There is a strange smell that I can't seem to shake.
It appears to be following me.
It's in my bedroom.
It's in my car.
It's in my school bag.
It's generally in my nostrils.
It's not exactly a stench.
But it's decidedly unpleasant nonetheless.
I've liberally applied perfume to my scarf, which I keep pulling around my face to mask the odour.
I find myself checking the soles of my shoes.
Even though it's not that kind of smell.
I've taken to chewing gum and have committed to visiting the dentist at the earliest opportunity that presents itself.
Just in case, (I am loathe to even whisper it), it might just be my breath.
What a prospect!
I've seen the future.
And it's gummy.
There are dentures in a glass.
Polygrip's a fixture.
If you'll forgive the obvious pun.
When I sit with the other mature students in the 'Arts Café', I observe their body language in my presence.
They are leaning back in their chair; arms folded.
In an unambiguous way they are shrinking away from me.
I'm starting to get paranoid.
When no one's looking I affect an arm thrown behind my head in a casual manner that allows me to surreptitiously sniff my armpit.
It may not be the freshest but it still doesn't explain the whiff.
I swiftly cross and uncross my legs, inhaling on the updraft created by the speed of my thighs.
There's a certain recognisable muskiness alright, but, thankfully, it is not the source of the olfactory offence.
Despite being a student, I can assure you, I shower every morning.
I leave college today with an indefinable grubbiness hanging over me that leaves me feeling extremely uncomfortable.
I can't wait to get home and have a bath.
I ponder the fact that showering may not be sufficient ablution to really clean between the toes.
A good soak of the tootsies may be all that's required to rid myself permanently of this malodorous affliction.
As I sit in rush-hour traffic on the M7, I reach into my handbag for some chewing gum.
A recent precautionary purchase.
I manoeuvre its contents with racoon-like skill until my hand finds something unexpected that I can't quite place.
It's rock hard.
And appears to be wrapped in tissue paper.
I pull the mysterious object from the depths of its faux-leather pouch.
It's an autumnal 6pm and the light is fading fast, so it takes a few seconds for the full horror of my discovery to become clear.
Whatever it is has a blue-ish green tinge.
And stinks like hell.
Just before the bumper of my 2005 Kia makes contact with the 2010 rear of the BMW in front of me, I hit the brakes hard.
I avoid impact by inches.
I am furious.
With myself, of course.
There in my lap, glowing iridescently from the safety of its paper napkin, is the moldy object of my solitary mass catering protest of the previous week.
That bloody bread roll!
In yeasty defiance it stares up at me.
I know it has no eyes, but there are 2 large blue spots on its surface that fulfil the simile.
And they burn into me in a way that makes me feel contrite.
I must admit I am somewhat consoled by the confirmation I have no major inherent body odour issues.
Nor have I contracted the STD I was suddenly starting to fret I may have acquired at the hands (or more precisely, penis), of San Fran Man.
The source of the fetid funk is now identified as that which is seen by many as the source of life.
Leaven forbid.
But it is also the source of my unexpected disgust.
Damn my principles!
Why did I insist on taking that bread roll?
Prone as I am to beating myself up over 'stuff', for there is no one quite as adept, I resign myself to an evening of self-flagellation.
Pass the Cilice.
©Alacoque Doyle
Saturday 30 October 2010
Friday 29 October 2010
Ausente sin permiso (AWOL)
It is fair to say my Spanish classes are somewhat lack-lustre.
Javier, despite his general niceness, is just not getting us fired up about learning his native tongue.
But we are nice in return.
Not disrespectful.
Surly, perhaps, but never pugnacious.
Curmudgeonly, occasionally, but never cantankerous.
So it came as some surprise that he went missing all last week.
Our Tuesday 9am class was simply cancelled.
At 9.05am we were informed Javier had to return to Spain at short notice.
I was more than slightly miffed as San Fran Man returned to the States the same day.
His flight was not due to depart until 11am.
But I dropped him off at Dublin airport at an unreasonably premature 7.30am in order to be in time for my non-existent Spanish class.
A quick hug and kiss before I shooed him from the passenger seat.
A hasty ¡hasta luego!
I even forgot to turn around and wave him goodbye as I drove off from the departures ramp.
How unromantic of me!
But I am a dedicated student.
I have not missed a lesson yet.
And I intend to keep it that way.
Our Thursday 9am class was taken by Dr. Peter Mullen.
He is the module coordinator for the more advanced students of Spanish.
But to beginners like us it was an almost epiphanic moment.
It was fantastic.
He got the class enthused.
Explained things on the chalk board.
The normally confused expressions on our faces dissipated into penny-dropping smiles as the missing bits of the jigsaw fell into place with a virtually audible click.
What's more, it was fun!
So we were over the moon when he took the following day's class too.
A whole week without Julio and our Spanish saw dramatic improvements.
Tuesday and still no sign of Javier.
No one has explained to us why he has not returned.
In his continued absence, we are asked to temporarily join another class that runs concurrently.
So we shuffle like a group of unloved and unwanted orphans to join what appears to be the alternative UCD universe of Spanish for Beginners.
The tutor, a lovely Spanish lady called Ana, has Dr. Mullen's prowess and is able to totally engage her students.
They look happy.
Like they are actually enjoying her class.
There is even laughter.
I imagine Javier having the time of Reilly in the sunshine.
(I accept it's practically winter but Spain is undoubtedly several degrees warmer than Dublin - it's a metaphor).
While we are struggling to grasp even the most basic elements of Spanish grammar.
No thanks to him.
I see him Flamenco dancing in the Plaza Mayor.
Sitting outside tapas bars, smoking cigarettes in his Ray-Bans and downing jugs of Sangria.
The fruity, heady punch dribbling down his chin and onto his white shirt.
And in my mind he is laughing.
Laughing at us.
I feet cheated.
©Alacoque Doyle
Javier, despite his general niceness, is just not getting us fired up about learning his native tongue.
But we are nice in return.
Not disrespectful.
Surly, perhaps, but never pugnacious.
Curmudgeonly, occasionally, but never cantankerous.
So it came as some surprise that he went missing all last week.
Our Tuesday 9am class was simply cancelled.
At 9.05am we were informed Javier had to return to Spain at short notice.
I was more than slightly miffed as San Fran Man returned to the States the same day.
His flight was not due to depart until 11am.
But I dropped him off at Dublin airport at an unreasonably premature 7.30am in order to be in time for my non-existent Spanish class.
A quick hug and kiss before I shooed him from the passenger seat.
A hasty ¡hasta luego!
I even forgot to turn around and wave him goodbye as I drove off from the departures ramp.
How unromantic of me!
But I am a dedicated student.
I have not missed a lesson yet.
And I intend to keep it that way.
Our Thursday 9am class was taken by Dr. Peter Mullen.
He is the module coordinator for the more advanced students of Spanish.
But to beginners like us it was an almost epiphanic moment.
It was fantastic.
He got the class enthused.
Explained things on the chalk board.
The normally confused expressions on our faces dissipated into penny-dropping smiles as the missing bits of the jigsaw fell into place with a virtually audible click.
What's more, it was fun!
So we were over the moon when he took the following day's class too.
A whole week without Julio and our Spanish saw dramatic improvements.
Tuesday and still no sign of Javier.
No one has explained to us why he has not returned.
In his continued absence, we are asked to temporarily join another class that runs concurrently.
So we shuffle like a group of unloved and unwanted orphans to join what appears to be the alternative UCD universe of Spanish for Beginners.
The tutor, a lovely Spanish lady called Ana, has Dr. Mullen's prowess and is able to totally engage her students.
They look happy.
Like they are actually enjoying her class.
There is even laughter.
I imagine Javier having the time of Reilly in the sunshine.
(I accept it's practically winter but Spain is undoubtedly several degrees warmer than Dublin - it's a metaphor).
While we are struggling to grasp even the most basic elements of Spanish grammar.
No thanks to him.
I see him Flamenco dancing in the Plaza Mayor.
Sitting outside tapas bars, smoking cigarettes in his Ray-Bans and downing jugs of Sangria.
The fruity, heady punch dribbling down his chin and onto his white shirt.
And in my mind he is laughing.
Laughing at us.
I feet cheated.
©Alacoque Doyle
Money for Nothing.
Woohoo!
My grant cheque is ready for collection.
Given my previous status of unemployment, I am fortunate enough to have qualified for the state-funded Student Maintenance Grant.
This makes a hugely important contribution to my ability to survive the next few years of study.
I have a substantial mortgage on an overpriced property that I would not have a hope in hell of selling in the current economic climate.
So I am stuck with it for the next few years and can only pray that by the time I graduate either the property market has recovered considerably or I have won the lotto.
Though I'm not very optimistic about either scenario.
Because I am a realist.
And an atheist.
At 11am, I make my way over to the Student Office, take my ticket and join the queue.
Number 65.
I glance up at the digital display which reads '45'.
There are 20 people in front of me and I have a lecture in an hour from now.
And there is only one staff member on the desk.
Dispirited, I stick my nose into one of my text books, determined to use the time efficiently.
We have only progressed to 47 by the time 10 minutes have passed when thankfully 2 more staff appear from what I assume was their mid-morning break.
The queue starts moving quickly and I breathe a sigh of relief.
Then the original staff member disappears on his break and the progress slows again.
In answer to the question: 'How do you take your coffee? ''In shifts!' must be their reply.
It is 11.45 by the time '65' flashes up on the board.
I'm feeling upbeat.
There's nothing like the prospect of a little unearned income to put a spring in the step.
And I'll still be on time for my lecture.
I jump up from my seat and approach the friendly young girl at the desk.
I plop myself down in front of her.
'Show me the money!' I announce with a laugh, a little louder than I have rehearsed in my mind.
She looks a little startled.
Her colleague's eyes shoot up sharply from his paperwork.
I suddenly realise I have my right hand in my jacket pocket.
I have merely been toying with my mobile phone but I am only too aware how this situation could easily be misinterpreted.
It doesn't look good.
Especially in light of the fact the famous Jerry Maguire line is probably lost on her.
I estimate she would have been about 8 years old at the time of the film's release.
I quickly pull my hand out of my pocket and the girl recoils instinctively.
'Oh my God!' I say, despite my atheism, 'It was a joke.'
I place both my hands apologetically on the desk in full view of everyone.
I suddenly get the feeling I have become the object of attention for the entire assembly.
The queue at my back is mumbling as an entity and there can be little question about the subject matter.
The girl behind the desk is eyeing me suspiciously, no doubt calculating the level of threat I pose.
'I've come to collect my grant cheque,' I genially inform her, hoping she hasn't already pressed the emergency button I suspect sits just below the desk.
There is an excruciatingly awkward pause.
'Student number?' she snaps.
She doesn't seem quite so friendly now.
I reach inside my handbag and I sense her flinching.
Slowly and cautiously, I take out my purse, remove my student card from the side compartment and hand it to her.
I am burning with humiliation.
More at my misguided attempts at humour than any semblance I may have to a felon.
After scanning my card she leaves the desk, walks behind a partition and is lost from my sight.
My pulse quickens.
'What's she doing?' I ask myself.
She's gone too long.
My heart starts pounding.
I can feel tiny beads of perspiration accumulating on my upper lip.
'Christ!' I think to myself, 'why can't I keep my bloody big mouth closed?'
