Having just emerged back at HQ after another head-banging session at the high school (Where are you from? I Japan...), there was just enough time to grab a coffee, plonk down my bag and put my feet up before the entertainment began. I had been sitting for perhaps twelve seconds when the sound of quickening footsteps and voluble cursing could be heard on the stairs. Within moments, and without explanation, Greg appeared, holding a young child in his right fist, with said child holding his school bag.

With a grace rarely seen on championship crown green bowling lawns, Greg bent down, right fist (and hence child) behind him as he descended, and then proceeded to smoothly bring the fist level with his upper body and then, without breaking stride, the fist came forward and unleashed the child in a fluent, fluid manoeuvre. His timing and poise were perfect and the unsuspecting infant, still clutching his school bag, was set free, sat on his arse and sliding at a not inconsiderable speed along the impromptu bowling alley.

As with any true professional, Greg turned before the ball hit the skittles, for he knew his aim had been true. With an indignant "Little shit whacked me over the back of the head with his bag, he ain't coming into my class" aimed in my general direction, he about turned and climbed the stairs, presumably to choose his next double strike victim.

My eyes followed the child and his stayed on mine as, dismayed, he continued to move smoothly along the polished floor. The only other person in the room, the Japanese secretary, raised his eyes from his laptop just in time to witness the strike, as the child's head hit the wooden corner of the bench with some force.

I was expecting tears, Greg to be fired, something, but I was confronted only by Japanese bewilderment in toddler and adult alike as both looked at me for some explanation. The child, still holding the school bag, looked the more bemused, seemingly none the worse for his ordeal and, within minutes he was busy colouring in pictures in his English book, guided by the secretary, an exercise for which parents pay tidy sums under the assumption that if their toddlers colour in English books, they are somehow learning English. The upshot of the episode was surprising. The initial horror of the Japanese boss ended with her taking the teacher's side and the infant was the chief beneficiary, for his English vocabulary tripled as a result, as he was taught to say "I am sorry."

An unorthodox approach, Greg-san, one much neglected by education 'experts', but one for which I, for one, would be more than happy to do additional research.

Teaching infants was something that was foisted upon me late in my time in Japan. I had assumed that nothing could be worse than being left alone with half a dozen six year-olds, claiming I looked like a monkey (at least I think that is what they were claiming), but the rules change completely when you have a one-to-one lesson with a three year-old. Never mind the economics and lack of logic of the situation (how can it make sense to make a travel for over an hour each way, including a half-hour train journey, whose price was almost the same as the child was being charged?), what the hell can you teach a three year-old, especially one that does not want to learn?

The first thing that you learn is that attention spans last less than four seconds per activity. As you don't have the benefit of a shared language, or even the student's ability to write, fifty minutes can seem an interminably long time, especially with the mothers looking through the window the whole time to make sure you are not shirking and also to egg on their knackered child, who (at least in their heads) is predestined to achieve great things through studying 25 hours a day - never mind that the child might want a childhood.