My First International Certificate
1999. I’m 14. A schoolgirl from Russia, holding a certificate from Srafford House School of English, Canterbury. Level — Intermediate. For those who remember the 90s, this was like a “ready for space” badge. My level is higher now, but this one is the most valuable. The first.
But cooler than the paper was the experience itself. I didn’t live on campus, but with a genuine English family. Classic: a stay-at-home dad, a mom who worked at the local prison (seriously!). And two sons who were my main teachers of real language. They dyed their hair unimaginable colors and spoke in slang you couldn’t find in any textbook. Thanks to them for the “proper” immersion.
And at school, there was a teacher — a real English punk. Safe, but authentic. He didn’t smell of anything bad, except a love for music. Every lesson started with some punk song. Learning the Present Perfect to the riffs of The Clash — unforgettable. That kind of scheduled culture shock.
This wasn’t just studying. It was immersion into another reality. From 90s Moscow straight to the heart of British subculture and daily life. An experience that taught me the main thing: language isn’t about rules in a textbook. It’s about people, their stories, their music, and even the color of their hair.
That’s when I realized I wanted to speak in a way that would be understood not only by teachers but also by guys with purple hair.
Mission accomplished, pretty much.