Visions are now racing through my over-active imagination: I see myself thrown in a cell; questioned for hours on end; given the 'good cop/bad cop' treatment; starved of food and water; denied my one precious phone call; deprived of sleep; pushed to the limit where I'll sign anything in exchange for coffee, a doughnut and 40 winks.
I'm just at the point where bad cop is bending over me with an evil grin and a pair of pliers when the girl reappears from behind the partition.
'Here's your cheque!' she smiles, handing me an envelope.
'Oh, thank-you!' I gush.
She seems bemused by my effusive gratitude.
But she has no idea what mental torture I've just subjected myself to.
I nearly throw my arms around her and kiss her.
I manage to restrain myself, however.
After all, I don't want to get arrested!
©Alacoque Doyle
My grant cheque is ready for collection.
Given my previous status of unemployment, I am fortunate enough to have qualified for the state-funded Student Maintenance Grant.
This makes a hugely important contribution to my ability to survive the next few years of study.
I have a substantial mortgage on an overpriced property that I would not have a hope in hell of selling in the current economic climate.
So I am stuck with it for the next few years and can only pray that by the time I graduate either the property market has recovered considerably or I have won the lotto.
Though I'm not very optimistic about either scenario.
Because I am a realist.
And an atheist.
At 11am, I make my way over to the Student Office, take my ticket and join the queue.
Number 65.
I glance up at the digital display which reads '45'.
There are 20 people in front of me and I have a lecture in an hour from now.
And there is only one staff member on the desk.
Dispirited, I stick my nose into one of my text books, determined to use the time efficiently.
We have only progressed to 47 by the time 10 minutes have passed when thankfully 2 more staff appear from what I assume was their mid-morning break.
The queue starts moving quickly and I breathe a sigh of relief.
Then the original staff member disappears on his break and the progress slows again.
In answer to the question: 'How do you take your coffee? ''In shifts!' must be their reply.
It is 11.45 by the time '65' flashes up on the board.
I'm feeling upbeat.
There's nothing like the prospect of a little unearned income to put a spring in the step.
And I'll still be on time for my lecture.
I jump up from my seat and approach the friendly young girl at the desk.
I plop myself down in front of her.
'Show me the money!' I announce with a laugh, a little louder than I have rehearsed in my mind.
She looks a little startled.
Her colleague's eyes shoot up sharply from his paperwork.
I suddenly realise I have my right hand in my jacket pocket.
I have merely been toying with my mobile phone but I am only too aware how this situation could easily be misinterpreted.
It doesn't look good.
Especially in light of the fact the famous Jerry Maguire line is probably lost on her.
I estimate she would have been about 8 years old at the time of the film's release.
I quickly pull my hand out of my pocket and the girl recoils instinctively.
'Oh my God!' I say, despite my atheism, 'It was a joke.'
I place both my hands apologetically on the desk in full view of everyone.
I suddenly get the feeling I have become the object of attention for the entire assembly.
The queue at my back is mumbling as an entity and there can be little question about the subject matter.
The girl behind the desk is eyeing me suspiciously, no doubt calculating the level of threat I pose.
'I've come to collect my grant cheque,' I genially inform her, hoping she hasn't already pressed the emergency button I suspect sits just below the desk.
There is an excruciatingly awkward pause.
'Student number?' she snaps.
She doesn't seem quite so friendly now.
I reach inside my handbag and I sense her flinching.
Slowly and cautiously, I take out my purse, remove my student card from the side compartment and hand it to her.
I am burning with humiliation.
More at my misguided attempts at humour than any semblance I may have to a felon.
After scanning my card she leaves the desk, walks behind a partition and is lost from my sight.
My pulse quickens.
'What's she doing?' I ask myself.
She's gone too long.
My heart starts pounding.
I can feel tiny beads of perspiration accumulating on my upper lip.
'Christ!' I think to myself, 'why can't I keep my bloody big mouth closed?'
Visions are now racing through my over-active imagination: I see myself thrown in a cell; questioned for hours on end; given the 'good cop/bad cop' treatment; starved of food and water; denied my one precious phone call; deprived of sleep; pushed to the limit where I'll sign anything in exchange for coffee, a doughnut and 40 winks.
I'm just at the point where bad cop is bending over me with an evil grin and a pair of pliers when the girl reappears from behind the partition.
'Here's your cheque!' she smiles, handing me an envelope.
'Oh, thank-you!' I gush.
She seems bemused by my effusive gratitude.
But she has no idea what mental torture I've just subjected myself to.
I nearly throw my arms around her and kiss her.
I manage to restrain myself, however.
After all, I don't want to get arrested!
©Alacoque Doyle
Monday 25 October 2010
¡Bovina Sancta! (Holy Cow!)
It's a week since we submitted our group project on the Franco War Memorial.
Today we are gathered at our tutorial to get the results.
My pessimism is completely unprepared for the disappointment it is delivered.
We get a B minus!
I punch the air in delight!
A spontaneous response to a very mediocre achievement.
But I am as gobsmacked as the rest of my group at our relative success.
Not only did we not fail.
We actually performed just above average.
Given that a grade D is a pass, I figure we still have a great deal of wriggle room on the next 2 assignments.
I'm pretty sure we're going to need it.
Maisie is looking particularly pleased.
She probably feels her coordination skills played an enormous part in our result.
They didn't.
Today she is wearing an exceedingly short skirt and revealing a variety of fleshy parts (I'll spare you the details).
I must concede I am feeling a tad remorseful for yesterday's excessively harsh comments about her overnight physical transformation.
Once again I force myself to reminisce about my own youthful blunders.
Because in all honesty I recognise a part of myself in Maisie.
I was fairly innocent when I went away from home to college.
And I only had to make the journey from South East London to Middlesex.
Maisie has traveled half way across the world to be here.
From Texas to Dublin.
It can't be easy for her trying to find her feet.
Particularly in those shoes.
At that age, I guess we all try to either fit in or stand out.
Or both.
I had been terribly self-conscious as a teenager.
I remember my sister buying me a gorgeous red jacket for my 17th birthday.
But I refused to wear it for a whole year because I thought it was too 'loud'.
I didn't want to draw attention to myself.
Crazy.
But by the time I went to college, I was gradually gaining in self-confidence.
I had been in love for the first time.
I had consequently lost my virginity (it was rubbish).
And I was hardly ever to be seen without that red jacket.
As the first semester progressed, I was drawn to a very different look than Maisie.
I tried to emulate the post-punk, new-wave image.
I started buying tie-dye t-shirts and batik leggings.
Suede ankle boots.
Fishnet tights.
I listened to Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Cult, The Cure, Echo and the Bunnymen, The Cocteau Twins...
There was a girl in my year who had purple dreadlocks and I thought she was the coolest person on campus.
I desperately wanted hair like her's.
But I didn't have the nerve.
My poor parents would have been horrified!
So I just spiked mine up a bit.
(Maisie and I at least have back-combing in common).
And tied scarves around my head.
In a post-punk new-wave style.
You'll have to use your imagination.
As I look at Maisie, and absorb her awkward in-betweenness, I am overcome by a sudden warmth towards her that was previously absent.
I have the urge to take her under my wing.
Share with her my very long list of gaffes.
Urge her not to make the same mistakes I made.
Or even different ones.
Steer her on the right path.
But I know that's not advisable.
She will just have to go her own way.
Struggle to find her independence.
Learn to stand on her own 2 feet.
Or in her case, teeter.
Maybe I'll be there to catch her if she falls.
I look at her shoes again: it's inevitable.
©Alacoque Doyle
Today we are gathered at our tutorial to get the results.
My pessimism is completely unprepared for the disappointment it is delivered.
We get a B minus!
I punch the air in delight!
A spontaneous response to a very mediocre achievement.
But I am as gobsmacked as the rest of my group at our relative success.
Not only did we not fail.
We actually performed just above average.
Given that a grade D is a pass, I figure we still have a great deal of wriggle room on the next 2 assignments.
I'm pretty sure we're going to need it.
Maisie is looking particularly pleased.
She probably feels her coordination skills played an enormous part in our result.
They didn't.
Today she is wearing an exceedingly short skirt and revealing a variety of fleshy parts (I'll spare you the details).
I must concede I am feeling a tad remorseful for yesterday's excessively harsh comments about her overnight physical transformation.
Once again I force myself to reminisce about my own youthful blunders.
Because in all honesty I recognise a part of myself in Maisie.
I was fairly innocent when I went away from home to college.
And I only had to make the journey from South East London to Middlesex.
Maisie has traveled half way across the world to be here.
From Texas to Dublin.
It can't be easy for her trying to find her feet.
Particularly in those shoes.
At that age, I guess we all try to either fit in or stand out.
Or both.
I had been terribly self-conscious as a teenager.
I remember my sister buying me a gorgeous red jacket for my 17th birthday.
But I refused to wear it for a whole year because I thought it was too 'loud'.
I didn't want to draw attention to myself.
Crazy.
But by the time I went to college, I was gradually gaining in self-confidence.
I had been in love for the first time.
I had consequently lost my virginity (it was rubbish).
And I was hardly ever to be seen without that red jacket.
As the first semester progressed, I was drawn to a very different look than Maisie.
I tried to emulate the post-punk, new-wave image.
I started buying tie-dye t-shirts and batik leggings.
Suede ankle boots.
Fishnet tights.
I listened to Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Cult, The Cure, Echo and the Bunnymen, The Cocteau Twins...
There was a girl in my year who had purple dreadlocks and I thought she was the coolest person on campus.
I desperately wanted hair like her's.
But I didn't have the nerve.
My poor parents would have been horrified!
So I just spiked mine up a bit.
(Maisie and I at least have back-combing in common).
And tied scarves around my head.
In a post-punk new-wave style.
You'll have to use your imagination.
As I look at Maisie, and absorb her awkward in-betweenness, I am overcome by a sudden warmth towards her that was previously absent.
I have the urge to take her under my wing.
Share with her my very long list of gaffes.
Urge her not to make the same mistakes I made.
Or even different ones.
Steer her on the right path.
But I know that's not advisable.
She will just have to go her own way.
Struggle to find her independence.
Learn to stand on her own 2 feet.
Or in her case, teeter.
Maybe I'll be there to catch her if she falls.
I look at her shoes again: it's inevitable.
©Alacoque Doyle
Karma Chameleon
Our second Hispanic Cultures project is underway.
This time we are to assume the role of a group of Argentine teachers tasked with giving a lesson to a class of Irish students on the Falklands War.
Or perhaps I should say, given my newly-adopted nationality, La Guerra de las Malvinas.
Needless to say, I am the only student in the group who actually remembers it.
I grew up in England.
Bloody hell!
Not only was I alive when it all kicked off.
I was 17!
My memories of the news coverage are still quite vivid.
I also distinctly remember that no one in England seemed to have heard of the Falkland Islands prior to 1982.
Let alone understood why we were going to war over this barren, rocky outcrop, with less than 2,000 inhabitants, in the middle of nowhere.
But of course 'The Sun' newspaper put us straight on everything and before long had roused British Anti-Argie sentiment to fever-pitch levels.
The infamous 'GOTCHA' front-page headline that accompanied a picture of the torpedoed Belgrano constituting one of their less editorially-inspired moments.
I have been trying to research the subject but it is proving somewhat problematic.
Not least because, more often than not, the internet searches yield images of Margaret Thatcher.
It's stomach-churning work.
It is Thursday.
Last Friday our group agreed to meet this afternoon.
