Today at English camp, we have been mostly learning "I like...".
"I like pizza!" "I like pasta!" "I like purple!" I was told.
"I like boy," said one six year old girl. That MADE MY LIFE. "Sweetie," I said, looking at her intently. "Me too." I might have sighed a little in the delivery.
And then, as if on cue, a little dark-haired thing looked at me as I stared wistfully off into the distance thinking about boy and declared, "Mi fa male la pancia". My tummy hurts. And then he threw up his lunch, all over himself and my shoes. We had eaten risotto. Risotto looks the same coming out as it does going in, fact fans.
His nine classmates and I stood and stared for a moment. Open-mouthed. Like, really? Then they turned to me for teacherly guidance and support, mouths open. I took the initiative to use the moment as a learning one. "I DON'T like," I said, pointing at the floor and pulling my 'don't like' face, "Vomito." The consensus was that neither did anybody else.
My favourite Italian word? SKIFO. It means disgusting. The poor buggar couldn't help it, obvi, but pur-lease. I don't get paid enough to deal with that. We played "I like..." outside after that.