Valentine’s Day away - Mercredi, 14.02.07

Mercredi 14.02.07 Valentine’s Day away

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” I say to Nicola this morning. She’s out on the terrace and I know by the look of her that she’s reminiscing about loved one’s and times passed and other times not so long gone. I even think she had a restless night of dreams and doubts and that her pillow may have soaked up more than daydreaming drool. We’ll have to do with one another for romantic action today although I do get multiple texts from Fergal and my mother; she found her card in the cereal box again this year  Thankfully retail therapy often suffices in times like these and so we decide to hit Fort-de-France.

Whispy texts. He’s looking for lodgings not love. Dene and he are off to Dominica and they need somewhere to stay on their return.

Nic and I hit Whispy’s favourite haunt for lunch; it’s not the local Chinese as I had anticipated. Cyber Délisse is quite full for midday lunch and the ambiance is noticeably more gay than usual. I don’t know what the staff make of us two but we bring them business so despite their odd ways and strange looks they’re civil towards us. I get a broccoli and goats’ cheese tart which is divine. Nic has her salmon and spud salad.

There’s a special Valentine’s Day menu for €45 but we decide to suck on our iced-teas instead of being sucked into the flakiness of foie gras and champagne; we’re not such die-hard romantics. In fact, I find it refreshing not to have love hearts and sweets and flowers tumbling all around me. Surprisingly there’s not the same commercial intensity of red and pink pounds here as there is at home.

Carnaval is the event to watch – and to prepare for. We set off on a quest for our Carnaval wears. Wigs, sparkly spray, wands, ties, face paints and funny hats are bought. I’m also looking for a red ensemble for Mardi Gras. Each Carnaval day has a theme and on Tuesday everyone dresses in red; I could have borrowed my brother’s ManU strip as Red Devils are all the rage. I had my eye on a red dress a while back and when I return to the shop it’s still there. I also get some black patent brogues for Monday’s outfit; I’ll be dressing up as a leprechaun for the Mariage Burlesque when women dress as men and men dress as women.

While we’re in the shopping mode we decide to get David a little something to spice up his Valentine’s Day. Some oriental underwear does the trick. We plan to meet David in the Mayflower but our female obsession delays us and he comes looking for us. We spy him on the street and escort him to the Mayflower for a panty and pint shower. He’s half horrified at the present but he’s half happy too. Beijing 2008. That’s what graces these delightful red and pink pants. The Chinese may be preparing but the Japanese are coming from one boat to another as a group of them lands in the Mayflower. It’s very quiet today but we soon find out where everyone is…


Some assistants may be at a beach party in Diamant but the rest of the world is kicking off Carnaval at the Parc Floral. Our bus doesn’t arrive so we decide to follow the throngs down to the river where drums, whistles, costumes, flags and festivities greet us. It’s loud but it doesn’t last too long and we soon find ourselves back on the booze boat; the Mayflower. Christophe, Fabian and Sebastian are at the bar but it still is uncannily empty; just like our stomachs. We decide - or rather the others do, to hit McDo. McDon’t. It’s another McNugget fest but thankfully it’s not as frenzied as the last time; there’s no BBQ sauce so that’s probably the reason.

Nic and I get a taxi home. David decides to walk. The taxi man remembers us from last Saturday night; he brought us home from Lil Buddha. He picked us up so it’s my turn to pick-up the conversation where we left off and he leaves us home for €10. Ten Euros!!!!!!! Dix Euros!!!!!!! €5 each. C’est incroyable! I text David; half out of concern but also to gloat at our cheapo depot. I take Francois’ number for future reference and we roll down the hill into bed.

Suspicious minds - Mardi, 13.02.07

Mardi 13.02.07 Suspicious minds

I’m not risking being late for school again today so I get the 6,00 bus. It’s packed. Nic tells me she was graced with the presence of our neighbour John on her late bus into town. I don’t know which annoyed her most; the late bus or the leachy lad.

Today many students are kitted out in their Carnaval costumes. Girls wearing fishnet tights, ballerina socks and short skirts in vibrant and fluorescent colours parade around town. The lads sport bandanas; on their heads, around their necks and even on their knees. Most of the children in my school are also disguised and dressed up. Some wear traditional outfits. Others have Halloween costumes. Many turn up in normal clothes but produce wigs and make-up to add to the Carnaval cause. I take the opportunity to take some colourful pictures and some of the girls take the opportunity to colour-me-beautiful with their Pupa make-up kits and glitter hairsprays. I get off lightly with blue eye shadow, a tint of lip gloss and some sparkly hairspray. At break time the kindergarten kids parade around the playground in an array of wild and wonderful costumes. They are adorable. It turns out that there’s an event for them at another school and they’re soon all off to mingle with other made-up maternelle playmates.

I wish everyone well for Carnaval. Some teachers are participating but most are parting or reposing. Madame Pamphile comes up to me just as I’m leaving and tells me that in future I should not bring in food for the children as there have been past incidents, especially in colleges, where students have been suspiciously sick after such tasters. “Food forbidden! And exactly what did the kids bring in today for their Carnaval class celebrations? Homemade cookies and cake. Heaven forbid that I should try to nourish and nurture these starving kids culturally with my culinary care,” I think to myself before telling Madame Pomp that I’ll curtail any future tasting sessions.

Nic and I hit the Soup Bar for lunch. We’ve passed it many times but today’s the first time we’ve ventured in. Nicola thinks we could be in Paris as it seems so removed from Martinique. She’s looking into the dimly lit, old wood restaurant which is filling up with mixed clientele. I’m looking out at the concrete paths of Fort-de-France, soaking up stone-cold glances from passers-by wearing frowns and strange Carnaval get-up. I think the waitress must be wearing a plaster of Paris leg cast as she is so slow. Thankfully we’re not in a rush and the food makes up for the service. I get beef lasagne which is truly delicious; even Nicola has a taster. Nicola has the Cap Chevalier salad with salmon, goat’s cheese and walnuts. We’re tempted to have dessert but at €6 a pop we decide to resist popping.

Nicola tells me that 10 BTS students (Brevet de Technicien Supérieur) in Lycée Technique have the chance to undertake a 3-month stage in Ireland. There are 100 BTS students in the school altogether and she reckons that at least three of her students are eligible to go due to their reasonable grasp of English and their good grades. However, they are reluctant to apply – for a multiple of reasons; lack of confidence in themselves and their level of English, and the fear of leaping into the unknown. I tell Nicola I’ll gladly dress-up in a business suit and present myself to them as a HR or recruitment manager from some international company in Ireland just to get them motivated. Such a chance should not slip past them.

