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