It is Maisie's job to book a meeting room.
She is our coordinator.
Booking a room is a relatively simple duty.
There is a desk in the library where you go and say, 'I'd like to book a room, please.'
After establishing some basic information such as time, date and room availability, the booking is confirmed.
Maisie has had the best part of a week to perform this function.
But she has chosen to leave herself a mere 2 hour window in which to execute her duty.
I know this because I bump into her as I am leaving the library on my way to my French lecture.
Though I nearly fail to recognise her.
I had previously described Maisie as looking 'nerdy', without elaborating on the description.
It was remiss of me.
I shall do so now.
Maisie, for the past few weeks, has worn jeans, sweatshirts and trainers.
Or 'sneakers' as she no doubt would call them.
She ties her non-descript hair back in a regular pony tail.
Nothing fancy.
She wears no jewellery.
And her face is free from even the most minimal traces of make-up.
She verges on the slightly chunky side of slim.
She wears glasses that are functional rather than fashionable.
And the lenses are just that little bit too thick to be sexy.
I look at her now and the thought crosses my mind that she has been abducted by aliens and forced to undergo some weird experiment at their hands, of which all memories have subsequently been erased.
It's the only rational explanation for her appearance.
Maisie is wearing denim cut-off shorts.
They are skin-tight and very short.
Her legs are adorned with a pair of black tights heavily patterned with a love-heart motif.
It's the type of pattern that hurts your eyes and gives the optical illusion of independent movement if you stare at it for too long.
Like one of those 'magic eye' pictures.
I'm sure her legs could induce epileptic fits in their current condition.
On her feet, Maisie is sporting a pair of unfeasibly high, black-patent shoes, in which she is only able to hobble in a most unflattering manner.
And so far I've only seen her attempting to stand in them.
I have yet to observe her efforts at walking.
But I have to admit the prospect fills me with glee.
Above her waist there is a great deal of cleavage on display.
The exact details of the clothing immediately surrounding the cleavage escape me.
I am somewhat distracted by all the flesh.
But I note her bra is black and frilly.
Because I can see it clearly through her flimsy white blouse.
Continuing the journey upwards, Maisie's normally pristine face, is absolutely plastered with make-up.
I was unaware they even made lipstick in that shade of red.
And her hair is loose, layered and tousled.
Backcombed (naturally).
She has given it the full 'bed-head' treatment.
Her specs are nowhere to be seen and I assume by the 'pinks' of her eyes coupled with her incessant blinking that she is trying to get accustomed to contact lenses.
I almost miss it, but the pièce de résistance is her newly-acquired nasal piercing.
'Hey!' she smiles when she sees me, 'I was just about to text you.'
She takes an unsteady step in my direction.
I approach her quickly and save her from herself.
'So there are no rooms available!' she tells me in a 'can you believe it?' tone of voice
'Oh,' I reply.
'So I was thinking, we probably don't actually need to meet today,' she continues.
I can only respond with a close-lipped, 'mmm.'
'I'm gonna postpone our meeting till next week,' she adds.
'OK,' I acquiesce.
It suddenly occurs to me that Maisie is also studying French, so I offer to walk with her to the lecture.
'Sure!' she says cheerfully.
I smile as I imagine her imminent pedestrian performance.
It's cruel but somehow karmic.
©Alacoque Doyle
This time we are to assume the role of a group of Argentine teachers tasked with giving a lesson to a class of Irish students on the Falklands War.
Or perhaps I should say, given my newly-adopted nationality, La Guerra de las Malvinas.
Needless to say, I am the only student in the group who actually remembers it.
I grew up in England.
Bloody hell!
Not only was I alive when it all kicked off.
I was 17!
My memories of the news coverage are still quite vivid.
I also distinctly remember that no one in England seemed to have heard of the Falkland Islands prior to 1982.
Let alone understood why we were going to war over this barren, rocky outcrop, with less than 2,000 inhabitants, in the middle of nowhere.
But of course 'The Sun' newspaper put us straight on everything and before long had roused British Anti-Argie sentiment to fever-pitch levels.
The infamous 'GOTCHA' front-page headline that accompanied a picture of the torpedoed Belgrano constituting one of their less editorially-inspired moments.
I have been trying to research the subject but it is proving somewhat problematic.
Not least because, more often than not, the internet searches yield images of Margaret Thatcher.
It's stomach-churning work.
It is Thursday.
Last Friday our group agreed to meet this afternoon.
It is Maisie's job to book a meeting room.
She is our coordinator.
Booking a room is a relatively simple duty.
There is a desk in the library where you go and say, 'I'd like to book a room, please.'
After establishing some basic information such as time, date and room availability, the booking is confirmed.
Maisie has had the best part of a week to perform this function.
But she has chosen to leave herself a mere 2 hour window in which to execute her duty.
I know this because I bump into her as I am leaving the library on my way to my French lecture.
Though I nearly fail to recognise her.
I had previously described Maisie as looking 'nerdy', without elaborating on the description.
It was remiss of me.
I shall do so now.
Maisie, for the past few weeks, has worn jeans, sweatshirts and trainers.
Or 'sneakers' as she no doubt would call them.
She ties her non-descript hair back in a regular pony tail.
Nothing fancy.
She wears no jewellery.
And her face is free from even the most minimal traces of make-up.
She verges on the slightly chunky side of slim.
She wears glasses that are functional rather than fashionable.
And the lenses are just that little bit too thick to be sexy.
I look at her now and the thought crosses my mind that she has been abducted by aliens and forced to undergo some weird experiment at their hands, of which all memories have subsequently been erased.
It's the only rational explanation for her appearance.
Maisie is wearing denim cut-off shorts.
They are skin-tight and very short.
Her legs are adorned with a pair of black tights heavily patterned with a love-heart motif.
It's the type of pattern that hurts your eyes and gives the optical illusion of independent movement if you stare at it for too long.
Like one of those 'magic eye' pictures.
I'm sure her legs could induce epileptic fits in their current condition.
On her feet, Maisie is sporting a pair of unfeasibly high, black-patent shoes, in which she is only able to hobble in a most unflattering manner.
And so far I've only seen her attempting to stand in them.
I have yet to observe her efforts at walking.
But I have to admit the prospect fills me with glee.
Above her waist there is a great deal of cleavage on display.
The exact details of the clothing immediately surrounding the cleavage escape me.
I am somewhat distracted by all the flesh.
But I note her bra is black and frilly.
Because I can see it clearly through her flimsy white blouse.
Continuing the journey upwards, Maisie's normally pristine face, is absolutely plastered with make-up.
I was unaware they even made lipstick in that shade of red.
And her hair is loose, layered and tousled.
Backcombed (naturally).
She has given it the full 'bed-head' treatment.
Her specs are nowhere to be seen and I assume by the 'pinks' of her eyes coupled with her incessant blinking that she is trying to get accustomed to contact lenses.
I almost miss it, but the pièce de résistance is her newly-acquired nasal piercing.
'Hey!' she smiles when she sees me, 'I was just about to text you.'
She takes an unsteady step in my direction.
I approach her quickly and save her from herself.
'So there are no rooms available!' she tells me in a 'can you believe it?' tone of voice
'Oh,' I reply.
'So I was thinking, we probably don't actually need to meet today,' she continues.
I can only respond with a close-lipped, 'mmm.'
'I'm gonna postpone our meeting till next week,' she adds.
'OK,' I acquiesce.
It suddenly occurs to me that Maisie is also studying French, so I offer to walk with her to the lecture.
'Sure!' she says cheerfully.
I smile as I imagine her imminent pedestrian performance.
It's cruel but somehow karmic.
©Alacoque Doyle
Bready Protest
UCD has a very large campus.
I believe the student population is around 17,000.
Each faculty has its own building and within it, its own café.
All my classes take place in the Newman Building which is effectively the Arts building.
Except for trips to the adjacent library, conveniently linked and sheltered from the elements by a skyway, I have no reason to leave its bosom.
Therefore, I haven't.
Sorry, I tell a lie.
During 'Orientation Week', I joined the gym.
It's on the far side of the campus to the Newman Building.
Apart from that initial visit, I have yet to grace it with my presence.
The 'Arts Café' has more in common with the 'Art' of its title than you might initially think.
Certainly all the prices have been marked up considerably.
A huge commission has clearly been factored into the sale of its 'works'.
No student subsidies on display here.
However, their 'soup and a roll' package, as I have mentioned before, is good value at €2.99.
They also have a 'soup combo' deal at €4.99, where the roll is substituted for one from a range of half-decent sandwiches.
I am a creature of habit and I swiftly adopt the lunchtime regime of an 'Irish Cheddar and Chutney' sandwich accompanied by 'Thick Country Vegetable' soup.
The sandwich, purchased on its own, is priced at €4.05.
Therefore, a bowl of hot and hearty soup for an additional 94 cent represents excellent value in my book.
Today I uncharacteristically decide to break from routine.
The Chicken Caesar Bagel beckons irresistibly.
I pick it up and place it on my tray, then I go and collect my soup.
I am metaphorically licking my lips as I approach the till.
'€7.98 please,' says the young girl operating it.
'I'm sorry?' I reply.
'The bagels aren't included in the deal,' she sullenly informs me.
She is chewing gum, open-mouthed, and has the kind of expression on her face that says 'I'd rather be anywhere else but here'.
I get the fact that certain things may not be included in the deal.
I honestly do.
It's the way of the world.
But the bagel on its own is priced at €4.99.
That's 94 cent more expensive than my regular cheese and chutney fare.
What I don't get is why I am being charged €7.98 instead of €5.93.
I have said before my Math is not strong, but even without the assistance of an Excel spreadsheet, I can make that calculation.
'Why isn't the price €5.93?' I ask.
Her eyebrows furrow and there is a touch of pain in her confused countenance.
'The bagel isn't included in the deal,' she reiterates.
She has been well-trained.
'I normally get the Cheddar and Chutney sandwich, which is €4.05,' I tell her. 'Logic would imply the soup has a value of 94 cent. Therefore,' I continue, 'the €4.99 bagel plus a soup should cost €5.93.'
She stops mid chew and looks at me, slack jawed.
There is a glimmer of fear behind the vacancy in her eyes.
I am too hungry to argue the point any further and there is a long queue forming rapidly behind me.
Added to which missy looks like she's about to call security.
'Well, can I at least take a roll as well?' I ask indignantly.
'Yeah,' she says, and resumes chewing.
I grab a roll and dump it belligerently on the tray next to the bagel that has suddenly lost some of its earlier appeal.
I am making a point.
Missy ignores it.
I pay up and shuffle off to find a seat in the overcrowded room.
I have no intention of eating the roll now of course.
But it's the principle that matters.
I wrap the roll in a paper napkin, pop it into my voluminous handbag and resolve to eat it later.
I consume my lunch through gritted teeth and note the Caesar dressing has a certain bitterness I hadn't anticipated.
©Alacoque Doyle
I believe the student population is around 17,000.
Each faculty has its own building and within it, its own café.
All my classes take place in the Newman Building which is effectively the Arts building.
Except for trips to the adjacent library, conveniently linked and sheltered from the elements by a skyway, I have no reason to leave its bosom.
Therefore, I haven't.
Sorry, I tell a lie.
During 'Orientation Week', I joined the gym.
It's on the far side of the campus to the Newman Building.
Apart from that initial visit, I have yet to grace it with my presence.