Nicola goes back to school. I’m officially on holidays J I’m waiting at the bus-stop shelter when the odd-clothed quartet arrives beside me. One of them almost knocks me over in his excitement to embrace another sheltered passenger. The bus comes a few minutes later and the mad-caps scurry on board like hyper school children. The driver is the pervy porky type. “Hello Princess,” he says to me as I flash my ticket. “Long time no see, eh?!”

At home I pass by our neighbours’ apartment. I expect to see Fred and Verner but no. There’s a long-haired middle-aged Blondie to greet instead. Who is she?

“Who is he?” Arlette must be thinking a while later when a uniformed short-haired tanned soldier enters the premises. It’s Lionel. He’s on a break from his weeklong stint and needed to get out. I offer him some pancakes but as per usual he doesn’t eat. Perhaps he thinks someone’s going to poison him. I’d do it accidentally – not intentionally I tell him. He tells me that he spent the morning helping to land helicopters. He once parachuted from one. He’s gone as quickly as he comes. I’m sure Arlette is mighty suspicious of these unusual comings and goings.

I retire to our hammock retreat in the garden for a siesta and a session with Nelson. When Nicola arrives home she saves me from the South African struggle and makes me put up with Meryl and her Kenyan peril in Out of Africa.

Philip calls out of the blue; well, not entirely as Nic received a recent email from him saying he’d contact her during the week. She wishfully thought he might call tomorrow; Valentine’s Day. He’s cut-off when Nic gets another call and when he rings back she’s in the toilet so I answer it. He sounds a bit distracted and I swear I can hear another voice – even that of a ladies. I don’t tell Nicola this yet as I pass her on. But once she’s done and has battered out her sentiments and uncertainties I confirm her own suspicions by revealing what, or who, I heard. I can’t tell what’s going on, neither can she. But time will...

Flippin’ Good - Lundi, 12.02.07

Lundi 12.02.07 Flippin’ Good

There are plenty of flipping pancakes today but they almost get tossed into a bin in Fort-de-France. I’m waiting for the 6,20 as usual but one doesn’t arrive until almost 7,00. The neighbours we shunned yesterday go by in their separate cars. They don’t even slow down. I blame the driving rain for everything. It’s the first time in ages that I’ve had both the rain jacket and the big blue umbrella out in force. Of course once the bus comes the rain goes and I’m stuck in a sweltering bus for an hour. Thoughts of going to the beach with David and K.P begin to creep into my mind as the bus lurches back and forth every few seconds as we crawl along in the early morning traffic-jam. It’ll be such a waste of time and energy if I don’t make it in. The news reports a road traffic accident at Dillon roundabout. Typical. My second bus goes by there. Though by the time I get there it’ll be well cleared. I don’t get into town until 8,15 and by this stage I’ve contacted my first teacher and warned my second that I may be absent from his class too. But I’m not. In fact the bus to Chateauboeuf gets there in record time. Claude and his brood have P.E with Christophe’s class and I wave to them from across the yard, making my presence known.

I set-up the photocopier and leave it to work away while I seek out Madame Caruge to apologise for my earlier absence. We have our usual chat about the weekend’s antics and when I return to the library I find a mangled pancake recipes blocking up the photocopier. I have enough clean copies to do me today so I tug at the stuck sheets, gather my gear and head to Claude’s class after ridding my hands of the inky residue.

I have two topics for this week’s lesson; i) St. Valentine’s Day and ii) Pancake Tuesday. The history and traditions and cultural variances of the two events are explained. Valentine’s Day is in two days time and Shrove Tuesday is next week, during Carnaval.

The linguistic aim of the lesson is to recognise the imperative or command verb through games and recipes. I start the class with an adaptation of Simon says. “Do this! Do that!” I command as I try to catch the pupils out with tricky actions.

Firstly we brainstorm as to what i) ingredients and ii) utensils one needs for pancakes. Flour, eggs, milk, butter, salt, sugar, lemon. Frying pan, whisk, bowl, tablespoon, teaspoon, fork, knife, plate. I only go through ingredients with the younger pupils. I stick up each cut-put and write other options on the board; maple syrup, chocolate, cinnamon, jam, coconut, ice-cream… I have tags with the words and we go through them together as I point to the corresponding images. The tags are distributed and I ask: “Who has the bowl? Who has the eggs?” to which they reply, “I have it! I have them!” or in the case of two people having the same: “We have it! We have them!”

Next up I give out the sheets with the pancake recipe. It’s half in English and half in English. I know some of the kids will panic at the thought of this so I tell them to read the lexique or keywords in the side column and look at the cut-outs on the board before we go through the recipe together. The recipe is illustrated. There are four steps. I tell the kids to listen to me and watch me do the actions first time round, then I will re-read it with them repeating and finally they can volunteer to read. Listen. Look. Read. Repeat. Mix. Heat. Put. Turn. Serve.

This is too advanced for the younger pupils so I tell them just to Listen and Look as I magically make pancakes appear. But before I do we repeat the last sentence together: Yum, yum! They’re delicious! I love pancakes. I tell them that traditionally on St. Valentine’s Day we use the phrase I love you. St. Valentine’s is not just for lovers and this phrase is not just confined to pancakes and you! I love music. I love Beyoncé. I love Chamillionaire. I love chocolate. I love sweets. I love chips. I love sport. I love swimming. I love football. I love pancakes. I love you!

I tell the kids to: Turn the page. There’s a rhyme about being someone’s Valentine which I translate and recite, and there’s also a game involving names and destiny! We play the game for a while after I go through the instructions and demonstrate how to play it. Write your name. Write the name of a boy or girl you like. Cross out the letters which are similar in both names. With the remaining letters Repeat the rhyme: Love. Marry. Hate. Adore. The last letter to be struck out tells you of your destiny with this person. It’s a simple, even silly, game but the kids love it. Although when they come up to the board some of them loose their nerve and I have to reassure them it’s just for fun.

The final part of the double act is flipping pancakes. I have made some to eat and others to flip so as each child tosses the battered pancake they get a piece of the proper one.


Lunch time comes around and I decide to photocopy tomorrow’s sheets instead of bursting a gut in the morning. The machine is still acting up and I’m once again in ink. I’m on my way back from the toilet when Catherine beckons me into her classroom. Herself, Isabelle and Christophe are trying to work out the Name Game I did with the kids. I explain using Christophe and Isabelle as an example. They end-up hating one another. Christophe and Catherine Love each other.

