Weekend Reprieve

Saturday.

I usually spend my weekends engaged in study.
But San Fran Man arrives today.
Thank God.
Because, quite frankly, I'm gagging for it.
One of the few advantages of the long distance nature of the relationship is the resurgence of unadulterated lust that happens during the involuntary hiatus.
Therefore, sex is unquestionably the first item on the agenda whenever we meet.

I get up early to trim and de-fuzz certain of the more hirsute areas of my anatomy.
Not that I'm any kind of freak of nature, you understand.
It's just that while he's Stateside, I tend to let things get a little, for want of a better word, overgrown.
When it comes to epilation, I don't do the whole bald thing.
I have no desire to have my bits plucked like a Thanksgiving turkey.
I just try to keep things tidy.
But this last couple of weeks I haven't had the motivation to pick up a razor.

I collect San Fran Man at Dublin airport around 9am.
He has booked us 2 nights at The Westin Hotel.
Very nice.
This evening we are going to a Vivaldi 'Four Seasons' recital at The National Concert Hall.
Preceded by dinner at 'Bang'.
Preceded by a bang.
Maybe two.
Preferably three!

I have to say it is wonderful to temporarily not have to worry about my student-status living expenses.
No 'Pot Noodle' for me this weekend!
But there is a certain uneasiness that makes me feel like I'm living a double life.
It's not that I'm unaccustomed to the finer cultural and culinary aspects of Dublin.
On the contrary.
In my job, I frequented the best places the city had to offer.
But it was corporate money paying the bill.
And none of it felt real.
Essentially because it wasn't.

So now I eek out my redundancy money and don't allow myself too many luxuries.

And I lead my double life in shifts.

Like an oil-rig worker.

Pasta and jacket spuds forming my staple dietary fare for a fortnight.

Followed by 2 weeks of fine dining and fine wines when San Fran Man is in town.

I don't let him support me as such.

Nor would I.

But I'll allow him to pay for the pleasure of having me accompany him in the aspects of the lifestyle he both chooses and, I assume, can afford.

That's a very different concept.

He's welcome to share a 'Pot Noodle' lifestyle with me any time. 

And if he somehow ended up on his uppers, I most certainly would not love him any less.

Now, where was I?

Oh yes - because we are checking in early at the hotel, our room is, unfortunately, not available yet.
And won't be for a couple of hours at least.
We decide to have a champagne breakfast in the hotel's rather fine dining room.
We share opinions about how our eggs are done.
In eager anticipation of how our own respective eggs will shortly be done.
His: well-received (natch).
Mine: unfertilised (thank-you).
Both: enthusiastically (oh yeah).

It's a small torture making small talk over florentine and omelettes.
But the half bottle of champagne has somehow helped to numb the senses a little.

©Alacoque Doyle

Holy Hose!

Friday and the dreaded Hispanic Cultures tutorial.
I reluctantly drag myself into these end of week classes purely to avail of the 10% 'attendance' mark that's attributable to the overall module grade.
UCD attaches this scoring opportunity to all of its first year modules.
It's a ploy to ensure students turn up.
And it's a no-brainer.
You don't even have to say anything.
Apart from 'here!' in response to the calling of your name, of course.
10% for merely showing your face!
So it is really quite amazing that many students still choose to abstain.
'Wing Man' didn't even have the common sense to 'wing' this easy part of the equation, whatever about the remaining 90%.
'Lady Marmalade', on the other hand - though she has failed to turn up to anything else, or make any kind of valuable contribution to our group projects, for that matter - can be relied upon to attend this tutorial, in all her tangerine glory.
She's not as stupid as she looks.
Though admittedly it's a close call.

As I walk into the room, I get a double shock.
Maisie is already seated in one of the rather uncomfortable bucket chairs that form the standard furniture in the tutor rooms.
The ones with the highly impractical mini-desk bolted on to one side that merely serves to make them extremely unstable.
And she is bloody well crocheting!
I am astounded by her lack of cogniscance of just how disrespectful she appears.
It's not that the act of crocheting in itself is disrespectful.
Dull, decidedly.
But not impolite per se.
Rather it's the context of the deed that sends out the wrong messages.
Does it say, 'I'm enthralled by everything you have to say, Mr. Tutor'?
Hardly.
You can catch my ire.
But this is not the primary cause of my loss of speech.

