dimanche 17.12.06 oh, bored de la merde
My sixth sense is alerted this morning. My other senses are in order too: I smell coffee – Nicola hardly ever drinks coffee anymore; I can hear multiple hushed voices – Nicola doesn’t talk to herself and Arlette is never that quiet; I can see a tiny note pinned to the fridge – I don’t recognise the writing. I taste the pain au chocolat on the table – Nicola is wheat intolerant so they aren’t for her: I touch the plastic bag on the table – there’s abandoned picnic stuff inside. So someone or someones were here early this morning. It’s only 11,30. The coffee pot is still hot to the touch so they can’t be long gone.
I need time to myself and I don’t think I could put up with flirty Frenchmen or talk about affairs of the heart this morning. I busy myself by sweeping the floors, washing the tiles, even cleaning the skirting boards. The place is a mess. Quel bordel! If anyone was here I’d give them a maintenance lecture: if you’re going to do something at all do it right – don’t cut corners; or rather, don’t sweep/mop around the furniture – move it! I’m no domestic goddess but I admit I am a bit of a neat freak. If I had things my way I’d have everything in order, but when you live with someone else things are different and you pick up other habits instead of picking-up after otheres.
I busy myself cleaning the kitchen and the terrace. It’s wash day too and I get that out of the way and on to the clothes horse. It dawns on me that people will soon return and scatter sand everywhere. All my work will be undone and unappreciated. Man am I a miserable git today! I really do feel like a housewife; though all this sweeping of floors, washing of tiles and cleaning of skirting boards is me-speak for sweeping things away, washing away thoughts and skirting around the real matter at hand. Of course domestic chores have to be done but once they’re done and dusted my mind begins to wander, and I leave smudges and footprints everywhere. Too much time to yourself is dangerous.
As I pour out the dirty water I may as well pour out my soul: I miss people and places and occasions and faces. Friends emailed asking if I was homesick or missing much of Ireland, and I am, now. Of course things are supposed to be different when you’re 7000km from home, but like this?
I’m mentally scoring ARMY off my list of future career options; I was delighted to hear that the height restrictions had been lowered for ladies for the Irish Army (there’s none for French ladies), but now, through the eyes of others, I can see. I blame, and thank, Mario whose moping has reduced me to find clarity in mopping. He tends to make sweeping statements about a life once lived. As I sweep up the dust - remnants of the past days, I wonder how could I, how would I, be willing to bin my own civil needs so flippantly? Mario’s woes about divorce and failed relationships reveal how the Army was a distraction, relief, and respite at first but instead it has left him needy and frustrated simmering in regret and thoughts of what could have been. I know I’m far from home now but how could I join the army and add another black hole between me and my civil life? At the moment I feel more of a sense of duty towards myself and my feelings than I do loyalty to my country; would I rather be true to my heart or my country, my hinterland - which is exactly what it feels like now that I’m far-off. There are other ways to show patriotism to your country, and sometimes devotion to loved ones has a higher ranking.
Things are soon in order – here and in my head. I plan my lessons for the week; a mini-evaluation and a letter to Santa Claus. I cut out images of toys from a catalogue. I’ve already asked the older classes to do so but the younger kids need to be mammied a bit more. Cutting things up is quiet therapeutic and I start to think about what I’d like for Christmas. A new camera is in there somewhere as my trusty Fujifilm flasher is dying. It only works at night for some reason L I don’t think I’d have much luck finding what I want in Martinique so I text my Dad requesting his help and trusting his judgement.
Nicola and Christophe soon reappear. They’ve been at the beach at Trois Ilets with Mario and David who are both in the car. Christophe scampers off and himself and Mario drop David back to base – though not before they take a tour of the IUFM and its inmates. While Mario’s flirting with another Frenchie around the corner Christophe unloads his thoughts and cares on David. Umm. Interesting. And incriminating perhaps… If I told you I’d probably have to kill you.
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