I head into town and seek out bus tickets. The BIG Red Bus at Point Simone saves the day as the usual stall is under reconstruction. I’m almost certain the vendor calls me Blanche but I can’t be sure amid the noisy nattering. I don’t feel like hanging around town so I head to the bus. I’ve been there almost an hour when Nicola waltzes by with a Caramel Magnum. Yum, Yum. The bus does eventually come and we sit at the back away from the biddies but beside the boys. Nic thinks she teaches one of them but she can’t be sure. He seems to be edging his way towards her but that could just be the jolting the bus is enduring.

Nic had another run-in with Edith in the computer room. Actually Edith just blanked her but Nic was convinced she would lunge at her. Jean-Philippe, a geography teacher, is doing a mock interview with Nic tomorrow in preparation for her upcoming H.Dip call. He rescued her from Edith but not before Nic showed him pictures of Getty. Getty was in his Rasta get-up and Jean-Philippe snears at it. He then sees the picture of Tobacco, Will’s Rasta mate, and warns her against hanging around with him as he knows and causes trouble. Nic prepares for her mock interview and I ask her questions and sound out possible answers with her.

We have a TV dinner of omelettes and settle down to watch Big Momma’s House. The water is off again this evening so we pile up the washing and try to douse the ants with salt. They don’t budge. We decide to put on Auberge Espagnole which Nic has borrowed from school. It’s an arty film about seven international students on Erasmus in Barcelona. It brings back some sacred memories and it turns out to be an enjoyable watch.

There’s some international action next door. We presume that our French EDF friends have returned. We leave them to settle for the night after their tiring flight and return to our home. A new day has arrived and so has the water so we crack on with the dishes and the destruction of annoying ants.

Ireland’s Call - dimanche, 11.02.07

dimanche 11.02.07 Ireland’s Call

Argggh. Who the hell is calling me at this time of the morning? Its 12, 50 but I feel like I’ve only been to bed an hour. I see No.106 flashing on the screen and it takes a minute to register who is ringing. Our neighbours at No.106 invited us to theirs for drinks at midday. Oopsie. It has rung out by the time I come to. I step into the living room and call softly to Nicola. She responds with a muffled mumble. She tells me she did wake up earlier but she didn’t feel so chirpy and just dozed off again. I can’t believe I completely forgot but the fact that I slept through my alarm tells me it was probably for the best. I call back No.106. The lady of the house answers and I immediately launch into a profound, but succinctly executed, apology; Nicola later tells me I feigned worry and concern so well that I could get an Oscar. I tell our neighbour that my friend, Nicole, was sick all morning. She was vomiting in fact. She has a wheat allergy. I completely forgot about our arrangements. The lady tells me it’s probably a gastric such-and-such and she advices me on how to help Nicole. Drink plenty of water. And eat a bit of rice but avoid milk. I’m stupefied at her sound suggestions but gracious all the same for her understanding, counsel and gullibility.

So we missed a round of drinks and the rugby. France won 20-17. They snuck in a try within the last two minutes. Fergal texts to say he’s been tackling angry texts from friends all afternoon. I miss a call from Guelph to say that he won the bet and will expect a drink next time we’re in the Mayflower; a drink of water perhaps. Another voicemail lays waiting for me. It’s Will. He sounds irritated but slightly fretful that I haven’t called him. Me!? It’s Nicola he’s after. Poor divil. David texts to ask if we want to join K.P and him at Anse Couvelure tomorrow. Some of us have to work. Nic texts back saying we’ll soon meet up.

I try to get back to sleep but someone is making a holy racket on this holy day; I can hear a chainsaw. I don’t get much kip so I translate the menu for La Croisière as I haven’t got round to finishing it.

I prepare pancakes and cut-outs for my class. I’m sure there are some assistants who use, or rely on, photocopies a lot. I don’t like to take that path too often but this week I have a sheet with information on pancakes and Shrove Tuesday on one side and St. Valentine’s Day on the other. Valentine’s Day is on Wednesday and Pancake Tuesday is tomorrow week and since Chandeleur was celebrated here last week I reckon some of the kids know how to make crêpes and this information, even in English, will be easily assimilated. Plus, they can make pancakes for their loved ones instead of dishing out the usual commercial garbage. Yum, yum. Crêpes. Sweet and savoury: inexpensive yet impressionable – just like my dreams…

Blessed is she among men - samedi, 10.02.07

samedi 10.02.07 Blessed is she among men

Nothing much to report this a.m but as the day evolves I begin to think that a register of some sort is needed to keep track of all the contacts we make today. I think that this entry will however, suffice.

Our phones are on the hop all afternoon with the exception of a repose of an hour or so when we find ourselves hanging in the garden sipping beer, swinging from boughs and reading books; I’m now on to Nelson Mandela’s autobiography Long Walk to Freedom.

It was too hot during the early afternoon to venture outside so we confined ourselves to the house and we soon found ourselves glued to our mobiles. The lads are on at us to go to the beach but despite an abundance of requests from The Three Stooges; J.V, Lionel and Oliver, we stay put stating that we want to conserve energy for whatever tonight brings. Will also calls both of us but as we’re on the phone to other people he doesn’t get through. He leaves his usual mumbo jumbo ramblings on our phones telling us that the sky is blue and the hills are green. No doubt he’ll call again. I get a call from our neighbour requesting our presence at their home tomorrow at midday. Their young French relations are visiting them and we’re invited round for conversation and aperitifs. Antonio gives me a jingle, only one mind. He mustn’t be so desperate for a dance. I don’t return his call.

On the text front Madame Bonne sends me Carnaval greetings. Fergal tells me that he received my Valentine’s card and he lets loose on alcohol-fuelled sentimentality. My brother, Philip, is swotting away for his Junior Certificate mocks but he texts to say that he’s making progress with a CD of Irish songs I requested. Nicola’s sister Pamela texts to give her the lowdown on family situations; Sharon and Keith are getting back together. Our mutual friend Heather reports that she got an earful from her supervisor about being in too low a gear work wise.

The most unusual contact of the afternoon should have been the shortest but it’s isn’t. I recently placed a petit announce in two local papers advertising English lessons. I did it on Nicola’s behalf as she was a little hoarse. Someone calls this afternoon requesting her services; it leaves her a little deaf and confused. The mystery caller rings again and I’m put on to him. His booming barrage is thunderous but his request is distorted. He’s clearly a pervert who picked up the paper and read into the ad a bit too much. He thinks, or wants to think, that he’s talking to prostitutes.