Maisie has taken an ill-advised leap back out of her comfort zone.
The very short shorts have resurfaced.
Along with a pair of tights much scarier than the last.
I'm not sure how to describe them, but there's slightly more leg-flesh on show than is being covered by the fabric.
Lacy?
Not quite.
They look suspiciously like she may have crocheted them overnight.
While drunk.
And dabbling with LSD.
It's as though she's attempted to escape from Spiderman only to be foiled by his hastily-spun and speedily-flung webby leg-lasso.
Quite the trip.
And the manner in which the crochet sits in her lap makes me wonder if there's an ongoing project taking place beneath the skimpy swatch of denim masquerading as an item of clothing.
By the time the tutorial is at an end she may have woven a complete comic-book-baddie body suit.

She could call herself 'Yarn the Yawn'.
I can see her now...
Threatening to over-throw the metropolis with an enormous throw-over.
Mmm...I concede the idea needs some work.

©Alacoque Doyle

Maggie and Me

Today we have our official lecture on Chile under Pinochet's dictatorship.
Our lecturer is Scottish and, I assume (despite the dangers attached to this activity), is married to a Spaniard, given that her name is Kirsty Ramírez de Arroyo.
Wow! Scotts who've married Spaniards; French women who've married Paddies; and a Moroccan Berber to boot!
UCD is a veritable melting pot of multiculturalism!
I like it!
A lot!
I was brought up in South East London so I feel extremely comfortable in ethnically diverse surroundings.
The Celtic Tiger has at least been good for Ireland in this respect.

Though, even at UCD, I am disappointed to say I have noticed a worrying undertone of racism against the more obvious of minority groups.
In my first week on campus, there was some decidedly unpleasant graffiti scrawled in the ladies' toilet against the Chinese community.
Shame on the culprits!
Not only was it unforgiveably abusive.
But it wasn't even clever.
In a hi-brow, well-educated environment like this, such low-brow, unintelligent ignorance is unexpected to say the least.
Much sharper, though admittedly still not politically correct, was the graffiti I had to strain to read, if you'll pardon the pun, while sitting on the throne in the library toilets one day.
Written at the bottom of the door, just above the 5-inch gap between it and the tiled floor, was the warning: 'Beware of the limbo-dancing dwarf!'
At least some brain cells and humour were involved in that little defacement.

Anyway, back to the lecture.
Kirsty is one of those professors who is clearly passionate about her subject.
It comes across in the vibrancy and enthusiasm with which she delivers the lesson.
And in her unkempt appearance.
There is a distinct lack of glamour emanating from her as she paces the stage.
It's partly as a result of the limp, uncoiffed hairdo.
Replete with 2-inch greying roots.
But, possibly more importantly, due to the elasticated-waisted separates she insists on wearing.
She's like one of those women on the make-over shows who's forgotten how to look good, with or without clothes.
I'm wondering if she's got a really good friend, or very brave husband, who might write in to a television production company on her behalf.
I'd pay good money to see the transformation.

But she's moved on in her lecture to the matter of Britain's complicity in the failure to bring Pinochet to task and suddenly I'm jolted from my 'reality TV' reverie.
As Kirsty denounces Margaret Thatcher, who described Pinochet as 'one of Britain's greatest Friends', she steels a beady-eyed look directly at me.
The ease with which she executes this manoeuvre is facilitated by the fact that I am, naturally, seated at the front.
I squirm uncomfortably.
My vocality in all lectures leaves my fellow students in no quandry as to my Britishness.
Sorry, Englishness.
They are two very different concepts.
The Scots, while reluctantly British, hate the English almost as much as do the Irish, who are most decidedly not British.
And for those reluctant Brits, Westminster Government, in all its guises, represents England.
As if to underline this point, Thatcher was English.
Sorry, 'is'.
But, hey, it's only a matter of time.
Senile old hag.
At least she was while she was Prime Minister.
I presume her condition in this respect can only have disimproved.