The 'Arts Café' has more in common with the 'Art' of its title than you might initially think.
Certainly all the prices have been marked up considerably.
A huge commission has clearly been factored into the sale of its 'works'.
No student subsidies on display here.
However, their 'soup and a roll' package, as I have mentioned before, is good value at €2.99.
They also have a 'soup combo' deal at €4.99, where the roll is substituted for one from a range of half-decent sandwiches.
I am a creature of habit and I swiftly adopt the lunchtime regime of an 'Irish Cheddar and Chutney' sandwich accompanied by 'Thick Country Vegetable' soup.
The sandwich, purchased on its own, is priced at €4.05.
Therefore, a bowl of hot and hearty soup for an additional 94 cent represents excellent value in my book.
Today I uncharacteristically decide to break from routine.
The Chicken Caesar Bagel beckons irresistibly.
I pick it up and place it on my tray, then I go and collect my soup.
I am metaphorically licking my lips as I approach the till.
'€7.98 please,' says the young girl operating it.
'I'm sorry?' I reply.
'The bagels aren't included in the deal,' she sullenly informs me.
She is chewing gum, open-mouthed, and has the kind of expression on her face that says 'I'd rather be anywhere else but here'.
I get the fact that certain things may not be included in the deal.
I honestly do.
It's the way of the world.
But the bagel on its own is priced at €4.99.
That's 94 cent more expensive than my regular cheese and chutney fare.
What I don't get is why I am being charged €7.98 instead of €5.93.
I have said before my Math is not strong, but even without the assistance of an Excel spreadsheet, I can make that calculation.
'Why isn't the price €5.93?' I ask.
Her eyebrows furrow and there is a touch of pain in her confused countenance.
'The bagel isn't included in the deal,' she reiterates.
She has been well-trained.
'I normally get the Cheddar and Chutney sandwich, which is €4.05,' I tell her. 'Logic would imply the soup has a value of 94 cent. Therefore,' I continue, 'the €4.99 bagel plus a soup should cost €5.93.'
She stops mid chew and looks at me, slack jawed.
There is a glimmer of fear behind the vacancy in her eyes.
I am too hungry to argue the point any further and there is a long queue forming rapidly behind me.
Added to which missy looks like she's about to call security.
'Well, can I at least take a roll as well?' I ask indignantly.
'Yeah,' she says, and resumes chewing.
I grab a roll and dump it belligerently on the tray next to the bagel that has suddenly lost some of its earlier appeal.
I am making a point.
Missy ignores it.
I pay up and shuffle off to find a seat in the overcrowded room.
I have no intention of eating the roll now of course.
But it's the principle that matters.
I wrap the roll in a paper napkin, pop it into my voluminous handbag and resolve to eat it later.
I consume my lunch through gritted teeth and note the Caesar dressing has a certain bitterness I hadn't anticipated.
©Alacoque Doyle
Sunday 24 October 2010
Syntax and Senility
I am enrolled in 2 separate modules for Linguistics.
I mentioned the 'Language Use and Communication' one in an earlier diary entry, in which a variety of abusive hand gestures were employed by both myself and the lecturer.
For purely academic purposes, you understand.
It is 'sociolinguistics' by another name.
And concerns itself with the societal aspects of language, such as dialect and accents.
And digital positioning :-o
'Words and Sentences' is the other module.
This is about the building blocks of language.
Morphology and Syntax.
It's kind of like the Math of language with diagrams that remind me of the algebra I struggled so hard to understand at school.
I probably even got that description all wrong.
It is fair to say that without 'Excel', I would never have made it into a career in management.
The tutorials that accompany the lectures for both modules are fortnightly and on alternate weeks.
Today is the second 'Words and Sentences' tutorial.
I am dreading it.
The tutor is a 60-something PHD student.
A native Irish speaker from the Gaeltacht in the west of Ireland.
Her name is Gráinne Ó Suileabháin.
Nice and easy.
The first meeting with her was more reminiscent of a grandmother having a cup of tea and an uninterrupted 'chat' with her large assembly of grandchildren than an informative and instructional tutorial with a group of confused first year undergraduates, thirsting for knowledge.
In addition to which she insisted on referring to and periodically lapsing into Irish.
I could forgive the Gaelic if it was only due to my being educated in England that precluded me from understanding her.
But the fact of the matter is, 99% of Irish nationals do not speak or understand Irish.
OK - I made up that statistic.
The percentage is probably higher.
Today she is ten minutes late for the start of the class.
She arrives in a fluster of raincoat and plastic carrier bags.
She doesn't exactly address the class.
She is talking nonetheless.
As she extracts disorganised paperwork from one of her many bags, she mutters something about needing to go and photocopy some handouts.
She promptly leaves, and we sit in bewildered silence as we await her return.
We have lost 20 valuable minutes on the educational clock by the time Gráinne is ready to begin.
'Now,' she announces enthusiastically, 'I have no idea what Professor Ouyahia has been covering in your lectures!'
She is grinning at us in a way that suggests we should be grateful for these pearls of wisdom she has generously bestowed upon us.
(FYI: Professor Ouyahia is a Berber from Morocco. Ireland is a much more multicultural place that it ever used to be. And I have to admit he makes far greater sense than Gráinne!)
'And I don't have the text book,' she adds.
I am unsure what response she is hoping to emit from us, but 'dumfounded' just about sums it up.
'Does anyone have their lecture notes with them?' she asks.
I am about to blurt out something along the lines of, 'Are you fucking joking?!?', when one of the unusually studious students hands her an immaculate folder, containing more coloured subject dividers than I thought was physically possible.
I bite my tongue.
It hurts.
'Now,' she continues, 'I am here for your purposes so feel free to ask me any question you like. That's what I'm here for. You must make use of me as you see fit, so don't be afraid to ask. Any question. I'm happy to answer it, all you have to do is ask. So if any of you have any questions at all, you just go ahead. If you're feeling a bit confused about a particular area. Or you just want something explained in a bit more detail. You just go right ahead and ask me...'
She isn't pausing for breath and I am eternally grateful when one of the troupe bravely decides to risk interrupting her with a question.
The trouble is that once she's recovered from the shock of his inquisitive interjection, she spends the next 15 minutes attempting to answer it, in an extremely roundabout way, interspersed with several transgressions, from which she finds tangents that give her monologue wings.
There are 10 minutes left before the class will descend into the bag-packing, shoe-shuffling, 'I'm off to my next class' demeanor which even the most skilled lecturer or tutor is powerless to transcend.
I am feeling deeply frustrated at this complete waste of everyone's time.
Gráinne is a very friendly but overly-talkative, dithering old biddy that I wish would just STFU!
As my mind wanders from the linguistic subject matter that is being dealt with so negligently, I am struck by the horrible realisation that I am probably closer in age to Gráinne than to my fellow students.
Startled at this prospect, I immediately cast my eyes under the table and take solace in my feet; snugly, and more importantly, youthfully swaddled in their Ugg boot spleandour.
I breathe a small and shallow sigh of relief.
©Alacoque Doyle
I mentioned the 'Language Use and Communication' one in an earlier diary entry, in which a variety of abusive hand gestures were employed by both myself and the lecturer.
For purely academic purposes, you understand.
It is 'sociolinguistics' by another name.
And concerns itself with the societal aspects of language, such as dialect and accents.
And digital positioning :-o
'Words and Sentences' is the other module.
This is about the building blocks of language.
Morphology and Syntax.
It's kind of like the Math of language with diagrams that remind me of the algebra I struggled so hard to understand at school.
I probably even got that description all wrong.
It is fair to say that without 'Excel', I would never have made it into a career in management.
The tutorials that accompany the lectures for both modules are fortnightly and on alternate weeks.
Today is the second 'Words and Sentences' tutorial.
I am dreading it.
The tutor is a 60-something PHD student.
A native Irish speaker from the Gaeltacht in the west of Ireland.
Her name is Gráinne Ó Suileabháin.
Nice and easy.
The first meeting with her was more reminiscent of a grandmother having a cup of tea and an uninterrupted 'chat' with her large assembly of grandchildren than an informative and instructional tutorial with a group of confused first year undergraduates, thirsting for knowledge.
In addition to which she insisted on referring to and periodically lapsing into Irish.
I could forgive the Gaelic if it was only due to my being educated in England that precluded me from understanding her.
But the fact of the matter is, 99% of Irish nationals do not speak or understand Irish.
OK - I made up that statistic.
The percentage is probably higher.
Today she is ten minutes late for the start of the class.
She arrives in a fluster of raincoat and plastic carrier bags.
She doesn't exactly address the class.
She is talking nonetheless.
As she extracts disorganised paperwork from one of her many bags, she mutters something about needing to go and photocopy some handouts.
She promptly leaves, and we sit in bewildered silence as we await her return.
We have lost 20 valuable minutes on the educational clock by the time Gráinne is ready to begin.
'Now,' she announces enthusiastically, 'I have no idea what Professor Ouyahia has been covering in your lectures!'
She is grinning at us in a way that suggests we should be grateful for these pearls of wisdom she has generously bestowed upon us.
(FYI: Professor Ouyahia is a Berber from Morocco. Ireland is a much more multicultural place that it ever used to be. And I have to admit he makes far greater sense than Gráinne!)
'And I don't have the text book,' she adds.
I am unsure what response she is hoping to emit from us, but 'dumfounded' just about sums it up.
'Does anyone have their lecture notes with them?' she asks.
I am about to blurt out something along the lines of, 'Are you fucking joking?!?', when one of the unusually studious students hands her an immaculate folder, containing more coloured subject dividers than I thought was physically possible.
I bite my tongue.
It hurts.
'Now,' she continues, 'I am here for your purposes so feel free to ask me any question you like. That's what I'm here for. You must make use of me as you see fit, so don't be afraid to ask. Any question. I'm happy to answer it, all you have to do is ask. So if any of you have any questions at all, you just go ahead. If you're feeling a bit confused about a particular area. Or you just want something explained in a bit more detail. You just go right ahead and ask me...'
She isn't pausing for breath and I am eternally grateful when one of the troupe bravely decides to risk interrupting her with a question.
The trouble is that once she's recovered from the shock of his inquisitive interjection, she spends the next 15 minutes attempting to answer it, in an extremely roundabout way, interspersed with several transgressions, from which she finds tangents that give her monologue wings.
There are 10 minutes left before the class will descend into the bag-packing, shoe-shuffling, 'I'm off to my next class' demeanor which even the most skilled lecturer or tutor is powerless to transcend.
I am feeling deeply frustrated at this complete waste of everyone's time.
Gráinne is a very friendly but overly-talkative, dithering old biddy that I wish would just STFU!
As my mind wanders from the linguistic subject matter that is being dealt with so negligently, I am struck by the horrible realisation that I am probably closer in age to Gráinne than to my fellow students.
Startled at this prospect, I immediately cast my eyes under the table and take solace in my feet; snugly, and more importantly, youthfully swaddled in their Ugg boot spleandour.
I breathe a small and shallow sigh of relief.
©Alacoque Doyle
Thursday 21 October 2010
A Certain, 'Je ne sais quoi'.
On Mondays I have 3 hours of back-to-back French, from 12pm to 3pm.
A language lecture, followed by a literature tutorial, followed by a language seminar.
I'm still not quite sure how to distinguish between a tutorial and a seminar.
I think it has something to do with numbers, but, as I am more linguistic than mathematical, I don't bother to try and learn the difference.