We instantly presume that the lads are making a prank call but he’s just a freak from Martinique – Fort-de-France to be exact. I ask him where he got the number. He tells me that his friend Philip in Ste. Luce gave it to him. When I probe about Philip he clams up. He instantly asks if I work for the police and I assure him I don’t. We have his number and could probably report him to the police then again he could actually be working for them! A former assistant reportedly reported a colleague to the French equivalent of the SPCA as he was unkind to animals!

For the moment however, we play along with Mr. Mystery Caller; we live in Ajoupa-Bouillon in the very North of Martinique, we’re masseuses not hoares and we’re from Canada. We do add, candidly, that we think he’s a freak. I say he’s warped and Nicola tells him to see a psychiatrist. We hang up but he calls for a third time. Nicola answers and talks to him in a proper English accent. “It’s time for tea,” she says; it’s probably the only time she’d ever pretend to be English. This crazy obviously has credit, time and money to burn. When he gets a bit frustrated at trying to speak English he resorts to fowl language. We soon tire of his wild words and hang up. He calls again but we leave him listening to Avril Lavigne; our Canadian singer sister.

It’s now time to head to the garden for some fresh air and some peace and quiet. The evening rolls by and we’re soon rolling up our hammocks, leaving them among the leaves. We plan to get the last bus into town and so we head off to the bus-stop with our cans and plenty of time before the 20,50 arrives. But it doesn’t arrive. Some luder in a white mini-bus pulls up beside us and we think we’re on to a winner but he shakes his head and goes on his way; another odd, gawking local. Did he did it to spite us or was it the sight of us in our heels and hues.

We weigh up our options. If we call Will we’ll have to go to Schoelcher for a few quite ones. We want to shake up the weekend. We contact Cyril the Sailor but he has already had a few. Sensible man. One man who is bound to be dry is Lionel. He’s on guard duty all week. Would it be an inconvenience for him to leave his post? Even though he can’t come out with us he says that he’ll come out and collect us. Such a charming camouflaged creature. Himself and J.V arrive to find Nic and I in high spirits. Lionel is decked out in his sexy short shorts, woolly green socks and polished boots. J.V is in his trademark three-quarter length black pants and black t-shirt. We thank Lionel profusely before slagging his new haircut. J.V is in a spot of bother. He has a spot. I get out the foundation and make him pretty. He takes up Nicola’s purple bag and prances around for a bit as his beautification and rum concoction take effect.

We bundle into the battered white Peugeot 106 and get dropped off at the Mayflower. Lionel tells us to take it easy before himself and J.V head back to base for Oliver and two others. Chrisptohe, Sebastian and Fabian are there when we arrive, so is Cryril the Sailor and his friends Alex and Manu. We’ve a bit of a moral dilemma as to who to sit with but we choose the army lads as they’re our original contacts. Sebastian is his usual friendly, cross-eyed self but Fabian is a mass of mopinness as per usual. He has a little office set up with his gay bum bag and fancy mobile. He texts incessantly for an hour before heading off to meet a Martiniquan maiden. Christophe has also got a local lady; Vanessa. He gets a bit of teasing from the lads but stays composed and scthum. Oliver and two other soldiers soon join our table. Oliver is wearing two t-shirts. His outer one is a map of Greece and he tells us about his travels there.

Ludo and Guelph are the two newest soldiers. Ludo is a stocky, tattooed man with the names of his two children; Chloe and Florian, tattooed taking up an arm each in huge gothic characters. I can see a cheeky devil’s face peering out from a bicep under his tight red t-shirt and the other holds an intricate Celtic band. He has a big silver chain and knuckle dusters to finish off his ensemble. He’s bald and has a bit of a paunch – from beer no doubt. He sees me drinking Leffe and cheers my taste in beer telling me he lives a stones through from the Belgium border; his accent backs this up. I find it so hard to pronounce Guelph’s name that I think I begin to annoy him. Gwwwoooo-deuff. He’s twenty-four and he’s just a normal, but handsome, looking lad in a long-sleeved green Calvin Klein top and jeans. He works with missiles. Ludo works in admin. Guelph and I talk about the rugby and I place a bet with him that Ireland will beat France tomorrow. He says that if Ireland wins the match they’ll will the tournament. I have my full faculties in order so only a pint is at play as we shake on it.

The bar is hopping tonight. The lads must outdo the ladies 20:1. I count five ladies: Nicola, myself, the two bar ladies and one Marine chick. There are three pretty serious looking creatures at the bar and I get chatting to them as I get in some drinks. They are called Philip, Fred and Hervé and they make up a tiny percentage of the 385 Gendarmes who are here from the Metropole for Carnaval. I’m closed to Philip. He’s from Guyane. He doesn’t have green eyes but he looks a bit like Ashley Cole. It turns out his surname is Ashley! I listen intently as he talks in hushed tones about their job here. I’m interested to hear the statistics about confiscated weapons and implements and arrests and how they train for such incidents.

There’s a surprisingly large portion of locals here tonight. Most are weirdos. So strange in fact that they make the mental marine lads by the DJ seem sane. There is an old man wearing a pair of dungarees and a flak-jacket. Himself and J.V seem to bond with a bottle of whiskey. Stophe, the guitarist from Le Terminal, is out with his friend who I find out owns the rip-off rate Cyber Café beside Leader Price. They’re the epitome of sobriety in their quiet corner sipping drinks and observing the dance floor which has started to heave. There’s a flowery woman’s wicker hat doing the rounds and the freaky, lanky marine tries to swipe it off everyone. By the end of the night Henri, a greying local in his sixties, is wearing the wicker wonder. He talks perfect English and he reveals that he was an English teacher in Lycée Technique.

It’s soon time for the Mayflower to set sail. Michel ushers people out and he intervenes in some suspected sinister selling outside the door. Nic, Olivier, J.V, Sebastian, Christophe, Guelph and I end up in Lil Buddha. The music is average but the dancing is good and the night rolls to a close in no time. The last half an hour sees Olivier, J.V and Nic asleep on the sofa. They rouse just in time for the final set and we all set off in opposite directions. Nic and I get the cheapest taxi ride home ever. I yap away about Carnaval, costumes, work and weather – an effect of the night’s takings more so than a conscious effort to appease the fare. When we get home we’ve only clocked up €14 each. In fairness there’s no meter but motor-mouth probably did shorten the journey.