I nod my head at Kirsty furiously.
'I agree!' I want to shout.
Because I do.
I hated Thatcher and her politics as much as the four or five people in the lecture theatre who may have heard of her.
The remaining sections of the audience, as I have learned over these past few weeks, are far too young to be familiar with the evil witch.

I squirm a tad more and say nothing.
But mentally I twang Kirsty's elasticated waistband so hard she goes 'Ooch!'

©Alacoque Doyle

Chile Gone Barmy

At last, we are working on the third and final 'Hispanic Cultures' project
There is light at the end of the tunnel.
And a VERY large glass of wine.

This time we are a Chilean theatre company hoping to bring Ariel Dorfman's play 'Death and the Maiden' to the UK and Ireland. The play deals with the aftermath of Augusto Pinochet's dictatorship and it is therefore necessary to analyse the play, research its cultural and political background, and make justifications to a fictional group of promoters as to why it needs to be seen by UK and Irish audiences.

Doddle.
Pass the Panadol.

Our group concurred last Friday (that was the day I threw the sickie, but they emailed me what was agreed in my absence) that we would all have read the play in preparation for our meeting this afternoon.
It is an extremely powerful and engaging piece of drama.
I know because I have read it.
I adhere to deadlines.

As the 6 of us (we are supposed to be 8, but 'Wing Man' has fallen off the face of the earth and 'Lady Marmalade' never bothers to show her orange features at any of our autonomous meetings) assemble in one of the library's study rooms, it very quickly becomes apparent (to me at least) that I'm the only one who has completed the required reading.

There is some general chit chat about the completion of the previous project as people take off jackets, settle into their chosen seats in the room and produce their pads and pens.
I am momentarily and mistakenly optimistic that Maisie has carried out some serious groundwork for this meeting.
She takes a number of typed sheets out of her bag and places them on the table in front of her, carefully smoothing out the creases so they lie flat.
Whatever the paperwork contains looks really impressively organised.
But then she reaches back into her bag and produces a large skein of fine wool attached to a small patch of crochet - a work-in-progress - and her crochet hook.
Without batting an eyelid, her fingers begin to move in a furious blur of crafty creativity, pausing briefly now and then to double check she's correctly following the instructions of the pattern that's lying on the desk.
She's 18!

I wish she could at least try and feign interest.
It's the overt lack of coordination emanating from our coordinator that angers me the most.
As the excuses are offered for why each member of the team has had so much else going on that prevented them from reading the play, I feel increasingly deflated.
Parties, rugby matches, backcombing of hair.
And I'm sure Maisie had a quick bedspread she had to knock out over the weekend.
But I feel like shouting at them all, 'I have a life too, you know!'

But then I realise, I don't.

©Alacoque Doyle

¡Felicidades! (Congratulations!)

Javier has returned!

Halfway through the second week that saw him missing in action, we were enlightened as to the happy reason for his prolonged stay in Spain.
His wife was expecting a baby and it went slightly overdue, eventually arriving a week later than expected.
Unfortunately, this development means we are stuck in the short-straw Spanish class for the rest of this semester at least.

Given Javier was missing for a whole fortnight, I am expecting a bit more than his usual, '¡Hola! ¿Qué Tal?' greeting when he walks in the room, but that's exactly what we get.
'Strange,' I think, but I'm not deterred.
'¡Felicidades!' I volunteer with a grin.
In light of his good news, all is forgiven as far as I'm concerned and I am genuinely pleased for him.
He looks at me briefly, but his expression doesn't change (he has a permanent half-smile) and I am convinced he has chosen to completely ignore my congratulatory salutation.
This is confirmed when he immediately addresses the class in Spanish and asks us to open our text books at page 46.
That shut me up!

I wonder if perhaps he didn't hear me.
But the answer to that deliberation lies definitively in the 'me' part.
I'm always audible.
So that's not a possible excuse.
Not only does he blatantly decide to keep his private life, well, private.
But he doesn't even offer an apology or at least some explanation for his absence to this group of abandoned, neglected, disillusioned students.

