vendredi 09.03.07 razor sharp pins
I’m locked in this morning. Nicola has obviously taken her keys to bed with her. Mine, as per usual, are hidden outside the house lest either of us should return home keyless some day. At least I can open the window from the inside and hop unto the terrace. So I do.
I don’t like the new buses as much as the old ones. What I miss most is the buoyant atmosphere which prevailed. Everyone was in awe of the new bus, the new gadgets and the new smell but now the novelty has worn off we all sit in silence as we slide back and forth in unison. Everyone’s too upright. The seat designers were obviously on a mission to correct the posture of bus passengers. And there’s less legroom which although is not usually a problem for me is today as I’ve my bag of Irish goodies and a huge poster to squash in beside me. The newest bus driver is not very interesting either. He rarely puts on the radio but when he does it’s usually the obituaries. In his defence, however, he’s quite perceptive and usually knows when someone has requested a stop. There’s little hope that the drivers will eventually personalise their buses like they have done in Guadeloupe. I expect the last thing the bus company would tolerate is stickers and eulogies and poems and tasteful graffiti. Radio requests are probably out of the question too.
This morning there’s another new phenomenon onboard – a ticket inspector. There’s no ticket machine on this bus so the driver must check your ticket before you get on therefore even though he insists on asking everyone for their stubs today’s ticket inspector is not needed; another waste of time and energy and money and crisp blue Mosaic shirts.
Aurore is not in today and Christophe is dosed but I take his class through their paces after we scrutinise the map of Martinique. Madame Bois is back and she’s also getting back into form. I unfurl the giant poster which has travelled with me from Tivoli. I’ve traced the words: HAPPY ST. PATRICK’S DAY unto it and I get the class to paint and decorate it. Those who don’t have brushes or artistic dexterity are given shamrocks duties and we soon have enough lucky shamrocks to carpet Croke Park.
Elizabeth sits in on the first part of my class with Madame Pamphile’s brood. She’s a distraction – from divilment, for a while but they soon loose their sense of direction and become their unruly selves. When it comes to choosing dance partners they’re the most contrary class ever. At first I find their reluctance and gurning amusing but eventually they have to be put in pairs in order to get anything done. Madame Pamphile still has her blasé attitude but there’s really no point in busting a gut so I just let them hop around the classroom in a semi-orderly fashion.
The usually calm and content Madame Edragas seems to be at the end of her tether lately. She has been sick recently and while the heap of crumpled tissues in the bin reveals the final afflictions of her flu the little blackboard by the door, which is covered in black marks, is testimony to her lack of patience this week. I’m introducing directions to her class today and although they’re as super inquisitive as ever I tolerate their quizzical ways. Catherine however constantly chastises them. The two dominating brats receive both the brunt of her anger and the majority of the black marks.
On the way home I pickup at tuna sandwich and a few pastries and at home I settle down to my lunch and some light TV viewing. It’s a toss-up between the foot masseuses on the daytime chat show or the zouk charts with the two perky presenters. I choose the music – it’s soulful. There’s a bit of a commotion outside which juxtaposes my easy listening. There are people moving in next door. They take about half an hour to haul their cases and crates from their car. I spy an elderly couple and a family of three. They’re either all going to suffocate in the apartment or their using our hammocks unawares to us. Arlette has pulled out all the stops for her new lodgers but she does come down to Nicola and I with a plate of leftover accras. I’m delighted and I happily munch away on the spicy cod pieces. Arlette however, left a foul taste in Nicola’s mouth when she came down almost commanding her to stop smoking. This anti-smoking campaign is unrelenting. Only today a little girl of three or four year’s old told Nicola to pa ka fimì.
One person who can sympathise with Nicola is Fred. He invites us around to his new house and arranges to meet up outside ours in order to escort us past the mad dog. Fred has moved into a house about 200 metres across the road from us. In fact it turns out to be Arlette’s cousin Suzanne’s house but Fred pays Arlette the €200 a week to rent it. I don’t know who is more insane; the Rip-off Merchant or the Fleeced Renter, but I’m restarting to learn not to be surprised by anything here.
The guard dog is not at all menacing at all at all. His name is Mon Meilleur Ami – My Best Friend. Amid the whiskey, beer and cheer Fred drops a bombshell. He wants to know what suicide is in English. I tell him and then ask why he wants to know that. He becomes solemn and tells us openly that his best friend committed suicide six years ago. We sit there in all soberness with our fresh ice-cubes melting away until he recounts the story of Gaelle’s demise. I tell him about Davina and Nicola tells him about her uncle. It’s Fred who wakes us from our serious silence by pouring out more Jameson and proposing a toast to friends past and present.
The night rolls on and on and becomes more bizarre with each watering hour. We’re talking about dormitory antics when Fred produces shaving foam and a razor and our mini-party becomes a foam party as Nic and I get him to shave our legs! He’s as smooth a talker as our pared pins. At some stage Mon Meilleur Ami starts to bark wildly outside. Fred goes to explore while Nic and I munch away on cheesy crisps. On his return the dog slips into the apartment. The poor creature is almost doted on to death. Nicola especially has a soft spot for animals. She is abhorred by Fred’s photos of dead deer and wild boar. She tries to get him to erase the images from his phone. She later spits out some profanities and her creature concerns are erased as she wipes out certain images from her own memory. Just as Fred escorted us to his house he escorts us home. I put Nic to bed. She’ll struggle to get up in the morning for her private lessons but maybe it’ll be a lesson to her. Beer before liquor never been sicker, liquor before beer you’re in the clear.
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