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The Kia ora coo-ee : the magazine for the ANZACS in the Middle East, 1918

Emmalina On Guard

Emmalina On Guard.

Emmalina, as you must know, is the young lady who is stationed in the reception room of a photographer's studio, somewhere in Cairo. Her duties are many and various, chief amongst them being to persuade all intending patrons that the new art panels at so-much the dozen are absolutely it. She must be a terrible success, as there are few who would dare to go contrary to her suggestions. Now, to explain my attitude to this fair daughter of art, I must say that Emmalina does not like nice young 2/Lieut-enants, not even the very best of them, with their brand new uniforms and their shining brass buttons. No, nothing below field rank will cause her to shed the radiance of her smile on the surrounding cabinets of the "new art panels" at so much the dozen.

I became acquainted with Emmalina in a professional manner. 1 walked in to her establishment with the full intention of having a portrait taken that I could dazzle all my friends with, and show them what a fine fellow I am. As soon as I entered the reception room and saw Emmalina—well, I had spilled the salt at breakfast and might have known something was to happen. Not a word was spoken, but the look that I received was intense, and I had to make an enquiry as to picture postcards. Being informed that "this is a studio, and not a stationer's shop," I bowed as gracefully as my mental condition would permit, and retired. Why, Oh! why? had I not the courage to say that all the world might hear, "Yes, you are quite right. I have been recently made an officer, and now desire a pictorial representation that I may show all my friends what a really fine fellow I am." But no, being the sneaking old dawg that I am, I could do nought but slink out with my tail between my legs, looking for a place wherein to hide my ignominy. Marshalling my forces, and reinforcing with something new, out of a non-refillable bottle, I ventured again to mount the stairs. But fate was unkind, for Emmalina was still on guard. I haunted that shop for many, many days, in the hope that the maid would go on leave or do something equally as good—but no. Such devotion to duty I have seldom seen. She was ever the first to arrive and the last to leave. I completely ruined two sets of rubber heels walking up and down outside of the building. And then, one day, sneaking up the stairs, I found that the guardian of the door was engrossed in the display of some new specimens of the photographer's art. Siezing my opportunity, I dashed madly into the manager's room, and closing the door, made all arrangements, had the machine worked on my manly form, and was feeling quite the victor, when in came Emmalina. I expected her to faint, but she grasped the table and retained her balance. The look she gave me! Will I ever forget it? It expressed sorrow and anger, sorrow that I should sneak in whilst her back was turned, and anger that I had dared to invade in such an unceremonious manner the inner shrine of the temple of art. And then there was the utterly contemptuous expression, that she did not think I was so lacking in all gentlemanly feelings as to do such a thing in such a manner. I could not look her in the eye, and so made my exit, not as the victor, but rather as one who is making a silent apology for being in a state of existence on the earth.

Will I ever get the finished photos? They must be good ones, they shall be good ones. I have spoken.... but what says Emmalina?