I'm tempted to impress him with my linguistic progress by calling him a ¡hijo de puta! but we haven't learned that expression yet.
It's not exactly on the curriculum.

©Alacoque Doyle

Double Entendre

I have had an hour to recover from the French Grammar exam.
The childishness has been well and truly knocked out of me.
Thanks largely to the subsequent tutorial.
Trust me, 50 minutes of in-depth analysis of 16th Century Poésie Française is guaranteed to eradicate even the most severe case of the giggles. 
[yawn]
On to my third hour of French.
I say 'hour' but each lecture/tutorial/seminar is limited to 50 minutes in order to allow students enough time to get from one class to the next.
So there really is no excuse for being late.
Though there are always several stragglers to indicate to the contrary.

My next class is a French Language seminar.
In it we cover aural and written comprehension.
The written comprehension consists of a passage - normally a cultural article from a magazine or newspaper - followed by 15 multiple choice questions and some verb conjugation exercises.
This will form the basis of our end of term test.
The multiple choice questions can be quite ambiguous so it is important to pay very close attention to the subtleties of the text in order to circumvent the chicanery of the snakes who design the exam paper.

Today we are examining an article about African immigration in France.
Given its former colonial days, there are many African countries where French is the first language, so in theory, the assimilation is fairly unproblematic.
However, the article is enlightening us as to the reality of the situation and why many Africans are choosing to study or work elsewhere.
We read through the passage, selecting vocabulary that is either significant to the semantics of a particular sentence, or is as yet unknown to us.

Michel, our tutor, is young and, for want of a better word, dainty.
He has only just graduated himself, so must be about 22 years old.
He is not terribly tall, with a rather slim build.
And has the poise of a trained dancer.
His feet are constantly in one of the 5 ballet positions.
And he plucks his eyebrows.
(It's the kind of detail only a woman would discern).
He is totally adorable, (in a non-sexual way).
And a pussycat when it comes to discipline.

In general, his English is impeccable, but there is always the odd word that will stump even the most accomplished linguist.
The French verb 's'inserer' features in the passage we are reading and most of the students are unfamiliar with its meaning.
I observe his struggle to find the appropriate English word to explain it to the class.
I would volunteer to help, but I'm enjoying his discomfort too much.
Besides, he hasn't asked me.
I sense my earlier volcanic activity is not as dormant as I suspected and is bubbling just below the surface.
The most accurate, though non-literal, translation of the verb in this context is 'to integrate'.
But Michel plumps for the literal:
'It means to insert onself into something'.
I watch his face blush delicately as he realises the euphemistic implications of his words.

Vesuvius erupts.

©Alacoque Doyle

Sacrebleu!

Monday.
My first exam.
It's a 40-minute French Grammar test worth 30% of my grade for the Language module.
I shouldn't be worried as French is my strongest subject.
But I am filled with self-doubt.
It's in my nature.
Don't ask me where it came from.
It certainly wasn't inherited in any obvious way.
When I look at my parents and my sister - confident, hard-working, successful people - I think 'what happened to me?'
Maybe it's a predisposition that recessively skipped a generation.
Like the red hair chromosome.

I have managed to work myself up into a veritable frenzy of anxiety.
But I am not alone.
It would appear the mature students have this theme in common.
It is clear from our Café conflabs that we are all too hard on ourselves.
We have set such high expectations of personal achievement.
In our minds we have raised the bar to a level that's almost unattainable.
Just to add a little more pressure.
As if we needed it.

The test is taking place in a lecture theatre, so it's not subject to the same strict security checks as the official end of term exams which loom ominously on the not-so-distant horizon.
We are allowed bring our bags and coats with us.
On the understanding that we will not cheat.

Maisie is in the row in front of me.
I'm glad to say she's reverted to the geeky look.
I find it reassuring.
Her experimental image shoved her too far out of her comfort zone in my opinion.
She's safer in sneakers.
Less probability of a twisted ankle at least.

