Chouchou du Professeur. (Teacher's Pet).

I must be the only student in my French Literature group that actually looks forward to Monday's tutorial.
But then I do have a special relationship with Madame O'Reilly.
She looks favourably on me because I work hard and prepare for her classes.
I'm her favourite.

The first half of our semester was dedicated to short stories and I must say I found these far more pleasurable to analyse than the poetry element of which the second half of the semester is composed.
Try as I may, I just cannot muster the same level of passion Madame O'Reilly clearly holds for the great French poets.
But I make the effort because she seems to hold me in high esteem and I should not wish her to think any less of me.

In my schedule, my French Literature class comes sandwiched between a French Language lecture and a French Language seminar.
The start to my academic week could not be more Gallic if it tried.
So I am always mindful not to wear my Breton shirt on Mondays in case people think I'm taking the piss.

Because this francophone wedge sits between 12 and 3pm, I am forced to eat bits of my lunch while walking between lecture theatres and classrooms.
I'm sure it's not the most elegant of sites - a middle-aged woman chomping on her sarnie as she scurries along the corridors, struggling with her bags - but I simply can't last that long without sustenance.
Every now and then I lose the odd piece of pickle from my 'Cheese and Chutney' special as I hastily make the journey between classes.
But there has never been a serious accident.
No soiled clothing
Unless of course someone has subsequently slipped on a rogue morsel of relish and suffered a horrible injury.
I guess that would constitute serious.
But I'm sure I would have heard about it.

Today we are analysing the work of the 19th century poet, Charles Baudelaire.
The work he produced was meticulous, voluminous and at the same time scandalous for its day.
He led quite the life, did Baudelaire.
With a penchant for prostitutes, he is rumoured to have contracted both gonorrhea and syphilis.
As if one STD wasn't enough!
He drank to excess, smoked opium and was a long-term user of laudanum.
His greatest collection of poems, Les Fleurs du Mal (The Flowers of Evil), had sex and death as its principal themes, with a bit of lesbianism and profanity thrown in for good measure.
Its publication, though well-received in certain of the more artistic circles, was generally met with outrage and he was successfully prosecuted for creating an offence against public morals.

Yet today he is arguably one of the greatest and most influential French poets of all time.
And he died when he was only a year older than I am now!
To have accomplished so much at such a relatively 'young' age is a thought that sobers me.
I have accomplished so little by comparison.
Though admittedly Baudelaire only just has the edge on me in the hedonism department.

Madame O'Reilly's regular routine is to read aloud and with great flourish whatever piece we have been asked to prepare for the lesson, before optimistically throwing things open for 'insightful' comment.
'Alors,' she says, then lovingly breaks into the first line of 'Harmonie du Soir'.
She's only got to the 3rd line when the door opens and 2 female stragglers shuffle into the room.
The Ugg-boot affect only serves to make the shuffling more pronounced.
Madame O'Reilly abruptly stops what she's reading and puts the book down on the table with a slap.
'You know you must try to get 'ere on time, hein?'
For a dainty woman she can be quite formidable.
The girls mumble a barely audible apology from under their bed-head coiffures and make for the back of the room.

'Alors,' resumes Madame O'Reilly as she makes her second attempt at doing Baudelaire justice.
But the 2 late-comers are unzipping pockets on their bags, rustling paper and generally being noisy as they take out their notepads and pens.
She narrows her eyes in silence and looks at them, waiting until she's sure they've finally got themselves organised.

'Alors,' she continues with renewed confidence.
The classroom is situated near one of the main vehicle routes within the boundaries of the University campus. It doesn't exactly experience rush-hour traffic, but it can get pretty busy.
Added to which there is a great deal of construction work taking place nearby as part of a programme of scheduled improvements to the campus facilities.
This time she manages to get to the 4th line before a boy-racer car with a modified exhaust goes roaring past outside.
She winces but carries on undeterred until a jack-hammer joins the cacophony towards the end of line 5.

She throws the book on the table and both her fragile arms up in the air in exasperation.
'Oh mon Dieu!, she shrieks, ''ow are we supposed to appreciate Baudelaire with zis racket going on!?'
We sit in silence, holding our breath, trying not to emit any noise at all as she persists in her literary pursuit.
I'm hoping and praying that her next attempt at the recital will be uninterrupted and successful.
The others are probably hoping and praying that the interruptions will be frequent and drawn out, in order to postpone the agony of the 'discussion' which will expose their lack of preparation.
Thankfully she gets through the entire 16 lines without even the slightest blip.

'Bravo!' I want to shout.
But I think better of it.
I don't want to appear sycophantic.

©Alacoque Doyle