An Act of Contrition.

I have dragged myself along by the scruff of my neck to Gráinne Ó Suileabháin's Linguistics tutorial.
Her 'get-togethers' - I refuse to call them 'lessons' due to the complete lack of educational content that has heretofore been imparted - take place fortnightly.
The experience is more like going to a tea party.
Not of the Sarah Palin variety.
Like your granny used to have.
Only less fun.


I missed the last get-together completely by accident.
I had been chatting with chums in my favourite extortionate eatery when one of the mature students from the same group walked in and asked me why I hadn't shown up.
Affronted, I whipped out my home-made, laminated timetable expecting to find exoneration in its multi-coloured shiny detail.
There was a horrible moment as I absorbed the terrible truth when considered I may be experiencing the onset of alzheimers.
I laughed it off as an absent-minded and silly error, but the simple answer is that it had completely slipped my mind.
It still niggles.


Anyway, four weeks on, I am prepared to give Gráinne the benefit of the doubt and write off the first 2 'tea parties' to teething trouble.
Put it down to finding her feet.
Maybe tutoring is just very new to her, given that she's a scholar and not a professor.
I have no idea how much assistance is given to PHD students to help them hone their teaching skills.
Very little, if 'Biddie' is anything to go by. 
So far, it rather feels like we're being used as guinea pigs in a large and disorganised, educational cost-cutting experiment.


Seeing how she was late for both of the previous sessions, I take my time strolling to the classroom.
As I amble up the stairs, I'm wondering if I should have brought along a packet of Hob Nobs for the class.
I guess that would be too sarcastic.
Though undoubtedly the irony would be lost on her.
Fly straight over her blue-rinsed head.
She would probably find it a grand idea and waste the first 15 minutes spouting on about the generosity of my gesture.
And thereby prove my point.


I am somewhat startled to see Gráinne in situ when I enter the room; standing in front of the whiteboard and already in full flow.
Forcing me to have to apologise.
I hate that. 
As I take a seat and get my writing tools out of my bag - for effect in this instance, rather than any practical purpose - and pick up on 'Biddie's' rambling discourse, I realise I haven't missed anything vital.
Nor anything non-vital for that matter.


Gráinne has at least managed to bring the designated textbook with her this time. 
'What I'd like to do today if it's alright with ye,' she says in her west of Ireland brogue, 'is for ye to ask me any questions that ye may have on what ye've done so far.'
I've been looking forward to this moment.
I've planned for it.
This is an opportunity to perhaps keep her on track and prevent her inevitable aimless verbal meanderings.
'I wonder,' I pronounce as I open my folder, 'if you wouldn't mind talking us through one of the questions on an old exam paper.'
She seems a little taken aback, but gathers herself together, adjusts her glasses, smooths her skirts  and cheerfully agrees that she'd be delighted to.


I snap open my ring-binder, take out the aforementioned exam paper and walk it over to her.
'Perhaps this question?' I ask politely. 'About phrase structure rules?' I add, pointing to the question in question.
She scrunches her nose and peers at the paper through her varifocals.
'Yes, yes, that's grand,' she says, 'no problem whatsoever.' 
I smile at Gráinne sweetly, return to my seat and self-righteously snap the ring-binder shut again.


But what ensues is the most unbelievably shambolic and incompetent demonstration of how not to give a lesson.
Gráinne furiously flips through the textbook on the desk in front of her; bobs back and forth between it and the whiteboard like a hen on a hot griddle; consults the book constantly as she attempts to draw a tree diagram on the board for us; makes mistakes; checks the book again; erases and corrects them; checks again; rubs out and redraws.
There are extraordinarily long pauses during which she is bent over the book, desperately searching for enlightenment.
I am horrified at her lack of preparation more than the apparent knowledge deficit.
I have carried out so many business meetings in my time that I know and appreciate the value of research and groundwork.
I would never have dreamed in my long and varied career to go blind into any form of executive rendez-vous.
That would be called 'winging' it.
Or professional suicide.


As I observe Gráinne floundering out of her depth, a sense of guilt begins to engulf me.
I acknowledge it's only because of her age.
If she were 20 years younger, I'd just feel incensed.
So I immediately dismiss the sentiment.
After all, this is MY education that's at stake.

Anyway, it wasn't my intention to humiliate her.

I was trying to give her direction; to stop the tangents and digressions.

I was trying to help!

But people are starting to giggle.

And the guilt returns with a vengeance.

Cocooned in contrition, I sit, counting the minutes till the agony ends. 


©Alacoque Doyle