The test papers are placed on the desks in front of us, face down.
We are under starters orders.
Then we are off!
I skip through the test with relative ease.
Nothing too tricky in there.
Once I've completed it, I go back through it, double and triple checking my responses to the questions.
The self-doubt gene raises its ugly head.
I change some of my answers.
Doubt myself.
Then change them back again.
Thankfully, the clock is my friend and we are told to stop writing before I can do any more damage.

As I place the lid back on my pen, I glance down at Maisie.
She is crocheting!
In an exam!!
I nudge my fellow mature student, Mary, and nod in Maisie's direction.
She gives me a look of wide-eyed disbelief and we both have to suppress our giggles.
I avert my gaze as it is clear we are in danger of setting each other off.
Now is not the time or place to erupt into immature laughter.
We are supposed to be mature, after all.
I throw my eyes forward where the lecturers and tutors - exam invigilators in this situation - are standing surveying the scene.
Then I see Madame O'Reilly.
She has just noticed Maisie's woolly activity.
I observe her lips contort in a manner that matches both mine and Mary's and as she looks away, chewing on her chuckles, she catches my eye.
We exchange a complicit smile and I bow my head in order to contain the molten lava of cackles brewing volcanically inside me.
And tell myself to grow up.


©Alacoque Doyle

Dog-gone Blues

I have commented on my childlessness.
But I omitted to mention I have a dog.
I got Lulu, a beautiful Lakeland Terrier, a year after my miscarriage while I was having my small, but not insignificant, nervous breakdown.
She was only 12 weeks old when I became her owner and she filled a huge void in my life at that particular period.

I wasn't working at the time of acquiring her and was therefore home all day.
Needless to say, a very close bond developed between us and I lapped up her unconditional love.
And I gave her plenty in return.
But my life has changed so much in the last 12 months.
And all for the better.
I am in a loving, nurturing, mutually respectful relationship.
Its transatlantic nature can be problematic.
But I'm in it for the long haul.
He's Jewish and therefore circumcised.
It's only a small drawback.
But in my book, that's a bonus!

My extended trips to the US have seen my parents willingly dog-sitting for me.
But my enrollment at UCD is a more complex matter.
I have been leaving Lulu alone too long.
I know she's bored and tormented while I'm away.
I can tell because she's been chewing the corners of my kitchen cabinets.
The rungs on the dining room chairs.
The occasional misplaced shoe.
And anything else she can get her paws on.

On Wednesdays and Thursdays I am out of the house for 12 hours so I have an arrangement to leave her with my parents on those days.
Naturally, they have become quite attached to her.
But she's only 2 years old and she is a bundle of springy, playful, tireless energy.
And my parents are recent octogenarians.
So after many weeks of tormented deliberation, I have decided to do what is in Lulu's best interest.
I am gifting her to my dog-loving cousin who lives by the beach in beautiful West Cork, and has a dog already.
She and her husband have been looking for a second canine companion for a while and I had mooted the notion of adoption with them back in the summer while on a visit to their home.
I hadn't started the academic year yet, so was unsure quite how things would pan out.
But it had been on my mind.
I selected them on many positive criteria
I know she will be going to a wonderful home.
And despite being upset about losing her, I can take great consolation in the knowledge she'll have a much better quality of life than I have been affording her recently. 

Unfortunately, the timing of her departure could not be worse.
My cousin is travelling up to Kildare this weekend and has arranged to collect Lulu.
But my sister is also heading back home today.
After tearful 'goodbyes' with my parents, I drive my sister and her daughter to the airport, leaving the pooch with my mum and dad.
I return a couple of hours later to collect Lulu and find my parents red-eyed and snotty-nosed.
The tears that flow at the doggie departure far outweigh those spilled for their own flesh and blood.
It's quite bizarre.
My mother is distraught.
'I feel like I'm abandoning her,' she sobs uncontrollably.
I find myself consoling her and thinking, 'shouldn't it be the other way round?'

I feel like such a bitch.

©Alacoque Doyle

Throwing a Sickie

My sister and niece are here on a short break from the UK. 
They are staying with my parents.
I slept over too last night as I have a late start at college on Fridays.
Every other day I have to be on campus for 9am.
Which means leaving home at 7am in order to successfully navigate the rush hour traffic. 
But on Fridays I start at 12.
And I only have 2 hours of classes.