Plastic bags - vendredi, 09.02.07

vendredi 09.02.07 Plastic bags

Arlette and Richard are up at the crack of dawn as per usual. It’s only 5,30 but already Richard has been down with the post and a bunch of bananas. I know I shouldn’t but I have a banana with my breakfast. I’m going to suffer later.

Nicola and I take the same bus this morning. The grumpy driver is actually in a good mood and he greets us with a broad smile. I briefly saw John, our good neighbour, on the bus yesterday and I decide to invite him over to ours tonight. We has planned to go out to Little Buddha for the masked ball but since Lionel is engaged with gate-duty and J.V is supposedly banned from the club after his antics last week and the majority of the other fine fighters are working we decide to have a quiet night in.

I continue with numbers today; just as I had intended – though not planned. Aurore is back in Christophe’s class today. She’s still wearing her long trademark orange taffeta skirt and brown string top ensemble. I start off getting the kids to count from zero to thirty with me before continuing up to one hundred. They seem to know their numbers pretty well and I test their knowledge by writing random numbers on the board and later asking them to circle the ones I call out. I use some phrases to help them through the numbers. Thirty days hath September. Forty winks. Fifty-Cents. In the 1960’s. He’s in his seventies. She’s in her eighties. Can I have a 99 please? A hundred percent. I’ve told you a thousand times. Two thousand and seven. Thanks a million. Next I give them out tickets I’ve made with a mobile number on one side (in blue) and a fixed line number on the other side (in green). We go through a little dialogue:

Girl ) Boy (

Hello! Hello!

What is your name? My name is Jordan.

What is your name?

My name is Clarisse.

Do you have a mobile? Yes, I have.

What is your number? My mobile number is 086 343 99 09.

Thankyou.

I will call you tonight.

One pupil asks the other their number and takes it down on the blackboard. The roles are then reversed. Most pupils are still using single digits but I get them to use the words double and triple/treble where appropriate.

To break up the scenarios I produce a world map and introduce them to the idea of International dialling codes. It’s relevant and useful as some of them are fixed on Martiniquan land and lines.

00 353 Ireland.

00 33 France.

00 44 United Kingdom.

00 49 Germany.

00 61 Australia.

00 81 Japan.

00 1 Canada.

00 1 America.

I have tickets made with the country name on one side and the code on the other. Even though it’s a bit like clutching at straws I ask them to guess which country the code belongs to; it gets them into search mode. The one who guesses correctly gets to come up and fix it on the map. To test their memory I then take each ticket off and ask them what the code is for that country. There are a few photographic memory heads in Christophe’s class and ‘Robin Gibb’ Castor’s surrogate class. We then continue with the dialogues and end with a quick fire team game where I call out a number and the competitors have to write it on the board. For once Mr. Castor’s class are tame. No slagging matches. No taunts. No messing.

Jossylene appears after break. She’s dressed up to the nines; could she be having an affair? She thanks me for the corrections I did for her and repeatedly apologises for the delay in sending me similar text thanks. She won’t be sitting in on my class today as she’s only dropping by to speak to Madame Dau de la Directrice. She does however have something for me; an application form for a second stint as an assistante. It has to be returned to the Rectorat by 20^th February. I don’t need to make excuses or explain myself as she begins to ask me about my plans for Carnaval, Semaine de Langue and St. Patrick’s Day. The bell rings. The kids come. Jossylene goes. Bedlam breaks loose. The kids bring their yard antics into the classroom as they kick and thump one another. Madame Pamphile calls them a pack of barbarians once they’ve settled down.

We play listen and touch and listen and tick with numbers zero to twelve. I also muddle up the tickets and make some disappear for team games. I teach them the rhyme 1,2 Put on my shoe using On/Off light and shoe actions and exaggerated Look for elves motions. We end the class with a few rounds of BINGO and a lot of excited, aspiring Bingo hall boys and girls squeal with delight as they a full house! I don’t get to tell them about ‘Legs Eleven’, ‘Two little ducks’ et al. It’s probably just as well as confusion could have come a-knockin’ 3,4 on the door. Carnaval brings its own heady craziness. I can’t wait to see whether my children come into school wearing their Carnaval costumes. Some schools allow it. Nic has had a few characters in school today. Since Carnaval is fast approaching some of her students came dressed-up in suits; the guys like pimps and the girls like slutty secretaries. Some of the outfits were more reserved that Nic actually thought that they were going for interviews or were new teachers. A suit or uniform does a lot for appearances and attitudes.

We do our shopping in Leader Price. Nic arrives too late to see the fracas between two ladies at the cash desk. One of them tries to take the other ladies basket as she empties it of the last few bits. However, the basket case causes a fuss telling the other lady to lay her hands off her basket. Security is called and one male customer tells the ladies to calm down. They quieten down but both have permanent frowns etched across their dark brows. Nic and I pop to Mercure for spuds and meat. Our shopping totals €60. We’ve just missed the bus and so we head to a nearby café for repose and refreshment before setting off again. My little moustachioed friend waves at us from the counter. He’s too busy to come over and we’re gone before the lunch rush ends. Our bus driver is the newest grump on the block. He has extremely dark features. Once all the people at the bus have seated themselves he sets off – 10 minutes before the appointed time. A lady by the roadside tries to flag him down but he zips past her. “Salopard!” she yells at him, waving her fist at the bus as it disappears around the corner. We instantly find ourselves stuck in traffic but the wandering woman is not to know.

Nic and I settle down to dinner, and a quiet night in. John called to say that he has a practise session in Francois and so he won’t be over tonight. The army lads give a few jingles too but we tell them we’re immobilised tonight. Madame Bonne calls to say that Eurielle will be in school tomorrow so I don’t have a lesson. Suits me so as I’ve just gotten ravaged by banana-sniffing mosquitoes and am physically and mentally drained. I apply anti-bite ointment but bed is the only solution.

Comme une belle cigarette - Jeudi, 08.02.07

Jeudi 08.02.07 Comme une belle cigarette

Thank God for the French and their strike happy ways. The teachers are on strike today in France – looking for more pay and less hours. They do more striking than they do work! My school is closed. It’s not an overall striking stance – it’s just not practical to have kids present when half the staff are absent. Nic, however, has class. Two of her classes are cancelled but one teacher is adamant to attend; even though the building is an earthquake risk Lycée Schoelcher is a bastion and foundation of Martiniquan education. Cluny Convent isn’t closed either. I get a voicemail in the early hours asking if I can make another presentation but midday is already a-knockin’ by the time I register the request.

