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