Dilnoza,
You asked me what a day here is actually like, so here is one, from the beginning.
I wake up at ten to five. I get up straight away, because if I lie there for four minutes I lie there for forty. I put on the grey jacket, I set off at twenty past, and I get on the second bus at the corner with about nine other men who all look exactly as tired as I do. We get off at the gate at twenty to six.
The work itself is easy to describe: boxes come in, boxes go out. I check them, I label them, I put them away in the right aisle. On a good shift I move about four hundred of them.
Now the part I have not told anybody at home.
In the third month I nearly gave up. Not because of the work — the work was fine. I could not get on with anybody, because I could not say anything, and a man who cannot say anything slowly stops being a person in a room. I was homesick in a way I had not expected, and I had already looked up the price of a ticket home.
My roommate is called Ravi and he is from Sri Lanka and he has been here for nine years. He noticed. He did not lecture me and he did not cheer me up. He wrote twenty phrasal verbs on the wall by the door in black marker — get up, set off, hurry up, hand in, find out, catch up, get on with, fall out with, make up, look after, put up with, take after and eight more — and he made me say one of them out loud, in a whole sentence, every morning before I went out of that door.
It took about eleven weeks. By the sixth month I could get by. Not well. But I could joke with the men on my floor, and I could put up with the ones I did not like, and one of them now looks after my bunch of keys when I go anywhere.
At the bottom of the wall Ravi wrote one more line, not a phrasal verb: get on with people — that is the whole job. He was right, and it was the most useful English anybody has ever taught me.
So do not memorise them one by one out of a dictionary. Six a week, by topic, out loud. And you take after our mother, so you will be faster at it than I was.
Your brother,
Bekzod