The language lecture is designed to prepare us for the upcoming listening comprehension exam.
We are played audio-visual clips from French news bulletins and have to answer questions about what we've just seen and heard.
It is only when I see these clips that the full realisation hits me of just how bloody fast the French speak.
Each week I am stunned by how poor my grasp of the language actually is.
I'm pretty sure they don't honestly speak that fast in France in real life.
It's simply not possible.
Even after the 3rd transmission of the flash, (we get 5 in the exam), I'm struggling to understand most of what's going on.
Let alone able to answer French questions on the subject.
In French.
Oh la la!
The exam is a terrifying prospect.
My French literature classes are better.
I always prepare thoroughly for those.
Reading French is much easier than listening to it.
There are no time constraints and my journeys into the depths of the bi-lingual dictionary are frequent.
More importantly, the critical analyses of the texts are discussed in English.
It's straightforward enough, as long as the prep has been done.
Each week we are told which text to read and are given a specific passage to prepare.
We are even provided with questions to help guide our analysis.
But that takes time.
And self-discipline.
My Sundays are now dedicated to this pursuit.
So I am one of only 3 who contributes to the discussion, out of a class of about 15 students.
And, needless to say, I am the most vocal.
The rest of the class is either totally unprepared or too terrified to speak.
Or hungover.
Or perhaps all of the above.
The tutor, Madame O'Reilly, who is French but by no great leap of the imagination must have married an Irish man, can be a little intimidating.
She is so very French - slim, elegant and well-groomed - like an aging Coco Chanel - and she punctuates her English with a liberal spattering of 'd'accord?', 'n'est-ce pas?' and, most annoyingly, 'hein?'
As the weeks progress, she gets increasingly frustrated by the wall of silence that greets her probing questions.
'Nut ulways ze same peeepol!' she says, waving her delicate arms in exasperation till her tiny wrists look like they could snap, as the 3 usual suspects take it in turns to fill the silent voids.
It's like a compulsion.
On occasion I commit to saying nothing in the hope that it will force someone else to have a go, but the weight of the muteness is too tangible and unbearable.
So I'll pipe up.
Offer some opinion.
I've heard the odd 'tsk' from behind, (naturally, I'm sitting at the front), that says, 'not her again!'
It would have bothered me at their age but now I view their audible disapproval as a compliment.
It means I'm doing well.
Today, she decides to pick on individuals.
She's probably sick of the sound of my voice.
She points to a chap whose name escapes me.
I don't think I've ever heard him speak before.
'You!' she says, as he jolts from his slumber at the back of the room.
'Wut do you sink ze orther meenz by zis phreyze?'
Silence.
Total and utter silence.
It's far too painful.
I feel myself blush.
I'm not sure who I feel more embarrassed for.
Then her eyes widen as she almost screams at him, 'you heven't eeven got your book open!
My blushes fade as I hear his shameless response.
'Oh I had it open earlier,' he replies glibly, 'but I didn't know which page were on.'
Madame O'Reilly glares at him incredulously but says nothing.
The rest of the class sniggers briefly, then the silence resumes, heavier than before.
I plug the gap with a point of view, unable to contain myself any longer.
Madame O'Reilly hasn't taken her eyes off him.
And as she clenches her minuscule fists and the veins bulge at her feminine temples, I wonder if she is familiar with the works of Monsieur Chuck Naurice.
©Alacoque Doyle
A language lecture, followed by a literature tutorial, followed by a language seminar.
I'm still not quite sure how to distinguish between a tutorial and a seminar.
I think it has something to do with numbers, but, as I am more linguistic than mathematical, I don't bother to try and learn the difference.
The language lecture is designed to prepare us for the upcoming listening comprehension exam.
We are played audio-visual clips from French news bulletins and have to answer questions about what we've just seen and heard.
It is only when I see these clips that the full realisation hits me of just how bloody fast the French speak.
Each week I am stunned by how poor my grasp of the language actually is.
I'm pretty sure they don't honestly speak that fast in France in real life.
It's simply not possible.
Even after the 3rd transmission of the flash, (we get 5 in the exam), I'm struggling to understand most of what's going on.
Let alone able to answer French questions on the subject.
In French.
Oh la la!
The exam is a terrifying prospect.
My French literature classes are better.
I always prepare thoroughly for those.
Reading French is much easier than listening to it.
There are no time constraints and my journeys into the depths of the bi-lingual dictionary are frequent.
More importantly, the critical analyses of the texts are discussed in English.
It's straightforward enough, as long as the prep has been done.
Each week we are told which text to read and are given a specific passage to prepare.
We are even provided with questions to help guide our analysis.
But that takes time.
And self-discipline.
My Sundays are now dedicated to this pursuit.
So I am one of only 3 who contributes to the discussion, out of a class of about 15 students.
And, needless to say, I am the most vocal.
The rest of the class is either totally unprepared or too terrified to speak.
Or hungover.
Or perhaps all of the above.
The tutor, Madame O'Reilly, who is French but by no great leap of the imagination must have married an Irish man, can be a little intimidating.
She is so very French - slim, elegant and well-groomed - like an aging Coco Chanel - and she punctuates her English with a liberal spattering of 'd'accord?', 'n'est-ce pas?' and, most annoyingly, 'hein?'
As the weeks progress, she gets increasingly frustrated by the wall of silence that greets her probing questions.
'Nut ulways ze same peeepol!' she says, waving her delicate arms in exasperation till her tiny wrists look like they could snap, as the 3 usual suspects take it in turns to fill the silent voids.
It's like a compulsion.
On occasion I commit to saying nothing in the hope that it will force someone else to have a go, but the weight of the muteness is too tangible and unbearable.
So I'll pipe up.
Offer some opinion.
I've heard the odd 'tsk' from behind, (naturally, I'm sitting at the front), that says, 'not her again!'
It would have bothered me at their age but now I view their audible disapproval as a compliment.
It means I'm doing well.
Today, she decides to pick on individuals.
She's probably sick of the sound of my voice.
She points to a chap whose name escapes me.
I don't think I've ever heard him speak before.
'You!' she says, as he jolts from his slumber at the back of the room.
'Wut do you sink ze orther meenz by zis phreyze?'
Silence.
Total and utter silence.
It's far too painful.
I feel myself blush.
I'm not sure who I feel more embarrassed for.
Then her eyes widen as she almost screams at him, 'you heven't eeven got your book open!
My blushes fade as I hear his shameless response.
'Oh I had it open earlier,' he replies glibly, 'but I didn't know which page were on.'
Madame O'Reilly glares at him incredulously but says nothing.
The rest of the class sniggers briefly, then the silence resumes, heavier than before.
I plug the gap with a point of view, unable to contain myself any longer.
Madame O'Reilly hasn't taken her eyes off him.
And as she clenches her minuscule fists and the veins bulge at her feminine temples, I wonder if she is familiar with the works of Monsieur Chuck Naurice.
©Alacoque Doyle
Sunday 17 October 2010
Spanish not-so-Civil War
Friday.
D-Day.
Project submission deadline.
We are required to submit one copy of our document electronically onto a University website called 'Blackboard' and bring a hard copy to the tutorial.
The document is supposed to be accompanied by a 'Contributors' List', detailing exactly who did, and more importantly who didn't, do what.
My agreed task was to write the introduction and conclusion.
I ended up writing a missing section at the eleventh hour.
I also volunteered my advice on the editing.
But I resisted the urge to take control.
Just.
I only have 2 classes on Friday.
Spanish language at 12pm followed by this tutorial at 1pm.
Yesterday, my boyfriend arrived this side of the Atlantic for one of his fortnightly sojourns.
I have left him at home in bed recovering from jet lag.
As I walk to the tutorial, I decide to check my phone for any potential love messages from 'San Fran Man'.
I cannot believe what I read.
I have one message.
It is from Maisie, the coordinator for our group.
Maisie, who I expect has been working closely with Charlotte, the editor, fine-tuning our document into the best shape possible.
Maisie, the individual assuming control for the final stages of what needs to done.
When she first proposed herself for the role of coordinator, I thought she was cut out for the job.
She looked geeky so I presumed she would be hardworking and studious.
Furthermore, she is from Texas, where I know they have a hard-line attitude to criminals.
'She ain't gonna take no shit!' I figured at the time.
Perfect.
But appearances can be deceptive.
Her reaction to the non-contributing free-loaders has been nervous laughter.
Mine has been sleepless nights.
The message reads;
'Hey. So Charlotte and I are having technical difficulties. Do you think you could upload the assignment to blackboard? And add just a few changes to the contributors' list?'
ME???
It is 12.55pm.
I am standing outside the classroom.
Overcome by a rage of furious incredulity.
Maisie has a great deal to learn regarding the difference between 'delegating' and 'flinging a hot potato'.
And I'm the one to teach her.
I try ringing first Maisie, then Charlotte.
No answer.
I am having a hot flush.
I convince myself it's due to anger rather than age.
Then I see them both strolling along the corridor towards me.
'Hey!' smiles Maisie.
Rendered speechless, I hold my phone in front of her in a way that says 'WTF?'
'Oh it's all cool. We managed to do it,' she laughs, nervously.
I say nothing and we all enter the classroom as the tutor arrives.
He wants us to spend the first 10 minutes in our groups discussing our thoughts on what went well and what went not so well during this first assignment.
I don't know where to start!
We have to decide on 2 things we'll keep and 2 things we'll change for the next project.
It goes without saying at this stage that 'Wing Man' is missing.
But 'Lady Marmalade' has shown up, in an orange haze.
Glowing like the 'Ready-Brek' kid.
Personally, I'd be very happy to make both of them the 2 things we'd change.
However, it is not possible to expel members of the group.
I know.
I checked with the tutor last week.
I voice my frustrations at the unfair division of labour and the fact that 'certain individuals' did nothing.
I flash a look at 'Lady Marmalade'.
She starts muttering some excuses about email problems.
Maisie, instead of berating her, laughs nervously and says;
'I know you had problems with your email and I, like, totally understand'.
I look at Maisie in a way that I can only describe as aghast.
'Well I don't!' I say, a little too forcefully.
'Lady Marmalade' looks at me as if I have slapped her.
She must be able to read my mind.
Perhaps she's more perceptive than I have given her credit for.
'I don't!' I say again.
This time I am glaring directly at 'Lady Marmalade'.
'If you have problems with your email,' I point out, 'then you go to the I.T. lab. They are really helpful there. And that is what they are there for. You don't just do nothing!'
She is glaring back at me with pinched lips.
In combination with the heavy layering of lipstick, the result is quite uncanny.
She looks like she has a piece of shriveled orange-peel stuck on her face.
The tutor hurries us along with our deliberations and tells us we have 3 minutes left.
We decide the 2 things we'll change.
Firstly, we'll each do our own research and writing, rather than dividing the tasks.
Secondly, we'll get our writing to the editor by an earlier deadline.
The 2 things we decide to keep are the Editor and the Coordinator.
It's a disaster waiting to happen.
©Alacoque Doyle
D-Day.
Project submission deadline.
We are required to submit one copy of our document electronically onto a University website called 'Blackboard' and bring a hard copy to the tutorial.
The document is supposed to be accompanied by a 'Contributors' List', detailing exactly who did, and more importantly who didn't, do what.
My agreed task was to write the introduction and conclusion.
I ended up writing a missing section at the eleventh hour.