The bus drivers must be in strike mode today too as Nic has to wait ages for the bus and ends up being late for her only class of the day. I get into town on the 13,40 bus and I spy Nic at the ATM beside the stop. We settle opposite McDo as we wait for the lads to appear. Oliver called Nic a few minutes before I landed in town. He said something about J.V being upset because he may not get to see Nicola. Perhaps it was a premonition (eh!) because by the time 15,00 comes round the lads are still elsewhere. We spot young, gangly Christophe across the road and consider calling him over but instead we leave a pink Post-it for the others and head to the cool creaminess of McDo. The queue’s too long so we stay in the shade until we see a white t-shirt, black face and bald head approach us. They get an earful when they arrive – but it’s all in jest. They get a laugh from our note: Salut les mecs! Nic et Ruth à McDo. Bises xo

We’re not at the beach until late afternoon but the sun is still splitting hairs and warping plastic deck-chairs. Ice-cream is the first thing on my mind. Umm J Coconut, Pina Colada or cacahouète? I pick two modest sized tubs for €2.50 and the vendor packs them with peanut ice-cream. Five minutes later Nic and I are suffering from brain-freeze and I risk leaving a puddle of tan-coloured ice-cream in the sand. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten ice-cream so fast in my life. I lie back and leave the runny residue to be soaked up by the sun. I’ve never liked melted ice-cream much but there’s not much left. The others head to the sea and I stay with the bags with the sun-cream soaking into my skin and my skin soaking up the sun. I raise my head every so often to see the four dark dots on the horizon.

J.V and Lionel return first and spread-eagle themselves on the shimmering sand. Oliver has gone walkies. Nicola bobs for bubbles a while longer before returning to get a roasting. I’m nicely toasted so I make my way to the sea and make waves like the little white whale that I am! I lie back in the sea with my eyes closed and the waves lapping at my temples. I soon tire of the tide and head back to the towels. Nicola decides to go for a wander; the last time she was here was five weeks ago and she was with Chris then. Sigh. Five weeks hey! Nic returns to tell us that some lady inquired about her husband, her red face and her beach wear. Her husband, on this occasion, was thought to be Lionel. Her face is a bit burnt and she’s wearing a pretty pink sarong.

Oliver returns with a new beach towel which he spent €27 on. It’s a giant map of Martinique. C’est l’arnaque! He also has a suspicious wet patch on his board shorts which gives the guys an excuse to give him abuse. Poor Oliver has suffered a lot of slagging the past few days. He’s Martiniquan and he’s a soldier but in many ways he’s just a Martiniquan in a soldier’s guise. If he didn’t have his head screwed onto his shoulders it would have floated all the way to Antarctica by now. He wanders off at the most inappropriate times, he’s a terrible flirt and he’s a bit dead-to-the-world. He’s lacking social etiquette and general cop-on – but that doesn’t mean he’s not able or nor willing to take it on. Asides he has a kind, caring nature, is undemanding and likes interaction, even if he sometimes gets on people’s nerves. He has taken to pinching our noses whenever we say something naughty or brash. Nic’s nose is a lot sorer than mine! Il est pincé… In fact Oliver has a pair of tweezers in his wallet; another vain medical military-man. I have a few Irish tourism brochures with me and I add another member to my leaflet lending library as he swots up on Ireland.

We decide what route to take home. Choose a colour – red or brown. Red for the girls and brown for the boys! We loose Oliver for a bit as he heads off to get cash but we all end up in Point du Bout for a few gargles at the Crêperie. It’s my shout. One Leffe, one Heineken, on Whiskey-Coke, one Planteur and one Pina Colada later we’re on our way. The 19,15 boat arrives and we hop on board. I take the seat nearest the door, closest to the dark depths. Everyone’s a bit pensive on the way home. Sea air. Fluttering hair. No cares; well almost. I’ve almost forgotten I’ve school tomorrow. This is the carefree approach to life I imagined we’d have. I’m not fazed about school – number rumba a-plenty will be served up.

Poor Lionel starts a week-long stint of guard duty tomorrow. Like Manu he has to watch the gate of an unoccupied building. It’s not punishment but certainly as a corporal sergeant it’s not desirable either but nonetheless he got drafted into it or rather he pulled the short straw. We tell him we’ll visit and bring him some Irish tea… “Make it coffee,” he says. “And don’t forget the whiskey you Irish alcoholics!” There’s a weathered alcoholic in the Mayflower this evening. It’s David the marine. He’s well marinated and there are still three hours left before his curfew at 23,00. Fabian and Christophe are also propping up the bar. There’s a weird bunch out tonight though it takes one to know one.

There has been some force stopping us from going to McDo recently (previous chicken nugget overload syndrome I suspect) and so we head straight home on the bus and potter about the kitchen before being fed, watered, washed and bedded in our divine divans. Nicola lingers a while longer outside to indulge in a cigarette or two. I wonder if she has had a lovely cigarette lately…

Little white whale - Mercredi, 07.02.07

Mercredi 07.02.07 Little white whale

It starts like a Caribbean beach day but the sun flees and it soon becomes a day for eating sand-filled sandwiches at Clogher Head. The sun disappears just as quickly as my supplementary hairs did this morning. I went for a wax attack session in Bellevue. Nicola shook her head as I left for the bus and dubiously, but diligently, wished me a good morning.

The newest esthétisation is called Lindsey. Her Martiniquan mother had christened her with this Anglophone name after a trip to the US. She tentatively sprinkles the conversation with English. I tell her not to be so cautious but she still looks to me for reassurance. Despite her hesitant English she’s the funniest skin stripper yet. I’m lying there unashamedly stripped to my underwear with her stripping my skin when she produces the latest wax result. I’m a little taken aback at this display of my little bêtes noires. They look so snug in the hardened yellow wax strip. We both wish them well and as they’re launched into the bin we launch into a conversation about various irritable female features.

Before all this I’m seated in the cool waiting space reading the newest trashy magazine (which happens to be three months old) when the stagiaire at the counter asks if I’ve any change. It turns out that if I pay for my treatment in advance the current customer can receive her change. We exchange money and greetings and before she leaves the beautified belle approaches me and starts to ask me about myself. She’s not hitting on me – she’s interested in practising English. She’s training to be an Engineer and wants to take specialist English exams. She actually lives at the IUFM and I wonder why none of the Anglophones there would speak to her. I tell her about Nicola. The thought of paying for lessons doesn’t appeal to her but we exchange details and she’s on her way.

