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