I also volunteered my advice on the editing.
But I resisted the urge to take control.
Just.
I only have 2 classes on Friday.
Spanish language at 12pm followed by this tutorial at 1pm.
Yesterday, my boyfriend arrived this side of the Atlantic for one of his fortnightly sojourns.
I have left him at home in bed recovering from jet lag.
As I walk to the tutorial, I decide to check my phone for any potential love messages from 'San Fran Man'.
I cannot believe what I read.
I have one message.
It is from Maisie, the coordinator for our group.
Maisie, who I expect has been working closely with Charlotte, the editor, fine-tuning our document into the best shape possible.
Maisie, the individual assuming control for the final stages of what needs to done.
When she first proposed herself for the role of coordinator, I thought she was cut out for the job.
She looked geeky so I presumed she would be hardworking and studious.
Furthermore, she is from Texas, where I know they have a hard-line attitude to criminals.
'She ain't gonna take no shit!' I figured at the time.
Perfect.
But appearances can be deceptive.
Her reaction to the non-contributing free-loaders has been nervous laughter.
Mine has been sleepless nights.
The message reads;
'Hey. So Charlotte and I are having technical difficulties. Do you think you could upload the assignment to blackboard? And add just a few changes to the contributors' list?'
ME???
It is 12.55pm.
I am standing outside the classroom.
Overcome by a rage of furious incredulity.
Maisie has a great deal to learn regarding the difference between 'delegating' and 'flinging a hot potato'.
And I'm the one to teach her.
I try ringing first Maisie, then Charlotte.
No answer.
I am having a hot flush.
I convince myself it's due to anger rather than age.
Then I see them both strolling along the corridor towards me.
'Hey!' smiles Maisie.
Rendered speechless, I hold my phone in front of her in a way that says 'WTF?'
'Oh it's all cool. We managed to do it,' she laughs, nervously.
I say nothing and we all enter the classroom as the tutor arrives.
He wants us to spend the first 10 minutes in our groups discussing our thoughts on what went well and what went not so well during this first assignment.
I don't know where to start!
We have to decide on 2 things we'll keep and 2 things we'll change for the next project.
It goes without saying at this stage that 'Wing Man' is missing.
But 'Lady Marmalade' has shown up, in an orange haze.
Glowing like the 'Ready-Brek' kid.
Personally, I'd be very happy to make both of them the 2 things we'd change.
However, it is not possible to expel members of the group.
I know.
I checked with the tutor last week.
I voice my frustrations at the unfair division of labour and the fact that 'certain individuals' did nothing.
I flash a look at 'Lady Marmalade'.
She starts muttering some excuses about email problems.
Maisie, instead of berating her, laughs nervously and says;
'I know you had problems with your email and I, like, totally understand'.
I look at Maisie in a way that I can only describe as aghast.
'Well I don't!' I say, a little too forcefully.
'Lady Marmalade' looks at me as if I have slapped her.
She must be able to read my mind.
Perhaps she's more perceptive than I have given her credit for.
'I don't!' I say again.
This time I am glaring directly at 'Lady Marmalade'.
'If you have problems with your email,' I point out, 'then you go to the I.T. lab. They are really helpful there. And that is what they are there for. You don't just do nothing!'
She is glaring back at me with pinched lips.
In combination with the heavy layering of lipstick, the result is quite uncanny.
She looks like she has a piece of shriveled orange-peel stuck on her face.
The tutor hurries us along with our deliberations and tells us we have 3 minutes left.
We decide the 2 things we'll change.
Firstly, we'll each do our own research and writing, rather than dividing the tasks.
Secondly, we'll get our writing to the editor by an earlier deadline.
The 2 things we decide to keep are the Editor and the Coordinator.
It's a disaster waiting to happen.
©Alacoque Doyle
Friday 15 October 2010
El mundo real
Thursday.
9.05 a.m.
Spanish.
'Wing Man' has entered the room.
As surreptitiously as he can.
This is the first sighting in 7 days of the rare and elusive animal that is the 'gurrier'.
He looks shifty.
Has the decency to blush.
And takes a seat in the corner near the door.
Our 'Hispanic Cultures' group project is due for submission tomorrow.
His contribution has been outstanding.
Almost ethereal.
In the 'intangible; impalpable; insubstantial; tenuous;' sense of the word.
Pulling together the final stages of our assignment has been pretty nightmarish.
The researchers in the team did not deliver.
We writers (there were 3 of us assigned to the task) consequently ended up pulling together our own research.
The final document, while quite well-written, is seriously lacking in references to source material.
'Wikipedia' just doesn't cut it.
However, this first of 3 assignments does not contribute to our module grades in the real world.
It is a 'dry run'.
It is merely practice for the subsequent 2.
Perhaps that is why 'Wing Man' and 'Lady Marmalade' just decided not to bother at all.
But then it dawns on me.
Maybe they are conserving their energies for assignments 2 and 3.
That must be it!
I can visualise them now.
In the library.
Unwashed. (There's just not enough time).
Uncoiffed. (A particular sacrifice for Lady Marmalade).
Grubby heads buried in text books.
Bags crammed with research notes.
Forward planning.
And all for the greater good of the team.
I feel ashamed.
Why was I so narrow-minded?
How could I have been so judgemental?
I metaphorically smack myself for my obvious prejudices.
And as Javier finishes the class with a cheerful '¡Hasta mañana!', I feel a surge of optimism that almost brings tears to my eyes.
Then I see 'Wing Man' making his hasty exit.
He doesn't seek me out at the end of class this time.
His departure is so speedy, he almost leaves a trail of dust behind him.
Reality bites.
©Alacoque Doyle
9.05 a.m.
Spanish.
'Wing Man' has entered the room.
As surreptitiously as he can.
This is the first sighting in 7 days of the rare and elusive animal that is the 'gurrier'.
He looks shifty.
Has the decency to blush.
And takes a seat in the corner near the door.
Our 'Hispanic Cultures' group project is due for submission tomorrow.
His contribution has been outstanding.
Almost ethereal.
In the 'intangible; impalpable; insubstantial; tenuous;' sense of the word.
Pulling together the final stages of our assignment has been pretty nightmarish.
The researchers in the team did not deliver.
We writers (there were 3 of us assigned to the task) consequently ended up pulling together our own research.
The final document, while quite well-written, is seriously lacking in references to source material.
'Wikipedia' just doesn't cut it.
However, this first of 3 assignments does not contribute to our module grades in the real world.
It is a 'dry run'.
It is merely practice for the subsequent 2.
Perhaps that is why 'Wing Man' and 'Lady Marmalade' just decided not to bother at all.
But then it dawns on me.
Maybe they are conserving their energies for assignments 2 and 3.
That must be it!
I can visualise them now.
In the library.
Unwashed. (There's just not enough time).
Uncoiffed. (A particular sacrifice for Lady Marmalade).
Grubby heads buried in text books.
Bags crammed with research notes.
Forward planning.
And all for the greater good of the team.
I feel ashamed.
Why was I so narrow-minded?
How could I have been so judgemental?
I metaphorically smack myself for my obvious prejudices.
And as Javier finishes the class with a cheerful '¡Hasta mañana!', I feel a surge of optimism that almost brings tears to my eyes.
Then I see 'Wing Man' making his hasty exit.
He doesn't seek me out at the end of class this time.
His departure is so speedy, he almost leaves a trail of dust behind him.
Reality bites.
©Alacoque Doyle
Thursday 14 October 2010
Wednesday 13 October 2010
Multi-Tracked Mind
Week 4 and things are starting to get a bit more serious.
I need to spend less time chatting in the café of the Arts building, creatively called the 'Arts Café', and more time in the library working (despite the chewing gum offensive).
There are, however, several issues impeding my progress.
One is that my fellow mature students are all so interesting.
Honestly.
No word of a lie.
We have all been on amazing journeys to get to where we are today.
You know some of the sordid details about mine already.
And at our age we feel we have earned the right to talk about it.
We have.
Over an extended lunchtime soup and bread roll package (a bargain at €2.99), you could cut the empathy between us with the standard issue plastic knife.
There have been forearm 'there, there' rubbings.
There have been hugs.
There have even been tears.
It truly is a mutually compassionate environment and I, for one, am keen to keep these valuable bonding sessions in my schedule.
I'll have to learn to work my study around them.
Another impediment is 'facebook'.
I know what you're thinking.
'Isn't she a bit old for facebook?'
Well no, actually, I'm not.
I drank a bottle of wine on Saturday night
I bought some Ugg boots on Sunday.
And I have 257 facebook 'friends'.
I think that's quite impressive.
Not least the wine consumption.
However, when I have my laptop open in the library and I'm online, it really is quite the distraction.
Admittedly some of my 'friends' are ex-school buddies or ex-colleagues whose names I vaguely remembered when I first received the friend request.
I accepted them on the basis that, with frequent renewed profile pictures and status updates, the penny might eventually drop.
But there are still 3 of them who remain a complete mystery to me.
I retain my optimism for the imminent epiphanic moment.
However, my biggest curriculum interruptus problem is my transatlantic romance.
I have been in a year-long relationship with a San Franciscan divorcé with whom I spend an inordinate amount of time on Skype.
Given the time-zone factors - he is 8 hours behind me - he is often waking up while I'm basking in the educationally supportive silence of the wonderful James Joyce library.
The other complication I face is that he runs his own business and, as such, has no discernible schedule.
Which means he's always eager to chat.
It was fantastic while I was unemployed.
I was at his metaphorical beck and call.
But now the situation has changed somewhat.
I have taken his video calls with my headphones in while typing instant message communications to my beloved.
My beloved has flashed his body parts at me while I'm trying to read my collection of 'Modern French Short Fiction'.
It's hard, if you'll forgive the pun, to concentrate on the critical analysis of a mid-nineteenth century piece of literature while there's a larger than life erection displayed on your screen.
Especially one that you're extremely familiar with.
And the library is a pretty busy place.
It would be would be an unfair irony, after my recent proclaimed good intentions, to be expelled because of my boyfriend's virtual indecent exposure.
I shall have to take him in hand.
©Alacoque Doyle
I need to spend less time chatting in the café of the Arts building, creatively called the 'Arts Café', and more time in the library working (despite the chewing gum offensive).
There are, however, several issues impeding my progress.
One is that my fellow mature students are all so interesting.
Honestly.
No word of a lie.
We have all been on amazing journeys to get to where we are today.
You know some of the sordid details about mine already.
And at our age we feel we have earned the right to talk about it.
We have.
Over an extended lunchtime soup and bread roll package (a bargain at €2.99), you could cut the empathy between us with the standard issue plastic knife.
There have been forearm 'there, there' rubbings.
There have been hugs.
There have even been tears.
It truly is a mutually compassionate environment and I, for one, am keen to keep these valuable bonding sessions in my schedule.
I'll have to learn to work my study around them.
Another impediment is 'facebook'.
I know what you're thinking.
'Isn't she a bit old for facebook?'
Well no, actually, I'm not.
I drank a bottle of wine on Saturday night
I bought some Ugg boots on Sunday.
And I have 257 facebook 'friends'.
I think that's quite impressive.
Not least the wine consumption.
However, when I have my laptop open in the library and I'm online, it really is quite the distraction.
Admittedly some of my 'friends' are ex-school buddies or ex-colleagues whose names I vaguely remembered when I first received the friend request.