David, who lives in the IUFM, is off to Aqualand with Karla & Co. today. It’s supposed to be pricey and disappointing but I’m sure they’ll make their own fun with or without the sun. It’s not a surprise that it’s an expensive excursion since Martiniquan’s seem so anal about water and water costs. There’s no rain on the horizon yet but I doubt the price would be reduced even if the heavens opened for a week – in fact it’d probably be closed with no chance of a refund!

Lionel, Oliver and Nicola are sitting in the smoky shade opposite the Mayflower. J.V has to work this afternoon and so he won’t be joining us as he’s busy finding new recruits. In Lamentin this week there’s a Salon du Lycéen which is basically a careers guidance event for secondary school pupils in Martinique. It’s in its eight year. If it’s organised well it should be a positive and valuable resource for Martinique’s youth.

We get the boat to Anse Mitan with other sun worshippers and beachcombers. Two ladies sit up top and someone remarks that Nicola and I will probably turn out like them in thirty years time – cruising around the islands together in dodgy company with similar dodgy hairstyles and summer attire. I can only hope that life would afford us such a generous avenue out of retirement and around the world. Only this morning did Nicola place some ads on the internet ‘pimping’ us, our talents and our Irishness in exchange for a boat ride to Montserrat!

For the present however we’ve to be content with our séjour in Martinique. We want to move over to Trois Ilets for the last leg of our stay and since Anse Mitan is so ideal we start our accommodation hunt the moment we get off the boat. Over Christmas we stayed at Auberge de l’Anse Mitan and this clean, impressive American-styled residence is our port of call for the day. The lady owner remembers us and we ask about renting a bungalow for May and June. She already has someone occupying the two-bed roomed, two-bath roomed garden dwelling and she will have to see when they plan to leave but we’re to call in a week or so to get a real response. Her initial price-quote of €550 a month has us simultaneously kicking ourselves and jumping for joy. Olivier also inquires about rooms as he is on the lookout for accommodation during March for his girlfriend, Sophie, who is coming to visit him.

As we leave the beach and head in the direction of the beach we pass a restaurant called Manureva. From where I’m looking the sign is obscured and it reads Manure. The sun has made me hyper so I make crap jokes about smelly restaurants. Lionel tells us that it’s a Tahitian place and we agree to come back some time, when it’s open, so we came try some of his home brews such as Hinano.

There seems to be a bit of a storm brewing; the sky has turned a bit overcast and the sun runs for cover behind the billowing clouds. The rain holds but it soon becomes a day for eating sand-filled sandwiches at Clogher Head. There are occasional bursts of sunshine but we take to the sea. I don’t like to venture out too far as I suffer from aquatic agoraphobia. The lads try to coax me out of my depth by telling me there’s a chocolate castle beyond the little orange buoys. Unfortunately I don’t like salty, melting chocolate so I stay by the bay and instead snorkel around sighting all the prickly urchins and strange shells. Some of these shielded creatures look like they could cause sufficient harm to exposed feet; thankfully they’re far enough down not to make contact with my dangling limbs.

You can’t help but notice bodily marks on our corporal sergeants. Oliver doesn’t have any tattoos or war wounds and even if he did you probably could only see time on close inspection. J.V, I noted before, has a sun tattoo on his right shoulder and Lionel has a Tahitian water symbol on the same shoulder. In the right light you can also catch sight of Lionel’s glossy car scars. He has been in numerous road accidents and he has broken so many bones that if it wasn’t for his influential army connections he would not be a soldier.

Just as J.V is a recruitment professional Lionel is a radio professional. He is a sound engineer with the army media centre. In Haiti he had his own radio programme for six months and he tells us became a minor, yet modest, celebrity. He would like to branch into journalism when he retires. I’m sure his contacts, if not his skills, will get him in there too! The French army have their own television station. We joke that it has le flash but Lionel tells us that it functions as frequently and professionally as a regular national station although only army members can access it.

Another media orientated figure joins our conference; it’s our neighbour William. The last time we clapped eyes on him was at Diamant beach during the Christmas holidays. I could have put off seeing him for another minute as I’m mid bra-bikini exchange when he plonks himself in front of me. His parents are over from Belgium for a fortnight so he has just popped across the bay to spend the evening with them. Otherwise he’s up to his eyeballs with publicity campaigns as he’s organising a health/well-being exhibition at the end of the month. As he gets up to leave he tells us to look out for his billboard signs in the upcoming weeks; we should have told him to watch out for the plage surveillée sign above his head as he collides with it as he rises. He clutches his throbbing temples while Nic and I, les méchantes, split our sides with laughter.

We’re not mean or spiteful. William isn’t hurt. We’re just reacting to a droll display of his clumsiness. It’s too late for our defence counsel to appeal as we’re harangued by the lads for not being more sensitive. They try to rile us up with openly wounding words and jibes concerning other sore points. Their attempts to insult us and our state only ends with us returning more debauched remarks as we turn each jest on its head. Bawdiness prevails just as George Bush rules the US. Where are those t-shirts stating: I love Bush?! If only these lesions were evident and the liaisons true. We pack up and head to Point du Bout and who do we spot there but the two intrepid lady voyagers from the boat; they’re stuck into their meal and one another! Nic and I can only exchange smirks and silently shake our heads to avoid causing another ruckus.

We decide to join the lesbian lovers. We dine al fresco at La Pause where Nic and I ate for my birthday. The bleached chatty Spaniard is still as friendly as ever as he greets and seats us. It’s finally time for real cocktails; Blue Hawaiian for me and Sex on the Beach for Nic. Lionel insists on paying for the drinks. He opts for a Whiskey-Coca and Oliver gets a G&T. The hunger is on us so Nic and I go for a meaty, beef meal while Oliver has the brochette du poulet. Lionel is still on a diet though he does swipe the occasional chip. I could have skipped the meal myself; the beef is still kicking and the chips may as well be covered in clay they’re so underdone. Lionel’s a slight yet solid build but he explains that he doesn’t feel hungry and since he has had a pretty inactive day he doesn’t need any extra eats. Liquids, on the other hand, seem to find their way to everyone’s stomach. We decide to get the last boat back to Fort-de-France as we’re to meet Antonio, the Salsa specialist, in the Mayflower. Before hopping on the boat at 21,30 we spend the last hour in a kiosk bar where Pina Colada’s are the order of the evening.

