dimanche 25.02.07 Reposition
The guys tidy up while Nic and I freshen up. However, instead of returning to find the place spick and span we find Lionel stretched out on the couch and J.V asleep on a terrace chair. Chef Masail is the only one on sentry - and scullery, duty. We chat to Oli for a while before Nicola’s croissant cramps kick in and he decides to head off as he has to pick-up Matthew and bring him to the boat. There’s talk about going to the beach later. We’re a bit non-committal as we’re feeling brittle but he’ll be back for the lads at any rate.
Nicola confines herself to her room as her insides start to dance and dive. I’m considering taking to a hammock in the garden when Lionel rouses himself. Our mid-morning nattering session brings with it a post-mortem of the night’s proceedings, a bitching session about Martinique and a fairy-tale guessing game spurred by the Gingerbread Man t-shirt I’m wearing. Our chitter-chatter also brings a not-so-happy Nicola from her room.
It’s time to hike up the hill and touch base with Fergal and the family in Ireland. I hack the boiling cabin and sweat away in the sheer midday heat as I recount our Carnaval antics and news to date. An hour later I’m back on the terrace helping clear-up the remaining pastries. Waste not. Want not. It’s so hot; I can’t figure out whether I’m perspiring tea, sweat or alcohol!
Oliver’s Caribbean time-keeping skills are well intact. I wonder how these guys ever get through army life if they’re always so tardy. The lads try to cajole me to join them at the beach but I think that if I perspire any more I’ll evaporate. Plus after such a heady fortnight and school just around the corner I decline and bid them farewell.
With the dishes done, my bag packed for school and another power shower taken I hop into bed for the afternoon. I rise in time to join Nicola in watching the Sunday night film, Gloria. Sharon Stone jumps about the screen so much it almost makes me nauseous; though I can’t be as bad as poor sick Nic who is fighting the flour within.
Bed beckons once again. The mosquitoes are back from their holidays. Beasties. I’m stung but I resist the itch. Instead I let the cool anti-itch gel and pent-up post-holiday exhaustion lull me to sleep.
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