I accepted them on the basis that, with frequent renewed profile pictures and status updates, the penny might eventually drop.
But there are still 3 of them who remain a complete mystery to me.
I retain my optimism for the imminent epiphanic moment.
However, my biggest curriculum interruptus problem is my transatlantic romance.
I have been in a year-long relationship with a San Franciscan divorcé with whom I spend an inordinate amount of time on Skype.
Given the time-zone factors - he is 8 hours behind me - he is often waking up while I'm basking in the educationally supportive silence of the wonderful James Joyce library.
The other complication I face is that he runs his own business and, as such, has no discernible schedule.
Which means he's always eager to chat.
It was fantastic while I was unemployed.
I was at his metaphorical beck and call.
But now the situation has changed somewhat.
I have taken his video calls with my headphones in while typing instant message communications to my beloved.
My beloved has flashed his body parts at me while I'm trying to read my collection of 'Modern French Short Fiction'.
It's hard, if you'll forgive the pun, to concentrate on the critical analysis of a mid-nineteenth century piece of literature while there's a larger than life erection displayed on your screen.
Especially one that you're extremely familiar with.
And the library is a pretty busy place.
It would be would be an unfair irony, after my recent proclaimed good intentions, to be expelled because of my boyfriend's virtual indecent exposure.
I shall have to take him in hand.
©Alacoque Doyle
Monday 11 October 2010
My Life: A Retrospective
I decided to give myself a good talking to.
I realise, to those who don't know me, that I must be coming across as some kind of whining, aging, abstemious goody-two-shoes.
Well, believe me, nothing could be further from the truth.
You see, this is my second stab at a University education.
Because the first time round I blew it.
I did exactly the things I imagine 'Wing Man' and 'Lady Marmalade' are getting up to now.
Well, maybe not exactly.
'Wing Man' is one of those rough inner-city types who looks like he may have dabbled with Meth.
Whereas I smoked the odd joint.
And I was certainly never as manicured as 'Lady Marmalade'.
Not least because I was a goth.
Well, not a true one.
More of a wannabe goth.
I didn't have piercings or tattoos.
For which I am eternally grateful.
But I wore a lot of purple and sported a spiky hairdo.
Being a goth was different back then.
The point is I wasted my opportunity because I was having such a good time.
I drank a lot.
The college bar was heavily subsidised.
I drank A LOT.
And when the student grant was stretched to capacity, there was always the 2 litre bottle of Tesco's own-brand cider, guaranteed to get any evening off to a flying start.
Especially when mixed with lager.
And when finances got even tighter, I got a job in a bar.
Free booze and a weekly wage!
I skipped lectures and tutorials.
I woke up with half-eaten kebabs in my bed.
I woke up on the bonnet of a car I took a drunken liking to.
I woke up in a bus shelter.
I woke the owner of the local Chinese takeaway at 2am to ask him, in a totally incomprehensible slur, if he could sell me some chips.
He stood in his dressing gown at his front door and told me what he thought of me.
Of course, he was speaking Mandarin, but I think the concept of 'in no uncertain terms' transcends all language barriers.
When I dropped out of study after my second year, I got a job in Top Shop.
It was only because of my determination to succeed, having screwed up my education, that I was able to forge a career for myself.
I liken my Top Shop year to national service - it taught me the fundamentals of management and from there I moved into a long and successful career in advertising.
Getting to where I am today has been a complicated and at times painful journey, via marriage, miscarriage, divorce, a nervous breakdown and redundancy.
But that journey has afforded me this second chance.
Which is why I am determined not to blow it this time.
I haven't even set foot in the student bar!
I'm not sure I could trust myself.
©Alacoque Doyle
I realise, to those who don't know me, that I must be coming across as some kind of whining, aging, abstemious goody-two-shoes.
Well, believe me, nothing could be further from the truth.
You see, this is my second stab at a University education.
Because the first time round I blew it.
I did exactly the things I imagine 'Wing Man' and 'Lady Marmalade' are getting up to now.
Well, maybe not exactly.
'Wing Man' is one of those rough inner-city types who looks like he may have dabbled with Meth.
Whereas I smoked the odd joint.
And I was certainly never as manicured as 'Lady Marmalade'.
Not least because I was a goth.
Well, not a true one.
More of a wannabe goth.
I didn't have piercings or tattoos.
For which I am eternally grateful.
But I wore a lot of purple and sported a spiky hairdo.
Being a goth was different back then.
The point is I wasted my opportunity because I was having such a good time.
I drank a lot.
The college bar was heavily subsidised.
I drank A LOT.
And when the student grant was stretched to capacity, there was always the 2 litre bottle of Tesco's own-brand cider, guaranteed to get any evening off to a flying start.
Especially when mixed with lager.
And when finances got even tighter, I got a job in a bar.
Free booze and a weekly wage!
I skipped lectures and tutorials.
I woke up with half-eaten kebabs in my bed.
I woke up on the bonnet of a car I took a drunken liking to.
I woke up in a bus shelter.
I woke the owner of the local Chinese takeaway at 2am to ask him, in a totally incomprehensible slur, if he could sell me some chips.
He stood in his dressing gown at his front door and told me what he thought of me.
Of course, he was speaking Mandarin, but I think the concept of 'in no uncertain terms' transcends all language barriers.
When I dropped out of study after my second year, I got a job in Top Shop.
It was only because of my determination to succeed, having screwed up my education, that I was able to forge a career for myself.
I liken my Top Shop year to national service - it taught me the fundamentals of management and from there I moved into a long and successful career in advertising.
Getting to where I am today has been a complicated and at times painful journey, via marriage, miscarriage, divorce, a nervous breakdown and redundancy.
But that journey has afforded me this second chance.
Which is why I am determined not to blow it this time.
I haven't even set foot in the student bar!
I'm not sure I could trust myself.
©Alacoque Doyle
Spanish Seville War
Friday afternoon and the 3rd of our scheduled 'Hispanic Cultures' tutorials.
This is where the tutor offers us guidance and support.
Some directional advice on aspects to consider and pitfalls to avoid.
It goes without saying that 'Wing Man' has chosen not to grace us with his presence.
At least the ditsy one has turned up.
She apologises for the previous day's 'mix up' that saw her in the shower when she should have been brainstorming with the rest of us.
She informs us that she's done 'a LOAD of research' and that she'll type it up over the weekend and email it to us.
I decide not to hold my breath.
I can tell from her appearance where her priorities lie.
She is one of those girls who spends at least an hour in front of the mirror every morning, back-combing, teasing and spraying her 'titian' locks (it's no longer P.C. to say ginger) in an attempt to achieve the 'just got out of bed' look.
Plus another hour for make-up.
Which is orange.
'Lady Marmalade' is going to be trouble.
We have one more week until the deadline for submission of our first assignment.
We are nowhere near prepared.
And within the group already, the early signs are there.
A rift is emerging.
I can see the team starting to divide into two camps.
Those who 'do'.
And those who 'don't give a shit'.
©Alacoque Doyle
This is where the tutor offers us guidance and support.
Some directional advice on aspects to consider and pitfalls to avoid.
It goes without saying that 'Wing Man' has chosen not to grace us with his presence.
At least the ditsy one has turned up.
She apologises for the previous day's 'mix up' that saw her in the shower when she should have been brainstorming with the rest of us.
She informs us that she's done 'a LOAD of research' and that she'll type it up over the weekend and email it to us.
I decide not to hold my breath.
I can tell from her appearance where her priorities lie.
She is one of those girls who spends at least an hour in front of the mirror every morning, back-combing, teasing and spraying her 'titian' locks (it's no longer P.C. to say ginger) in an attempt to achieve the 'just got out of bed' look.
Plus another hour for make-up.
Which is orange.
'Lady Marmalade' is going to be trouble.
We have one more week until the deadline for submission of our first assignment.
We are nowhere near prepared.
And within the group already, the early signs are there.
A rift is emerging.
I can see the team starting to divide into two camps.
Those who 'do'.
And those who 'don't give a shit'.
©Alacoque Doyle
Thursday 7 October 2010
¡Me quedé de Piedra! (You could have knocked me down with a Feather!)
Thursday.
9am.
Spanish.
Christ on a bike! 'Wing Man' is in the classroom!
Looking sheepish, admittedly.
Javier attempts to do the roll call by memory.
He always fails dismally.
But at least he tries.
In general, he gets a few of us right, and yet more of us wrong.
But there is a gradual shift in the right to wrong ratio as the course progresses.
In favour of 'right'.
He is doing very well!
I nearly tell him so, but then I remember my rightful place in the teacher/student relationship.
As Javier scans the room and his neurons muster up all their strength to fire their connections, his eyes land on the gurrier.
He executes what I can only describe as 'cartoon-like' surprise.
It is the kind of goggle-eyed physical jump that you would easily dismiss as overacting if you saw it in a farce, let alone a regular comedy.
I manage to stifle my 'cartoon-like' guffaw.
¿Como te llama? (What's your name?) he asks 'el Wingo'.
'Euh...me... llamo...euh....Brian...euh...Donnelly', he replies in his best inner city accent.
(Dublin, not Madrid.)
'Ah!' Brian Donnelly!' enthuses Javier, as though Brian were the prodigal son returned.
Chuck Norris's features are so familiar to me by now, I could pick him out in a line-up if I were blindfolded and with my hands tied behind my back.
As the lesson takes shape, it becomes clear that Brian has still not got round to purchasing the prescribed course text book and is sharing with his classroom neighbour.
I notice I am grinding my teeth, so I inhale deeply and convince myself he is not my problem.
I am not the project coordinator for our 'Exploring Hispanic Cultures' group.
So why should I give a SHIT?
I smile as I exhale on that thought.
Or word.
Whatever.
At the end of the class, 'Wing Man' approaches me.
I am stupified!
He smiles and says to me, 'I'm in your Hispanic Cultures group,' like it's some major revelation.
I reply, without spitting, 'I know! I thought you'd dropped it!'
He then declares he has been in hospital and that he really wants to catch up and that he's not trying to shirk his responsibilities or anything.
I am sorely tempted to tell him to wing off!
My inner skeptical bitch warns me he's lying, but I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt.
I briefly update him on the group's progress, leaving him in no doubt as to what we have achieved in his absence, and, by implication, what he has failed to do.
I inform him we have a meeting scheduled for 4pm this afternoon.
I ask him to give me his phone number, which he willingly volunteers, and tell him I'll text him with the location details.
He genuinely seems both relieved and grateful.
I text him.
So does another member of the group.
But, guess what?
Yup - he doesn't show!
The Winger!
©Alacoque Doyle
9am.
Spanish.
Christ on a bike! 'Wing Man' is in the classroom!
Looking sheepish, admittedly.
Javier attempts to do the roll call by memory.
He always fails dismally.
But at least he tries.
In general, he gets a few of us right, and yet more of us wrong.
But there is a gradual shift in the right to wrong ratio as the course progresses.
In favour of 'right'.
He is doing very well!
I nearly tell him so, but then I remember my rightful place in the teacher/student relationship.
As Javier scans the room and his neurons muster up all their strength to fire their connections, his eyes land on the gurrier.
He executes what I can only describe as 'cartoon-like' surprise.
It is the kind of goggle-eyed physical jump that you would easily dismiss as overacting if you saw it in a farce, let alone a regular comedy.
I manage to stifle my 'cartoon-like' guffaw.