Halfway across the bay we can hear the beat of the tambours and the toot of whistles as people practice for Carnival. We alight and head straight for the bright outdoor lights of the Mayflower. The interior is dimly lit but a glowing, grinning guy sits perched on a bar stool. Antonio is the epitome of a Latino dancer; hair sleeked back with animal fat, a body-hugging, white shirt which makes him look like a beacon for the blind, that perfect, gleaming wide smile which almost seems like a sneer and of course the tight-fitting dark jeans and polished, heeled black pointed shoes. He’s missing a bloody rose and a pervy moustache but we can live without those things as Nicola’s redness and the four bearded bards in the corner make their contributions.

Antonio is French with Spanish roots though his greasy locks make him more Brazil nut than anything else. His slick appearance and super-plus tan could be seen as perks of his job; he works as an engineer for an oil company. He tells me about the different filtering processes for oil; the crudest being for industry use, another level for petrol, the next for household purposes and the finest for engine oil. I resist asking if he has a secret fifth batch to dip into every evening…

He’s over here on a five week assignment. He’s usually based in Marseille though he has been all over South America and the Caribbean with his job. I inquire about his Salsa skills. He picked them up in Cuba as easily as he picked me up on Saturday night! He was a tri-athlete in his youth so he tries to keep fit by taking to the dance floor and twisting and turning into a flash dance demon. He has just come out of a three year relationship and he’s trying to forget it - and her. Oh really? Did I forget to mention I have a boyfriend? Comradeship and sympathy are not what Mr. Mexico is looking for even though he’s all thanks and praise for inviting him out. It was out of kindness that I told him our evening’s intentions but of course he doesn’t see it that way – either he’s being blinded by his own intensity or the grease must be getting in his eyes. He does his bullshit red flag-waving come-to-me little horny cow routine as masterly as any matador. But I don’t crack – and neither Lionel nor Oliver, heaven forbid, have to crack their knuckles over his slimy skull. Despite all the vain effort he still offers to drive us all home. The lads are dropped off at the regiment and Nic and I are left to our gate in a sane state. There’s no night-cap for Mr. Mexico and he slinks back to Trinité to top-up his tan and empty his oil tank.

Round and round she goes - Mardi, 06.02.07

Mardi 06.02.07 Round and round she goes

Nic and I are waiting for the bus this fine mystic mist-filled morning when a silvery blue Renault Mégane pulls up alongside us. A speckled, grey bearded, blue-eyed Frenchman rolls down the window and asks if we’re going into town. He turns out to be the husband of the lady who picked me up on Saturday morning in her fluorescent green car. He works at the port and I don’t get a chance to press if he works with the fisheries board as Nicola hops in with a question about boats to Montserrat. A cargo ship may be our best bet but our neighbour says he’ll inquire for us.

We’re dropped off at the port and head straight to a phone box as Nic has to find out just how accommodating Trinity College administration can be regarding her upcoming interview. I think the little faith had in Martiniquan direction spurred her initial fears that the Irish administration would show similar tactlessness. However, the Irish show their true colours by displaying dexterity and helpfulness. All Nic has to do is phone her contact ten minutes after her appointed interview time. It seems strange to call later rather than earlier but those were the instructions.

I’m like a zombie this morning. I start to nod off on the bus but my sixth sense tells me to get off at Chateauboeuf. Madame Dau la directrice greets me. She has some post for me; it’s from Tourisme Irlandais in Paris. They spent €13 sending me brochures on languages courses, holidays, events and excursions in Ireland. All the brochures are in French and I’ve soon set up a lending leaflet library amongst my teachers and other staff members.

I may be finished school at midday but my French fix is only just starting. Nic and I are meeting for lunch with J.P and his Tunisian girlfriend Amelia. Over a bastardised Creole lunch of planteur, fowl, fish and tinned fruit-salad served in plastic cups and wobbly, warm plastic plates in a market eatery we discuss their prospects of working and living in Ireland. I distribute more brochures. For the moment however J.P is staying in Martinique to see out this school year. Well, with a fulltime contract of only 15 hours work a week and a salary triple ours why wouldn’t he?! Amelia is over here on a months holidays but she’s returning to France in two weeks. She works in finance and will be moving to either London or Brussels within a month of being home.

After a substandard lunch we decide to head to a juice bar for some weird and wonderful refreshment. Before we press strange Caribbean fruit we pass an odd Caribbean fella. It takes Nicola a second to register who it is; a security guard at one of her schools. She turns red, waves back at him and tells us he previously asked her out.

There’s a wonderful selection of juices at the bar but I pull the short straw. I could have gone for passion fruit, mango, pineapple, goyave or any other tropical taste but I wanted a corossol milkshake. Amelia did warn me off the maby mixture but I wonder how much worse off I would have been. The corossol milkshake tastes like cake mixture; not unlike margarine, sugar and eggs mixed together. When you’re a kid you’ll gladly dip your finger into the mixing bowl but imagine glugging a whole tumbler of that viscous concoction. Granted it did have a kick of lemon to it but the consistency was awful. Nic’s lemon milkshake was refreshing, Amelia stuck to strawberry and J.P got corossol juice; though he has acquired a taste for it.

We all say our farewells. J.P goes to the Prefecture with Amelia before going back to class. Nic and I resist hurrying for the bus and decide to get some decent drinks - Heineken for her and Coca-Cola for me. We’re chatting away with the bar lady who happened to paint the first friendly face in this country many months ago when another friendly face pops into the picture. It’s Antonio the Salsa swinger from Karaoke Café. He doesn’t look so cheesy in daylight. The tight white shirt and circulation-stopping trousers are replaced with beach shorts and a loose, but neat, t-shirt. We’re each as surprised as the other but we overcome the initial oddness and launch into greetings. He passes on his number and tells us to contact him if we’re going out again. He’s then off around the corner after his colleagues. Nic has gone to the toilet and I’m flicking through another Irish brochure when the tanned Tango man returns. He asks what I’m doing tonight. “Cinema,” I lie. And tomorrow? “Going to the beach with some friends,” I reply truthfully while feigning regret. I suggest we meet for drinks during the weekend but he says he’d like to go to the beach. I tell him I’ll contact him with the details and he’s off in a flash, flashing his perfect beam back at me. I wonder if he has had a few cameo roles in The Bold & the Beautiful or Sunset Beach…

We return home, put on some washing and I drift off to sleep as effortlessly as if I’d been washed up on the set of Sunset Beach. Nicola dreams of Palm Beach, Sydney and I dream of capsizing a rowing boat and floundering for SIM cards and then going on a business venture to Paris; I blame the corossol for this carousel of dreams. I’m beginning to doubt whether those fruit juices where tropical tastes or Magic Roundabout mixtures...