There’s something strange in your neighbourhood – who’re ya gonna call? GHOSTBUSTERS! There is indeed some funny business in our neighbourhood today. The navy sedan beside the bus-stop has finally been towed away. It had become so much of a local landmark that I it took a few seconds to register what once occupied that 10ft hole. While one hole has being made another is being filled. Nicola and I may have been jumping for joy last night but by the sound of it someone else is full of the joys of spring this morning - testing out the springs of their bed no doubt!
Both Fred and Mr.Bidoux offer me a lift this morning. I pass on the lifts as I prefer watching the morning fog roll off the mammoth hills to watching the cities’ dispossessed drunkards roll about in their restlessness. By the time I do get into town the homeless have fully risen, the markets are in motion and the streets are full of blue and white t-shirts as lycéens loiter about before class starts.
I’m just nodding off during my second bus journey when I get a text to say that our friend John - who is supposed to visit us at Easter, was rushed into hospital this morning for surgery. He has had appendix trouble the past while and even though the doctor said he was good to go it now seems like Heather may be making the Atlantic crossing on her own. If he doesn’t come it’ll be a hell of a lot of money down the drain. It may be nothing to a millionaire milk merchant like John but I’m sure he’ll miss the exotic experiences more so that the money spent on flights to Martinique and a holiday in St. Martin. Unfortunately the trip to St. Martin is non-refundable. We can’t even change the name on the flight tickets because they’ve already been issued. Hopefully he can still come; at least then Nicola and I won’t have to pull each other’s hair out over who gets the double room!
More posters and placards are decorated today as shamrock shapes are stuck on the grand banner for Thursday and Friday’s St. Patrick’s Day celebrations in the school. More shapes are thrown about as the children take to the dance room to practise their Irish dancing moves; some move more than others due to their good dancing genes while some are moved more than others due to pointless ingenious performances. Some of these kids will probably never get out of this island and experience civilisation as we know it so I just grin at the darlings and bear the unbearables.
I, myself, may not get out of the school this afternoon. I can’t find Eduardo the security man to let me out. I grimace as two buses zip by on the other side of the wall. Just as I’m considering jumping the gate he appears with his cumbersome set of jingly-jangly keys. I tell him about my news and antics of late; Davina’s death, the truce with our landlady, the football match in Rivière Pilote, the trip to the Jardin de Balata… St. Patrick’s Day preparations feature a lot and I tell him about my plans for Thursday and Friday in the school. It’s Eduardo’s birthday on Thursday. I’d give him 39. I always have time for Eduardo – and it seems like he wants to make time for me! He invites me (again) to go see his handball team in action some Thursday evening. Half my brain thinks: Why not? Isn’t it another part of this cultural exchange? The other half of my mind counters: Have we not learnt anything about Martiniquan men in the past five months? Dear Will. Stroppy Stophe. Leering Guy. These men may be the least of our problems at the moment...
Poor Nicola has had a terrible morning with the wicked witch of the west; of France that is. Edith has struck again. But this time it’s a big scale hullabaloo Breton brew she has been concocting. This loose loin cannon, as Jean-Pierre likes to refer to her as we ponder the evil episode over beers and Tia Maria in the Terminal, went to the headmaster of Lycée Technique and complained to him about Nicola and how she refused to assist with her class. Nicola was summoned by the headmaster. And even though she told the truth it now seems like some higher beings may be needed to resolve the debacle. The whole situation stinks. Nicola is being dropped in the shit just because this militant menopausal hag has run out of Prozac.
The Edith Saga has been going on since last year; first of all she smelt of roses as she charmed, and disarmed, Nicola into thinking she was an amiable colleague: next she came out of the Atlantic smelling of seawater when she took us to the beach on her magic vroom-vroom broom: then when she went on the wacky-tobaccy and started to lure Gethin we smelt a rat: next she tried to sniff us out at Christmas when she invited herself to Trinité; and eventually she turned as sour as rotten apples when the new term came around and she found out that Nicola was not taking her classes any more. Bygones will be bygones. Jean-Pierre tells us that Breton women are typically as crazy as this loopy lady seems to be.
The odd thing is that Edith is retiring this year. Can anyone understand why she would kick up a fuss with only a month remaining the school year? And why, apart from sheer laziness, would she care if she has an assistant or not when her English is perfect anyway?
Over a lunch of fried fish and chicken in the Crosière I listen and lend some advice. On the grand scale of things it seems so petty. She agrees but of course she’s going to fret. Every Thursday night last term she would be work herself into a tizzy just thinking about going into Evil Edith’s class the next morning. When she spied her in the yard or was cornered by her in the computer room she turned on her heels or clammed up lest she became singed by Edith’s fiery Breton breath.
Nic heads back to school for her last two classes and I place myself in front of a P.C in Cyber Délice with the I-know-everything-about-writing-a-C.V-for-a-BioMed-Internship gaggle of Yanks; I’m sure everyone who was in there that afternoon now knows how to produce a flowery résumé. There’s a new sign up in the café stating that WiFi usage is not permitted during lunchtime – I wonder which Family Guy fanatics spurred that cautionary note… It’s a wonder my O2 online account is still active but it saves me a few bob as I fire off a heap of free web texts inviting our mixed Martiniquan crew to our Paddy’s Day do. I also check out some sites and activities for our Easter trip before hitting the shops in search of Nic’s chosen emerald green twin-set. Although I was given an in-depth description of the top there are so many green garments in the shop that I just text Nic and tell her I’ll have what she’s havin’. Nic has taken a fancy to army green lately so I wouldn’t be surprised if the shade she had in mind was more faded khaki than jaded green. As it happens she returns home empty handed as after a few dress rehearsals in the shop she decided that the sweat inducing material was not what we want. Oh goody! Any excuse to go shopping J
We call over to Fred’s place for a while. He has some Irish Whisky and some Lindt Irish Whisky chocolate; both pass the taste test. The other bar of nutty white chocolate makes us go nuts. The poor lad is driven demented as he listens to our drivel all night long. On our return home I take to the floor to do a little dance and dance a little jig before hopping into bed thinking of the shopathon which awaits us.
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