We had a lovely familial time last night.
And I may have had one or two more glasses of wine than I should have.
In fact I'm pretty certain an entire bottle met its death at my behest.

I said yesterday I was sick.
But that was in a disconsolate way.
This is different.

Added to my slight hangover is the prospect of the 'Hispanic Cultures' tutorial.
It's my final class every week.
What a sour note to finish on.
I am in one of those frames of mind where it would take very little to persuade me to stay at home.
The weather outside is atrocious.
A veritable deluge.
The driving conditions will be dreadful.
I'm clutching at straws.
But once clutched, I hold on tenaciously.
I refuse to let go.

I send Maisie a text.
I apologise and let her know that I won't be at class.
I tell her I must have eaten something the previous day that didn't agree with me.
It's not technically a lie.
I bit my tongue and swallowed my pride.

It's my first absenteeism.
And I feel really guilty.

©Alacoque Doyle

Argie Bargy

Our second 'Hispanic Cultures' project is due for submission tomorrow.
I spent 10 to 12 hours researching and documenting the political and historical background to the Falklands War as my contribution.
I wrote 2,500 words.
With 32 references (we had a paltry 3 in our first project so it's fair to say I may have overcompensated this time).
It consumed my entire weekend.
It is not how I would necessarily choose to spend my spare time.
But I had a deadline to meet.
An agreement to stick to.
A sense of team spirit I felt duty-bound to fulfil.
And as I have no husband or children to placate, in that regard I am a free agent. 
San Fran Man is currently stateside.
So in his absence I'm not too distracted.
Except for our quotidian yet succinct Skype shenanigans.
Therefore, I can live my academic life as I please.
Dance to my own tune.
Beat my own drum.
(That is not a euphemism.)
Strum my own guitar.
(That is!)

Each of us in the team - well, those of us who attended our meeting (by now you don't need me to specify the absentees) - agreed to send our respective sections to Charlotte by midnight on Monday.
To give her plenty of time for the editing.
She resolved to email us the 1st draft by close of play yesterday.
So it was with a deep sense of foreboding that I opened the attachment this morning.
And with very good reason.
Charlotte seems to have confused the term 'editing' with 'formatting'.
She has simply cut and pasted all our contributions into one document.
Changed the font.
Double-spaced it.
At first glance, it looks fine.
But on closer inspection, it's clear she hasn't even used spell-check.

I am at least pleased to see my part has been included in its entirety.
Just as well, as mine is the only content that's referenced.
The trouble is, it's in the wrong place.
My background piece should lead the paper, but Charlotte's placed it second.
It is wedged uncomfortably in an inappropriate position.
Depending on the circumstances, that's not always a bad state to be in.
But in this context, it is.
A simple start-to-finish reading would reveal its all-too-obvious discomfort.
And the conclusion I offered at the end of my piece was intended to be merged and distilled into a final conclusion along with the conclusive contributions of the rest of the team.
As you might expect the editor to have concluded.
Oh hold on. That's right. I nearly forgot. The rest of the team's conclusions were inconclusive.
Or rather, non-existent.
Perhaps she might have concluded that a conclusion should be at the end then.
But Charlotte has simply left mine where it was.
The final paragraphs of my 2,500 words.
Under the underlined heading I gave it : Conclusion
Slap bang in the middle of the whole bloody thing.
I give up.

We have arranged to meet in the afternoon to go over the 'edited' work.
I am metaphorically rolling up my sleeves, preparing to get stuck into Charlotte.
But I am to be disappointed.
Our editor has sent us a message that she's sick and unable to meet us.
How convenient.
It's only our final opportunity to finalise our final draft.
Give it the finishing touches.
Which in my mind involves ripping it up and starting again.
I hold myself back from volunteering to assume Charlotte's responsibility for it.  
Because I am sick.
And tired.

Maisie offers to take on the 'additional' responsibility.
Apart from incompetently booking meeting rooms, I'm not quite sure what her input has been up to this point.

But I've concluded it's time to stop caring.

©Alacoque Doyle