Lundi 18.12.06 House call
C’est parti! The last week of school for 2006 has commenced. We’re not the only one’s working right up to the last minute. We’ve a new neighbour, a Belgium doctor, whose here for a conference over Christmas, in the Squash Hotel in Fort-de-France. He’s staying here for a month with his other half; she was sitting on the terrace last week – in the pre-dawn darkness. I’m sure it’s a squash in bed as our doctor-next-door is a portly practitioner!
There’s a new driver on route 22 this morning. His name is Fabrice. He’s a jolly guy but he has the sly eye too. It’s not all bad though as he puts the radio on as we lurch and list down the rural roads. My other bus driver, to Chateauboeuf, is not so nice but then he’s only giving as good as he gets… One passenger complains that she has been waiting almost an hour for the bus to appear and he gets an earful. A few stops later a young gangster gets on without a ticket. The driver calls down to him telling him to either purchase a ticket or get-off. Both guys are as obnoxious as the other but the disgruntled female commuter sides with the gangster guy and, much to the disbelief of the driver, she gives him a ticket to swipe.
People are scrimping in school too. The photocopier isn’t working. Quelle surprise! Madame Dau appears. She’s as haughty as usual and when I enquire as to where I can get a new toner or who would have one she just shrugs her shoulders. I ask her when it’ll be fixed and she informs me that the new term will merit a new toner. I ask Odile, the secretary, if I can print out off a picture using the office printer. She obliges but once Madame Dau catches wind of it she tells me I’ve to use the computer room in future. On verra…
I tell my first class that Madame Dau is writing her Christmas letter this instant – she needs a new toner and a new tone. A muted murmur moves around the class when I announce that there’ll be an evaluation. It’s simple. In their pairs they’ll have a mini-conversation using the three questions and three responses they’ve learned concerning their name, age and country of origin. We go through the phrases together first of all and then each pair takes it in turn to talk:
Hello!
My name is ______.
What is your name?
I’m _______.
What age are you?
I am __ year’s old.
How old are you?
I am ___.
Where do you come from?
I come from Martinique.
Nice to meet you.
Madame Caruge’s group all pass with flying colours; except for one guy who I have to come back to four times before he gets it right. He’s not listening to the questions. He’s just going through it mechanically. The second question his partner asks is: Where do you come from? I am 10: he replies. With our mini-dialogues done I then go around the class asking each pupil a different question and in no particular order so they have to listen for the key words.
The second part of the evaluation is hidden in the letter to Père Noël. They have to fill in the blanks with their own name and age – not mine. A handful of pupils fall foul of this but it’s only by correcting their errors that they can improve their language skills.
I explain to the children that we write our name and age, and the mini-address, so that Santa Claus knows who we are and where to find us; it’s a help when he looks for our address in his special annuaire or telephone directory. They get a giggle out of that.
Most of the kids have remembered to bring in their own cut-outs and those that haven’t hone their artistic skills. Half the class want a PSP and the others want a Wii or another computer gadget.
There’s no room for non-brands anywhere. It’s pretty much the same with the younger kids; I spent quite a while cutting out images from catalogues only to hear half of them cry that do not want such things… They start young here. I ask Mr Duval what he wants for Christmas: “You,” he quips. I could have seen his response a mile away.
The evaluation for the younger kids starts off with the whole class. We repeat the questions and answers together and then both halves of the class take it in turns to ask and respond collectively. I then go around asking each question to each student. In between each question session I draw a giant tick on the blackboard, get the kids to give themselves a pat on the back and rouse them to sing Head, shoulders, knees and toes. After I’ve asked them all the same question I get them to ask me the question collectively. In Madame Thaly’s class, after they’ve asked me my age, some smarty-pants asks Madame Thaly what age she is! I jump in saying that it’s not nice to ask ladies their age.
Bibliothèque Schoelcher is closed today as a mark of respect for someone who died. Nic’s off home early but before I follow suit I have a few bits and bobs to pick-up from my recci on Saturday… I get sucked into the shopping-spree frenzy and my browsing brings me from shop to shop until I have to get some pop before I drop. People here probably drink more Coca-Cola here than they water. It’s the same in Guatemala – as it’s cheaper than water there too!
