I was sitting in a cramped exam hall in Johannesburg last Tuesday, watching a student stare in absolute horror at a reading comprehension passage. He knew the words, he understood the grammar, but he had completely tripped over a simple mention of a “pavement.” To him, it was a sidewalk; to the text, it was
Stop asking your friends if they “liked” your latest essay; it is the fastest way to waste your time and your money. I have spent nineteen years watching adult learners walk into my classroom with high hopes, only to be crushed by an examiner who didn’t care about their “creative voice” or their “beautiful ideas.”
I remember sitting in a quiet corner of the library last Tuesday, listening to a student play back a recording of his mock exam. He looked at me with such pure frustration, saying, “Anneke, I sounded perfect in my head, so why does this sound so wrong?” It is the same heartbreak I have seen
I remember sitting in a cramped, humid exam hall ten years ago, watching a student—a bright, capable woman in her thirties—completely freeze. She had the notes in front of her, but as soon as the examiner asked her to speak, she began reciting the text like a broken record, word for word, without a single
Stop paying for expensive conversation clubs or hunting down native speakers in coffee shops just to get a few minutes of practice. It’s a massive waste of time and, frankly, it’s inefficient. I’ve sat across from hundreds of adult learners who think they need a social life to pass an exam, but the truth is
I remember sitting in a cramped, windowless exam hall ten years ago, listening to a student—a brilliant professional, mind you—struggle through a speaking component. He knew the vocabulary, but every time he tried to explain how to compare two things aloud, he tripped over a “more better” or a missing “than,” and I could practically
I remember sitting in a cramped, dimly lit classroom years ago, watching a student stare at a sea of red ink on his essay with absolute despair. He had paid for a premium tutor, yet all he received were vague comments like “good flow” or “improve vocabulary.” It was a waste of his time and
I was sitting in my office last Tuesday, grading a stack of practice essays, when I saw it again: a student had blindly accepted a “correction” from an automated tool that actually changed their meaning entirely. It’s the same pattern I’ve seen for nineteen years. People think these tools are a safety net, but if
I was sitting in a quiet exam hall last Tuesday, the only sound being the frantic scratching of pens, when I saw it again. A student—brilliant, articulate, and clearly highly educated—had just lost a crucial point because they couldn’t get a simple word right. It wasn’t a lack of vocabulary that tripped them up; it
I was sitting in my office last Tuesday, staring at a pile of practice essays, when I saw it again: “Furthermore,” used to start three consecutive sentences. It’s a classic symptom of what I call the “connector addiction.” Students think that knowing how to use linking words means sprinkling them like expensive salt over every