SATIRE

My DailyVisits From the Professors

At 81, I thought my education was complete. Thanks to the, visiting professors, the lessons never stop

Just hanging out, wating for le professeur to enlighten me (author’s photo)

Summer heat has arrived here in southern France. While the entire country goes on vacation in July and August, I suspect some professional educators get an early start, such as Le Professeur d’économie domestique.

A fastidious and exacting fellow, he may also have become so discouraged with my failure to comprehend the finer points of la pratique de l’aspirateur — using the vacuum cleaner, emptying the vacuum cleaner bag and, upon completion, correctly winding up the vacuum cleaner cord — that he’s given up on me.

Poor man, he means well. I hope he enjoys a well-earned rest. Who knows whether he’ll return in September to once again instill in me l’art du chargement et du déchargement rationnels du lave-vaisselle? No matter how vehemently I insist, sometimes quite angrily, that I’ve been loading and unloading dishwashers for years, he insists that there is but one way, and that is his way. Maybe he’ll decide I’m a lost cause. J’espere.

But no sooner has one professor taken a leave of absence than others appear.

Earlier this morning, I was labouring in the garden, or faffing around, as the le professeur du savoir absolu et des vérités incontestables puts it. Rough translation — the prof knows everything there is to know, so don’t argue. I eventually fired him for being insufferable.

Anyway, it was hot and windy; the scent of jasmine mingling with the more disagreeable odour from a trap in which dead flies simmer in a vile and viscous fluid. A fly version of the Hotel California, they can check in, but never leave.

As I breathed in the mix of jasmine and embalming fluid, who should stop by but Prof ORL, as I call him. More formally known as Professur d’oto-rhino-laryngologie, he specialises in the finer points of the ear, nose and throat. Who better to ask about the noxious smells coming from the Hotel California?

“I smell nothing,” he declared.

It was true, sort of. The wind that wafted odours around the garden had stopped blowing, and although I could still smell the jasmine, whiffs of embalming fluid were no longer detectable.

“There is no smell,” Professor ORL snapped. “There is never a smell. It is all in your mind. Like all women, you imagine things.” Exactly what Professor Freud often tells me when he drops by.

Since there is no point in arguing with either of them, I wandered over to the gooseberry bush where a few tiny gooseberries had turned colour but were still hard and bitter (not unlike moi). I remarked on this to Professor ORL, who didn’t hear me at first; I suspect, but would never dare suggest, that the good professor might just have a slight hearing problem, comme moi.

But even to hint at this was unwise. “I heard every word,” he said angrily. “You mumble.” I hung my head in shame. How could I possibly argue with a specialist in the finer workings of the ear, nose, and throat? My defective organs were obviously to blame. His huge brain, honed in his off time on years of televised sports, was no match for my tiny brain full of little else but posies, perfume and prattle.

Feeling a bit depressed after the esteemed prof departed, I wanted to do good, so I thought I’d cheer up the roses. Drooping in the heat, they could use a big drink of water.

This would involve dragging a hose across the road and down into the garden — easy enough until I had to wind up the hose, which would almost certainly involve a visit from the Professor de Sciences Nautiques, who has a sideline specialising in de lovage des cordes — the correct way to coil a rope and, presumably, a garden hose.

Was I in the mood for yet another leçon? I was not. The roses would have to wait another day. Not that I’m averse to learning new things, even at 81, but these daily visits from the professors are becoming ever so slightly tedious. Surely somewhere there must be a Professeur des sciences de l’appréciation et de l’encouragement — nah, Professor Freud would describe that as an illogical idea, typical of the female brain.

Oh, but wait! Here comes my partner with a sweet smile, champagne and cake, plus a promise to have a stern word with the professors. Maybe he’ll even stop their daily visits altogether!