Nicola’s having a nap at home. I can hear her fan whirring next door. I’ve got mail. It’s a cute Christmas card from Auntie Daphne&Co. There’s a photo of a robin on a snow covered log; my cousin Joyce took the photo a few years back. I wonder when, or if, my Christmas cards will make it home. Fingers crossed. It may get there before Christmas – though not specifically this Christmas. It could be the first Christmas card of 2007. My friend, Jennifer, from home texted asking for my address as she wanted to send me a gift, though when I told her that it was 30ºC she promptly replied saying she wouldn’t send me it as I didn’t need it; it being a scarf!
Time for tea. Rice is nice. Nicola emerges and once she starts functioning I wonder out loud whether we should call Will. He never got back to us over the weekend and we’re a bit worried as it’s totally out of character for him; he who usually inundates Nicola with messages and ma cherie phonecalls. I think he’s wising up. Nicola isn’t interested and he has cottened-on – at long last! We manage to get through to him. He tells us his phone wasn’t working and he didn’t have our contact details anywhere else. He had a smashing night at the Friday night concert in La Ferme de Perrine – the Reggae sound-system. I’m sure he was in flying-form alright.
Time flies. Only 10 days until Fergal, and Pam and Dan, jet their way over here. My ever-efficient Dad has already been on the blower to Fergal about delivering a new camera to me. Fergal was wrecked after a day of strenuous study and exhausting exams. He took an early night only to be woken by my Dad and in his semi-conscious state the poor chap thought that my problems here amounted to more than a broken camera. I can only imagine what he was thinking.
Later on I too get a fright, though I think my over-active imagination was to blame… I’m drifting off into semi-sleep when I hear gravely footprints outside my window. My ears prick-up and I swear I hear someone try to open our front door. The panes rattle when you try to open it and I’m rattled too. I lie in my bed, stiff as a board, waiting for a smash or crash but it never comes and sleepiness takes over again. I can only hope it was our doctor-next-door coming back from his boozy rum-fuelled junket and mistaking our door for his; a probable conclusion though not conclusive.
C’est parti! The last week of school for 2006 has commenced. We’re not the only one’s working right up to the last minute. We’ve a new neighbour, a Belgium doctor, whose here for a conference over Christmas, in the Squash Hotel in Fort-de-France. He’s staying here for a month with his other half; she was sitting on the terrace last week – in the pre-dawn darkness. I’m sure it’s a squash in bed as our doctor-next-door is a portly practitioner!
There’s a new driver on route 22 this morning. His name is Fabrice. He’s a jolly guy but he has the sly eye too. It’s not all bad though as he puts the radio on as we lurch and list down the rural roads. My other bus driver, to Chateauboeuf, is not so nice but then he’s only giving as good as he gets… One passenger complains that she has been waiting almost an hour for the bus to appear and he gets an earful. A few stops later a young gangster gets on without a ticket. The driver calls down to him telling him to either purchase a ticket or get-off. Both guys are as obnoxious as the other but the disgruntled female commuter sides with the gangster guy and, much to the disbelief of the driver, she gives him a ticket to swipe.
People are scrimping in school too. The photocopier isn’t working. Quelle surprise! Madame Dau appears. She’s as haughty as usual and when I enquire as to where I can get a new toner or who would have one she just shrugs her shoulders. I ask her when it’ll be fixed and she informs me that the new term will merit a new toner. I ask Odile, the secretary, if I can print out off a picture using the office printer. She obliges but once Madame Dau catches wind of it she tells me I’ve to use the computer room in future. On verra…
I tell my first class that Madame Dau is writing her Christmas letter this instant – she needs a new toner and a new tone. A muted murmur moves around the class when I announce that there’ll be an evaluation. It’s simple. In their pairs they’ll have a mini-conversation using the three questions and three responses they’ve learned concerning their name, age and country of origin. We go through the phrases together first of all and then each pair takes it in turn to talk:
Hello!
My name is ______.
What is your name?
I’m _______.
What age are you?
I am __ year’s old.
How old are you?
I am ___.
Where do you come from?
I come from Martinique.
Nice to meet you.
