiral tendency ad infinitum.

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