We make a comical sight this morning. It’s 7,15 and there are nine people at the bus-stop; three lycéens, three school-children, two old maids and myself huddled under umbrellas and trees waiting for the bus. Some of us have been waiting here since before 6,00 and by now three buses should have passed by – but they haven’t. We’re all pinning our hopes on the 7,20 bus. It comes eventually; late as ever. As we all shuffle onboard there are no grumbles, no excuses. There’s no point taking it out on the driver I guess. As it happens I’m only 20 minutes late for my first class; if only I could ditch the first class of the day and take that later bus…
Mr Duval doesn’t mind me being late and the kids are only delighted to lift their heads from their copies. There’s no time to waste so we crack on with Ballaí Lumnigh. I briefly recap on the cultural context of this dance and the symbolism of the moves before running the kids through their paces. Most of the kids can move their bodies quite well as they’re born and blessed with créole vibes. However, most of them are pretty heavy footed and Mr Duval and I take to the floor to show them how it’s done!
In Madame Caruge’s class we’ve more time to discuss the mini-projects they’ll work on; St. Patrick’s Day: Irish Emblems: Ireland: Irish Dancing (and costumes): Eating habits of the Irish. One kid is adamant to do Irish Legends. He’s to stick with St. Patrick. I also run through the story of St. Patrick. The history of St. Patrick is integral to the understanding of the festival. I’ve decided that I two senior classes will work on projects to display and the other two will concentrate on a mini-dramatisation of St. Patrick.
The younger children are getting down and dirty this week as we’re planting shamrocks. Soil, pots, newspaper, seeds, water, spoons and eager faces await me in the classrooms of Madame Acina and Madame Thaly. I explain the significance of shamrocks and we set about preparing for the plantation:
Take a pot.
Fill with soil.
Water it.
Now wait a while.
Sprinkle seeds.
Cover it.
Take a peek.
You’ll have shamrocks in two weeks!
I use the flowerpot and tumbler to explain the concepts of something being empty and full. I fill the tumbler with water: It is full. I pour out the water and hold up the tumbler for all to see that: It is empty. The same follows with a spare flowerpot. Each kid gets a turn at spooning soil into the communal flower pot until it’s adequately full. Then I choose some children to come up, fill the tumbler and water the soil. We play games for 10 minutes while the soil soaks the water.
We’ve progressed on to Simon says this week so I tell them to cover their ears, cover their eyes, stretch their arms, lift their legs, touch their noses, touch their heads… All these commands are hopefully prepping them. We return to the shamrock planting. Seeds are sprinkled by a select few. Next we cover the pot – just as we did with our ears and eyes during the game. A clear plastic bag is put over the seedling and secured with a stretched elastic band. Yet again I exaggerate the stretching as I tell the children to stretch their arms to the sky, stretch their t-shirts and stretch the imaginary elastic bands in their hands. As I gather up the newspaper and soil the children colour in shamrock images; even if the shamrocks don’t sprout we’ll have a special corner with forty shades of the paper variety to mark the occasion.
Just as I’m hopping along to the bus-stop Edourdo flags me down. He has a huge package for me. It’s longer than it is wider and Elizabeth and I seat ourselves on the bus and take a peek. It contains St. Patrick’s Day Festival brochures and bookmarks, a key-chain, a pin, two XXL green festival t-shirts and an Irish beanie hat which is unnecessary in this heat.
Elizabeth forgot to pay for her son’s canteen this month so she has too head off early and bring him home. She spoke with the canteen manager this morning and when Elizabeth offered cash she was told that they didn’t except money payments and hence they now expect the lad to go home every day for lunch. The trials and tribulations of life.
Poor J.P Sartre is suffering too. His girlfriend Amelia is back in France ten days today and according to Nicola he has gone to the dogs since she left. We’re all meeting for lunch and as I’m early I head to the quay to lap up the last pages of my leper book. Who do I see hanging over the edge of the bench with his head almost touching the ground but J.P. He does look miserable. I don’t pounce on him immediately. I glance over my shoulder now and again to see if he has moved. Eventually he raises his head and I see him scribbling away on a scrap of paper. His philosophy keystones must be shifting a lot lately. I address him in a half-whisper. J.P. J.P. He doesn’t respond. Jean-Paul. Jean-Paul. He lifts his head slowly like a child rising from a heavy slumber. His puffy eyes make me think he has been crying recently. We both walk to La Croisière together. The conversation is light as we talk and even joke about our mutual liking for sitting at that quay. During lunch all conversation is directed away from Amelia and other things which may involve sub-conscious thoughts. Jean-Paul needs to get out and about. We could go join the lads at the beach this afternoon. He probably needs mutual civilised civilian contact so we decide to invite him to our house tomorrow as we’re having friends over but he declines as he already has plans with Majid his American-accented friend.
There’ll soon be plenty of reasons for all to celebrate; St. Patrick’s Day is fast approaching. It’s time to get the finger out and put our patriotic plans into action. We head into the Mayflower and wait for the busybody lunch rush to slow down before asking the patron about having a Paddy’s Day party here. It’s ideal as we know the crew, there’s always a crowd and there’s room to dance and music to dance to courtesy of Michel the DJ. But don’t we get a kick in the ass when we find out that Miss I-consider-myself-Irish-when-it-suits-me Marjorie Ahearn has already been in talks with Monsieur André about a similar do. Why was she keeping this under her Jimmy hat? We saw her yesterday and nothing was said. The reasons don’t matter as we’re now seeing red instead of green. We’ve nothing set in stone with Monsieur André so we gather ourselves and our gear and march up to the Terminal. It’s closed. We’ll be back. That Breton flag will soon be replaced with the tri-colour. We discuss the practicalities over an ice-cream sundae splurge. The Terminal is the new ideal location. We know the owner, Jean-Pierre, it’s usually quiet so we can invite who we like without being afraid that there’ll be no room and it’s an intimate venue which we can decorate as we like. Parfait.
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