All that jazz - Mardi, 12.12.06

Mardi 12.12.06 All that jazz

Man. I’m wrecked this morning for some reason. Perhaps chronic fatigue is contagious…

Nic and I plod up the hill to be bonjoured by three eager beavers at our bus-stop. They seem to be swotting away and are a bit anxious about the non-appearance of the bus; they may have the books out but I reckon they sacrificed study time when they were consulting their looks this morning. The two lads are both crystal clad and have their branded boxers on display under their baggy jeans. One of the lads spies Nic sparking up and gets a fag off her. The other guy disappears down a path. We soon see him reappear in a car. The other two, a girl and guy, hop in and we’re asked if we want a lift into town with them. We cram into the back with the smoky swot. No sooner are we two minutes down the road do we see two buses creeping up the hill. We zip by in the car and are soon thanking our nerdy neighbours for their kindness…

Today I’ve Dominique’s and Christophe’s CM2 classes followed by Madame Pamphile’s and Madame Edragas’ CE2 broods. I repeat the lesson I used yesterday; starting with seasonal greetings and We wish you a Merry Christmas, followed by my Christmas cut-outs and the Christmas tree sketch.

Since term is coming to a close most of the teachers are doing evaluations. As I’ve already got my lessons planned for this week I decide to incorporate it into next week’s activities – when we fill out our wish lists and write our letters to Santa Claus we can run through name, age and nationality again.

I see another new face at the bus-stop on my way into town. It’s the Junior School secretary, Lea. She’s friendly and speaks perfect English. Monique is also on the bus though when I passed her classroom earlier I saw her take a swipe at a kid and she’s in my bad books now.

The Patricia Cornwell book, Trace, which I’m reading at the moment is a page-turner. I read furtively as I sit under a navette shelter by the port, waiting for Nicola who’s late. It was here last week that some old man accosted Nicola and made a tit out of himself.

We dine at La Croisière. We get the fish special which does have bones in it this time. Nicola invited John-Paul, one of her teaching colleagues, to come dine with us but he declined; his nick-name is now J.P Satre as he teaches Philosophy. We’re not short on personalities here at La Croisière: a man from Burundi sits at the table beside us and starts speaking in German. His name is Gerry and he’s as gay as Christmas. He wants us to teach him English but his English is perfect. His friend, Castro, joins him and they leave us to finish our meal. While we’re paying at the bar we meet a native musician. His name is Paco Charley and he has just released a Caribbean jazz album, Pitit Mwen, which he’s trying to flog off to us. He plays the drums – the tambour bélé, and he recently played in L’Atrium with his band of Scandinavian saxophonists. He asks the barman to play his CD for us. Nicola takes a fancy to the tunes and buys a copy which he signs for her.

Nic has class this afternoon so we kill a bit of time in Le Terminal with Jean-Pierre, a Breton revolutionary, and two goblets of Leffe. Jean-Pierre is reading a heavy tome about politics in Brittany and he tells us about his hopes and struggle for independence while simultaneously giving out about Martiniquan culture – or the lack of rather. I flick through his reading material. I think I’ll stick with my mystery novel thankyou very much. I’m soon home alone with my own paperback. Tiredness creeps over me and I slip into mystery mode, with dreams infiltrating the mind of Ruth the Sleuth.