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I felt I was glad I was not a CELTA teacher, and that I trod my own quiet pathways. Or was it not that I felt, but I said. I said I was glad, here in my pelt, my cheap jacket, slightly too small, which does a turn, again and again and again.

I stood outside the school, in the parking area, and looked out across the fields. But they are not actually fields, in the sense that this English word might convey, green and pleasant, but areas of stunted olive trees, patches that have had the stones cleared a bit, perhaps where someone had tried to grow a crop of wheat, the grassland of a semi-desert that might have been a little different in the past.

- Hello, wolf, I said to the guard dog sitting up on the wall, the dog that barks at the sheep if they come to close. And then I remembered the story of the wolf, the one that I killed with my mobile phone one snowy winter's day in Guangzhou.