dimanche 24.12.06 La Veille de Noël
Whahoo! It’s Christmas Eve J At last we can have a lie-in. The place is a tip and we’re having a soirée later so it’s soon out with the brush and mop for a quick clean. Arlette is at the washing machine. I offer to help her bring up some coal but she insists she can manage. She’s later down to us with bananas and we tell her we’ll cough up our rent that evening.
We head into town. It’s dead quiet; that is until some prats start throwing petards about the place. Imagine, Christmas Eve and there’s hardly a soul to be seen in the capital. Of course les grandes surfaces are probably black with people doing last-minute shopping. David’s one of them. He calls us from Hyper U asking what he needs to get for our Christmas Day meal.
Back at base we wrap Madame Arlette’s presents; Cadbury’s chocolate and an Irish tea-towel with Céad Mile Failté embroidered on it. She seems quiet suspicious about the Irish and she’s even more suspicious about our religion. We tell her we’re going to Christmas Mass and she turns to Charles to tell him we’re Catholic. We tell her otherwise and she’s at pains to believe that Protestants are Christians too. The poor lady is mortified and we’re surprised to hear she thought Protestants were crétins not chrétiens. After that she loads us with pudding, pâtés and schrub, and in all sincerity she adds that I’ve put on weight – which she seems to express as a compliment.
Fadó, fadó in Éireann… Jadis, en Martinique… Long ago in Martinique people used to have an open house on Christmas Eve with all the neighbours starting at one for an entrée and moving on to the next for more eats and treats. Along the way they would have many drinks and even the children would have a sip and end up comatosed in a corner along with the other alcoholic adults. There’ll be plenty of time for that later on but first off Nic and I decide to go for a Sunday drive up to the Gardens of Balata and the Sacré Coeur de Balata. We find plenty of shortcuts around our neighbourhood as we cruise along the windy roads and rocky ways.
It’s soon time to return home and prepare for our pre-Christmas rituals. First off it’s Christmas Mass in the Sacré Coeur de Balata. It’s a long two hours on the firm pew. There are a few funny hymns and canticles to keep us entertained. The chapel is packed to the rafters and the damn mosquitoes are having a midnight feast at this midnight Mass; they don’t receive any offerings from me. We receive Communion and are soon on our way as the service wraps up shortly afterwards. We zip off to collect David at the IUFM. He’s laden like one of the Magi bearing gifts of salmon, chocolate and whiskey. It may not yet be Epiphany but we don’t turn him away.
We arrive home to the meaty aroma of roasted turkey. We’ll be well feed tomorrow though tonight we’re well watered with whiskey; more J&B and a fresh bottle of Glenfiddich – Valley of the Deer. Oh dear! We pop the champagne and sip our whiskies long into the night as we watch the fireworks displays downtown. We get a bit giddy and start firing sausages at the cars in the driveway. It’s messy business especially since some of the meaty missiles are covered in ketchup. The bottle of Glenfiddich is only half consumed but we’ve all disappeared into the dark dale of the reindeer…
Whahoo! It’s Christmas Eve J At last we can have a lie-in. The place is a tip and we’re having a soirée later so it’s soon out with the brush and mop for a quick clean. Arlette is at the washing machine. I offer to help her bring up some coal but she insists she can manage. She’s later down to us with bananas and we tell her we’ll cough up our rent that evening.
We head into town. It’s dead quiet; that is until some prats start throwing petards about the place. Imagine, Christmas Eve and there’s hardly a soul to be seen in the capital. Of course les grandes surfaces are probably black with people doing last-minute shopping. David’s one of them. He calls us from Hyper U asking what he needs to get for our Christmas Day meal.
Back at base we wrap Madame Arlette’s presents; Cadbury’s chocolate and an Irish tea-towel with Céad Mile Failté embroidered on it. She seems quiet suspicious about the Irish and she’s even more suspicious about our religion. We tell her we’re going to Christmas Mass and she turns to Charles to tell him we’re Catholic. We tell her otherwise and she’s at pains to believe that Protestants are Christians too. The poor lady is mortified and we’re surprised to hear she thought Protestants were crétins not chrétiens. After that she loads us with pudding, pâtés and schrub, and in all sincerity she adds that I’ve put on weight – which she seems to express as a compliment.
Fadó, fadó in Éireann… Jadis, en Martinique… Long ago in Martinique people used to have an open house on Christmas Eve with all the neighbours starting at one for an entrée and moving on to the next for more eats and treats. Along the way they would have many drinks and even the children would have a sip and end up comatosed in a corner along with the other alcoholic adults. There’ll be plenty of time for that later on but first off Nic and I decide to go for a Sunday drive up to the Gardens of Balata and the Sacré Coeur de Balata. We find plenty of shortcuts around our neighbourhood as we cruise along the windy roads and rocky ways.
It’s soon time to return home and prepare for our pre-Christmas rituals. First off it’s Christmas Mass in the Sacré Coeur de Balata. It’s a long two hours on the firm pew. There are a few funny hymns and canticles to keep us entertained. The chapel is packed to the rafters and the damn mosquitoes are having a midnight feast at this midnight Mass; they don’t receive any offerings from me. We receive Communion and are soon on our way as the service wraps up shortly afterwards. We zip off to collect David at the IUFM. He’s laden like one of the Magi bearing gifts of salmon, chocolate and whiskey. It may not yet be Epiphany but we don’t turn him away.
We arrive home to the meaty aroma of roasted turkey. We’ll be well feed tomorrow though tonight we’re well watered with whiskey; more J&B and a fresh bottle of Glenfiddich – Valley of the Deer. Oh dear! We pop the champagne and sip our whiskies long into the night as we watch the fireworks displays downtown. We get a bit giddy and start firing sausages at the cars in the driveway. It’s messy business especially since some of the meaty missiles are covered in ketchup. The bottle of Glenfiddich is only half consumed but we’ve all disappeared into the dark dale of the reindeer…
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