Madame Caruge’s group all pass with flying colours; except for one guy who I have to come back to four times before he gets it right. He’s not listening to the questions. He’s just going through it mechanically. The second question his partner asks is: Where do you come from? I am 10: he replies. With our mini-dialogues done I then go around the class asking each pupil a different question and in no particular order so they have to listen for the key words.
The second part of the evaluation is hidden in the letter to Père Noël. They have to fill in the blanks with their own name and age – not mine. A handful of pupils fall foul of this but it’s only by correcting their errors that they can improve their language skills.
I explain to the children that we write our name and age, and the mini-address, so that Santa Claus knows who we are and where to find us; it’s a help when he looks for our address in his special annuaire or telephone directory. They get a giggle out of that.
Most of the kids have remembered to bring in their own cut-outs and those that haven’t hone their artistic skills. Half the class want a PSP and the others want a Wii or another computer gadget.
There’s no room for non-brands anywhere. It’s pretty much the same with the younger kids; I spent quite a while cutting out images from catalogues only to hear half of them cry that do not want such things… They start young here. I ask Mr Duval what he wants for Christmas: “You,” he quips. I could have seen his response a mile away.
The evaluation for the younger kids starts off with the whole class. We repeat the questions and answers together and then both halves of the class take it in turns to ask and respond collectively. I then go around asking each question to each student. In between each question session I draw a giant tick on the blackboard, get the kids to give themselves a pat on the back and rouse them to sing Head, shoulders, knees and toes. After I’ve asked them all the same question I get them to ask me the question collectively. In Madame Thaly’s class, after they’ve asked me my age, some smarty-pants asks Madame Thaly what age she is! I jump in saying that it’s not nice to ask ladies their age.
Bibliothèque Schoelcher is closed today as a mark of respect for someone who died. Nic’s off home early but before I follow suit I have a few bits and bobs to pick-up from my recci on Saturday… I get sucked into the shopping-spree frenzy and my browsing brings me from shop to shop until I have to get some pop before I drop. People here probably drink more Coca-Cola here than they water. It’s the same in Guatemala – as it’s cheaper than water there too!
Nicola’s having a nap at home. I can hear her fan whirring next door. I’ve got mail. It’s a cute Christmas card from Auntie Daphne&Co. There’s a photo of a robin on a snow covered log; my cousin Joyce took the photo a few years back. I wonder when, or if, my Christmas cards will make it home. Fingers crossed. It may get there before Christmas – though not specifically this Christmas. It could be the first Christmas card of 2007. My friend, Jennifer, from home texted asking for my address as she wanted to send me a gift, though when I told her that it was 30ºC she promptly replied saying she wouldn’t send me it as I didn’t need it; it being a scarf!
Time for tea. Rice is nice. Nicola emerges and once she starts functioning I wonder out loud whether we should call Will. He never got back to us over the weekend and we’re a bit worried as it’s totally out of character for him; he who usually inundates Nicola with messages and ma cherie phonecalls. I think he’s wising up. Nicola isn’t interested and he has cottened-on – at long last! We manage to get through to him. He tells us his phone wasn’t working and he didn’t have our contact details anywhere else. He had a smashing night at the Friday night concert in La Ferme de Perrine – the Reggae sound-system. I’m sure he was in flying-form alright.
Time flies. Only 10 days until Fergal, and Pam and Dan, jet their way over here. My ever-efficient Dad has already been on the blower to Fergal about delivering a new camera to me. Fergal was wrecked after a day of strenuous study and exhausting exams. He took an early night only to be woken by my Dad and in his semi-conscious state the poor chap thought that my problems here amounted to more than a broken camera. I can only imagine what he was thinking.
Later on I too get a fright, though I think my over-active imagination was to blame… I’m drifting off into semi-sleep when I hear gravely footprints outside my window. My ears prick-up and I swear I hear someone try to open our front door. The panes rattle when you try to open it and I’m rattled too. I lie in my bed, stiff as a board, waiting for a smash or crash but it never comes and sleepiness takes over again. I can only hope it was our doctor-next-door coming back from his boozy rum-fuelled junket and mistaking our door for his; a probable conclusion though not conclusive.
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