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