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