I wake up thinking about the crazy journey home lastnight and instantly I remember that we haven’t heard from Oliver at all. I’ve a voicemail on my phone from the man himself with some outlandish story about two youngsters breaking into his car and stealing his phone and camera. There are so many questions but at least he’s safe and sound. However, once I step outside I find a handwritten note and a mountain of pastries on the terrace table. Oliver has written up the whole saga like a police statement. He doesn’t say how he was alerted to the fact that someone was breaking into his car but he rumbled the two youngsters, caught one of them and frog-marched him to the police station where he confessed, gave his accomplice’s details and returned Oliver’s phone. Poor Oliver. Two run-ins with the police in the same night.
He apologises profoundly for leaving us alone and thus he has bought the pastries to pardon his actions. The apology is unnecessary though the pastries, which only I can eat, are not wasted.
Nicola has a lesson with a new private student and so she drags herself into town. I have a rendezvous in the woods with two lover lizards. They run up, down, over, under and across the boughs above me as I soak up the shade from our hammock haven.
The tranquillity is broken only by a hissing cat, Nan Ouche, and the drone of a chainsaw. Nan Ouche didn’t see me hanging there and I startled the poor creature so much so that he almost joins the lesbian lizards on the branch above me. The Chainsaw Gang consist of Claude, Arlette’s son, and his two friends who are at pains to fix an ancient droning contraption. I soon hear it purr to life. I am mistaken, however, to the source of the sound as I spot Nan Ouche hovering above me, giving out to me with his rumbling feline declarations and glaring at me with his startling big, grey eyes.
The Road to McCarthy is my read for the afternoon. My man, Fergal, has sent me the chapter on Montserrat. I want to go there for Paddy’s Day but the cost and circumstances have dictated otherwise. However, I’m satisfied with the typed text happenings. I also have a crossword from The Irish Times to keep me entertained. I love those crosswords. Simplex of course. No: 13,057 today. I’m caught out by 19 DOWN for a while: Exposed as batsman may be in cricket match (6,3). The Cricket World Cup is coming up soon. The whole of St. Lucia is booked up for the event so we’ve also had to strike that location off our list for St. Patrick’s Day. Looks like the Mayflower will be seeing some shamrock flower power come 17th March…
Our pansy pal, Wispy, texts to say that Dene and he won’t be staying with us tonight as they have a lift back to Sainte-Marie. Some of us were surprised to hear that Wispy actually made it to Dominica. The last time he went to take the boat he forgot his passport and this time round he got off at Guadeloupe even though the boat stopped at Dominica first!
Nic joins me in the hammock haven just as the last moments of daylight are dancing into the sunset. She got a job offer with a newspaper in Naas and is between two minds whether to take it as she has just burst a gut on her interview for her teaching diploma. It doesn’t rain but it lashes.
It is indeed feast or famine but you can’t forget fluids. Fred our neighbour is out on his terrace so we join him for a few tins. He tells us that Verner’s wife was mad at him for not mentioning that he had two female neighbours. Some women. Tsk, tsk. So that’s what all the commotion was about. Some holiday. Verner’s back in France now anyway and Fred will be here on his lonesome until April. Well, of course he has us to keep him company but I don’t know how happy Arlette will be to know that the smokers will be joining fag forces in the future. I can see it now: Pensioner smoked out of home. Fuming feuding neighbours. Exhaling tenants ejected by gagging hag. I’d better quell my indignant inferno before I char my conscience.
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