¿Como te llama? (What's your name?) he asks 'el Wingo'.
'Euh...me... llamo...euh....Brian...euh...Donnelly', he replies in his best inner city accent.
(Dublin, not Madrid.)
'Ah!' Brian Donnelly!' enthuses Javier, as though Brian were the prodigal son returned.
Chuck Norris's features are so familiar to me by now, I could pick him out in a line-up if I were blindfolded and with my hands tied behind my back.
As the lesson takes shape, it becomes clear that Brian has still not got round to purchasing the prescribed course text book and is sharing with his classroom neighbour.
I notice I am grinding my teeth, so I inhale deeply and convince myself he is not my problem.
I am not the project coordinator for our 'Exploring Hispanic Cultures' group.
So why should I give a SHIT?
I smile as I exhale on that thought.
Or word.
Whatever.
At the end of the class, 'Wing Man' approaches me.
I am stupified!
He smiles and says to me, 'I'm in your Hispanic Cultures group,' like it's some major revelation.
I reply, without spitting, 'I know! I thought you'd dropped it!'
He then declares he has been in hospital and that he really wants to catch up and that he's not trying to shirk his responsibilities or anything.
I am sorely tempted to tell him to wing off!
My inner skeptical bitch warns me he's lying, but I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt.
I briefly update him on the group's progress, leaving him in no doubt as to what we have achieved in his absence, and, by implication, what he has failed to do.
I inform him we have a meeting scheduled for 4pm this afternoon.
I ask him to give me his phone number, which he willingly volunteers, and tell him I'll text him with the location details.
He genuinely seems both relieved and grateful.
I text him.
So does another member of the group.
But, guess what?
Yup - he doesn't show!
The Winger!
©Alacoque Doyle
Wednesday 6 October 2010
Concerned of Kildare
Despite my aforementioned bile for the young absentee, I'm starting to worry that there might be something seriously wrong with him.
Perhaps I have been too quick to jump to conclusions.
Perhaps I have been too eager to judge.
Perhaps I have been too hasty to assume (and we know what that means!).
Like the Curragh sheep who wake me most mornings, I am prone to rumination.
So this is all crossing my mind on my fairly lengthy, early morning commute from Kildare to Dublin.
By the time I reach the UCD gates I am almost feeling guilty.
But as I swing into the university car park 10 minutes before my 9am French lecture, I see him.
He is swaggering along with a buddy; laughing, joking, puffing on his ciggy, and looking anything but life-endangered.
I feel a mixture of relief and anger.
At least he's alive, I reassure myself.
I'll bloody kill him, I add.
©Alacoque Doyle
Perhaps I have been too quick to jump to conclusions.
Perhaps I have been too eager to judge.
Perhaps I have been too hasty to assume (and we know what that means!).
Like the Curragh sheep who wake me most mornings, I am prone to rumination.
So this is all crossing my mind on my fairly lengthy, early morning commute from Kildare to Dublin.
By the time I reach the UCD gates I am almost feeling guilty.
But as I swing into the university car park 10 minutes before my 9am French lecture, I see him.
He is swaggering along with a buddy; laughing, joking, puffing on his ciggy, and looking anything but life-endangered.
I feel a mixture of relief and anger.
At least he's alive, I reassure myself.
I'll bloody kill him, I add.
©Alacoque Doyle
Group Project
In the 'Exploring Hispanic Cultures' module, I am in Group 3.
More precisely, Group 3 is 'Government Think Tank 3'.
Or should I say, 'Gabinete Estratégico Tres'!
Our first project (there are 3 this semester) asks us to make recommendations as to the fate of a controversial and contentious monument near Madrid, 'el Valle de los Caidos', that was commissioned by Franco at the end of the Spanish Civil War.
It is a subject about which I was pretty ignorant prior to entering this course.
That status may not be subject to a great degree of change as the course proceeds.
Since learning of the dreaded assignment methodology for this module, I have checked the course registration system, very thoroughly, for all and any alternative options I could have possibly swapped it for.
Due to timetable clashes or conflicts of interest, my options are extremely limited.
Due to timetable clashes or conflicts of interest, my options are extremely limited.
As I have no desire to do either Latin (bleurgh) or Economics (double bleurgh), I decide to see this through.
I resign myself to the prospect of simply passing the module, rather than attempting to get the best mark possible.
Despite being a control freak, I am learning to let go...
Our group has agreed to meet at a non-timetabled time that suited us all at the time of agreeing it.
So why is it that only 5 out of 8 show up?
One has provided a 'valid' excuse.
(Note to self: let it go...)
(Note to self: let it go...)
The other 2 have not bothered to contact anyone.
I'll let you guess who one of those 2 might be.
We send some text messages to ascertain a SitRep on the missing duo.
Not that I'm trying to sound militaristic!
The ditsy one eventually replies that she was in the shower and thought we had arranged to meet on a different day.
..mmm...
And 'Wing Man' is conspicuous by both his absence and his silence.
©Alacoque Doyle
We send some text messages to ascertain a SitRep on the missing duo.
Not that I'm trying to sound militaristic!
The ditsy one eventually replies that she was in the shower and thought we had arranged to meet on a different day.
..mmm...
And 'Wing Man' is conspicuous by both his absence and his silence.
©Alacoque Doyle
Tuesday 5 October 2010
¿¡WTF?!
Two of my three Spanish classes involve a 9am start.
An ungodly hour if you're an 18-year-old.
Clearly, I don't fall into that category.
Consequently, there are usually a couple of stragglers who burst into the room about 5 or 10 minutes late, exhaling breathless apologies with their freshly nicotined breath.
I smirk at the concept of 'cigarette v punctuality' and try to imagine the inner turmoil of these young adults, hastily pulling on their smokes before rushing to the classroom in a vague attempt to authenticate their claims of delayed public transport.
I try to remember the order of my priorities when I was their age.
I admit, it's a struggle to think back that far.
Our tutor, Javier, is extremely tolerant.
An ungodly hour if you're an 18-year-old.
Clearly, I don't fall into that category.
Consequently, there are usually a couple of stragglers who burst into the room about 5 or 10 minutes late, exhaling breathless apologies with their freshly nicotined breath.
I smirk at the concept of 'cigarette v punctuality' and try to imagine the inner turmoil of these young adults, hastily pulling on their smokes before rushing to the classroom in a vague attempt to authenticate their claims of delayed public transport.
I try to remember the order of my priorities when I was their age.
I admit, it's a struggle to think back that far.
Our tutor, Javier, is extremely tolerant.
Last Friday saw the close of the two-week window for course changes.
Previously unseen faces are showing up at some of my classes.
And previously seen faces are still absent. You know who you are, 'Wing Man'.
Spanish is no exception.
However, we are all more than a little surprised when the classroom door opens 30 minutes into our lesson.
However, we are all more than a little surprised when the classroom door opens 30 minutes into our lesson.
We are way beyond roll-call by this stage of today's class.
A plump and disheveled-looking girl is standing in the doorway and staring at Javier with a rather gormless expression.
'Spanish?' she says.
I believe she intends it as a question.
It is unclear if she is enquiring after Javier's nationality, or checking if she's turned up at the right class.
Without the context of a sentence, it is difficult to say, but I am guessing she means the latter.
I wish Javier had responded with a smart answer like, 'Yes, I'm from Barcelona!'
But after politely taking her details, he invites her to take a seat and join the class
I'm tempted to ask him, ¿Conoce el Chucko Norriso?
But I don't know how to say that in Spanish.
©Alacoque Doyle
A plump and disheveled-looking girl is standing in the doorway and staring at Javier with a rather gormless expression.
'Spanish?' she says.
I believe she intends it as a question.
It is unclear if she is enquiring after Javier's nationality, or checking if she's turned up at the right class.
Without the context of a sentence, it is difficult to say, but I am guessing she means the latter.
I wish Javier had responded with a smart answer like, 'Yes, I'm from Barcelona!'
But after politely taking her details, he invites her to take a seat and join the class
I'm tempted to ask him, ¿Conoce el Chucko Norriso?
But I don't know how to say that in Spanish.
©Alacoque Doyle
Saturday 2 October 2010
Wing Man
It is the final day of week two.
We are in our second 'Exploring Hispanic Cultures' group session.
Mister 'I'm just winging it' is a no-show.
Now there's a surprise.
'Wing man' is also supposed to be in my Spanish language group, for which we have three, one-hour sessions per week.
This week he has missed three of those hours.
I'm pretty confident this will be the the only time he'll achieve 100% in anything.
As we are allowed a two-week window in which to make changes to our course choices, I feel optimistic this gurrier has decided to drop Spanish and swap it for something a little less demanding like 'Astronomy for Beginners'.
I live in hope.
©Alacoque Doyle
We are in our second 'Exploring Hispanic Cultures' group session.
Mister 'I'm just winging it' is a no-show.
Now there's a surprise.
'Wing man' is also supposed to be in my Spanish language group, for which we have three, one-hour sessions per week.
This week he has missed three of those hours.
I'm pretty confident this will be the the only time he'll achieve 100% in anything.
As we are allowed a two-week window in which to make changes to our course choices, I feel optimistic this gurrier has decided to drop Spanish and swap it for something a little less demanding like 'Astronomy for Beginners'.
I live in hope.
©Alacoque Doyle
Friday 1 October 2010
Golden Oldies
I am beginning to notice an emerging trend.
In the lecture theatres, we mature students tend to occupy the seats towards the front.
If we conducted a survey, I'm sure we would identify a direct correlation between age and seating arrangements, with the oldest perched at the front and the youngest lurking at the back.
(And about forty years in between).
It's not agreement.
It's called 'active listening'.
I learned that in my Linguistics lecture.
The education is paying off.
I am curious if we older students choose to sit nearer the lecturer because we are more intent on learning.
Or is it just because we have failing eyesight and faulty hearing?
I prefer to believe it's the former.
I am a young 45!
Despite my need for spectacles.
I like to think I'm more 'hip' than 'hip replacement'.
Don't write me off just yet.
I'd even consider wearing Ugg boots!
If it wasn't for my fallen arches...
©Alacoque Doyle
In the lecture theatres, we mature students tend to occupy the seats towards the front.
If we conducted a survey, I'm sure we would identify a direct correlation between age and seating arrangements, with the oldest perched at the front and the youngest lurking at the back.
(And about forty years in between).
There is a rumour the school-leavers refer to us as 'noddies'.
Because we sit up front nodding enthusiastically at everything the lecturer says.It's not agreement.
It's called 'active listening'.
I learned that in my Linguistics lecture.
The education is paying off.
We 'noddies' are the ones who volunteer answers and ask questions in these large group sessions.
We don't have the same fears that are associated with youth.
We don't desire to be popular; to conform; to be fancied.
We just blurt things out because we have lived and have been toughened up by our experiences.
Quite frankly, we don't give a damn.
And the lecturers love us!
We turn up on time.
We don't skip lectures.
We want to be there.
We fill those awkward silences; those hanging questions.
And, generally, we don't have hangovers.
I am curious if we older students choose to sit nearer the lecturer because we are more intent on learning.
Or is it just because we have failing eyesight and faulty hearing?
I prefer to believe it's the former.
I am a young 45!
Despite my need for spectacles.
I like to think I'm more 'hip' than 'hip replacement'.
Don't write me off just yet.
I'd even consider wearing Ugg boots!
If it wasn't for my fallen arches...
©Alacoque Doyle
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