This morning I’m up at 6,00. Marie-Louise must hear me pottering about downstairs. She calls down to say that breakfast is ready. Breakfast consists of toasted bread with an assortment of jam, and various nuts and prune-like fruit bits in fancy dishes. Marie-Louise feeds the birds their pastries while I sip on my herbal tea. I’ve unwittingly added milk to it but it probably doesn’t taste any worse that way. It’s a fine dining experience in itself with enough fancy dishes and family delft to set up a pawn shop. Marie-Louise pops her pills and offers me some herbal advice. Ahh! Homeopathy. Save me from the compact calcium and desiccated barking-mad-quack-duck-bill remedies. On second thoughts a few of those grey tablets might just numb the nausous feeling now being brought on by thoughts of spoonfuls of cod liver oil. Uggh. I shuddered this morning at the thought and I’m shuddering yet again as I type this.
The bus journey into school is a dream. I’m on my first bus, the No.26, at 6, 45. The one from town leaves at 7, 10 and I’m in school with almost half an hour to spare. To be honest I’ve been putting off doing more St. Patrick work with the kids as I think that too much time could be wasted on the story of a snake-charming saint when the time could be used more effectively. We continue with food and meals today. The babies’ bibs come in handy again as I hang them on the board to indicate the different meal times; breakfast: lunch: dinner. I explain the workings of each meal chez-moi. Breakfast is when you casses le jeûne. You have brunch when you wake up late. Lunch is light. And the evening meal, dinner, fills you up so much that you don’t give McDo a second thought. I also allocate different times for each meal to indicate how we don’t have to rely on the 24 hour clock. Breakfast 7 a.m: Lunch 1 p.m: Dinner 7 p.m.
By the time I get home I don’t feel like eating. Bed is my priority. I usually have a siesta so I settle down for a snooze. Someone’s trickin’ about with a motorbike outside. I try to block out the noise and I’m just drifting off again when I hear a faint knock on the door. I roll over and ignore it.
Nic is off to Dorian’s again tonight and I decide to hang out with Lionel. He wants to visit La Feuille du Tôle again but he can’t remember where it is. Honestly, it’s a surprise some of these dudes are in the army. It’s closed when we get there but we have pizza and cake on the beach as we talk about army antics and the annoying rituals I’ve to adhere to of late.
Mardi 24.04.07 Change of Address
Lionel and I had a great laugh last night over the eccentricities of my loony Cluny hosts. This morning I join Marie-Louise and Christian at their breakfast table. There’s a place set for me on the trolley but as my telepathic skills are not quite up to scratch I’ve arrived with my own bowl and plate. Supposedly they had smoked salmon salad ready for us last night. Nicola’s feeble knocking didn’t rouse me but I don’t think I could have stood the airs and graces and multiple cutlery confusion. That malarkey has its place.
This morning the couple are watching some digital T.V channel on their laptop. I’m beginning to think that they are really showing off or they are either total media hoares with both the T.V and the laptop set to coverage and analysis of the presidential vote. I find it sad and I can’t eat my cereal quickly enough.
The bus doesn’t come as quickly as hoped but Nicola joins me and we discuss how we’ll repay the couple for their kindness. We decide that a meal out is the only way we can pay them so once I’m home I ask the lounging lady of leisure if they’ve any plans for tomorrow night. They don’t. She likes the idea but is quick to add that we must have an aperitif before we go dining. There’s no shortage of champagne or campari or cognac in the cellar downstairs so we may never get out tonight!
Marjorie is on this morning’s bus. She’s late. It’s her last day at College Nicolas. She says she won’t miss it. The island beach party at Cap Chevalier was replaced with a booze-up at Les Salines because the boatman came down with a case of Martiniquan money fever; he wanted €10 a head to ferry people around. As it happens he found a group who were willing to pay €35 each with BBQ gear thrown in so he dropped the assistantship in the end irregardless. There’s news of a party at Rachel and Sara’s gaff in Diamant this weekend… Umm… I wonder if Alex would like to come?
I’m a tad late this morning but as I’ve rang ahead there’s no drama. I’ve a while before the bus drops me off so I ring Madame Doriac to see if Morgane is still available for a lesson tomorrow and I contact Madame Bonne and Madame Bourdogne to find out about private lessons and payslips respectively. That crazy woman whose son went to Ireland recently has been back on the blower to Nicola. Roseamonde. That’s her. I’m sure I’ll hear the scandal later.
The trip to Tartane with the CE2 classes has been cancelled so I have my regular classes with Madame Pamphile and Madame Edragas. All goes well as I get the younger kids outside for What time is it Mr. Wolf? Though because I thought I wouldn’t be running about I wore heels; not the most sensible of shoes for the activity but my over the top hops make the kids laugh. Another Ruth slip-up worth giggling over arises in Madame Bois’ class; two centimetres above my trousers. One girl, who usually does nothing, is very attentive today but I soon find out when she slips me a piece of paper: Ruth, faite remonter votre pantaloon car on voit votre boxer. I’m glad I wore the lacy turquoise one’s today and not the tatty baby blue one’s – those early morning decisions carry more worth than we think.
Elizabeth’s in today. She remarks that Jossylene is on her way – I’ll believe it when I see it. I don’t. I give Madame de la Directrice my new address and I chat to her for a while about our troublesome landlady. She tells me that her friends’ apartment would not have posed so many problems for me. I have neither the time nor the inclination to go into detail about anything so I bid her bon appetite and I’m off into town with Fanny trailing beside me asking if I know Jerome from Avignon; it’s a small, small world we live in.
I pop into the bank, l’Atrium and the library to alert them about my change of address. The later two are done in seconds but the bank insists that I furnish some proof after she has gone to the trouble of changing the information in the database. I go to Snack Alibaba for one of those wonderful chicken schwaramas which David was raving about during his last days in purgatory.
Even after an hour in my bag the pita pocket still tastes good. The hot sauce reignites the bout of coughing from last night’s tangy pizza but I stuff my mouth with the larger of the pink napkins to stifle the noise. Wow! It’s not just for regular cutlery. I may have just found another use for it. The smaller pink napkin is, I was told, for breakfast or dessert cutlery so I’ve abided by the rules and brought a smaller knife and fork for my warm chocolate cake which was heated in the ever so complicated microwave. It’s only complicated because it’s old. Not like the state-of-the-art brand spanking new grill and hob which function so easily; if you know how – or dare how.
Marie-Louise is chilling in the acclimatised lounge while I’m hungrily munching on my savoury pita pocket. I make a conscious effort not to make too much noise but as Murphy’s Rule would have it I manage to scrape the delft with every motion of the cutlery. Our poor hostess will probably have a heart attack when she inspects the plate for striations later this evening.
I’ve found another use for the large pink napkins… It’s quite sad actually. I blame Nurse Nicola for administering some wacky pills to me a while ago. I suppose all considered it has been a hectic pasts few weeks. I wouldn’t say I’m homesick but I I do miss faces and places. I’m probably just under the weather. I think my moodiness would be justified more if it was lashing rain. though unfortunately for me the weather here is only wonderful. The folks back at home in Ireland have been spoiled lately with wonderful weather too. Nicola’s not feeling too hunky-dory either as she comes straight home from Dorian’s after feeling ill. I try to sleep away my mood and it works for a while until I hear more nattering outside my door. Grrr. Knock the door down if you want but don’t have a conference outside my room. I think Nic was getting another dishwasher induction as she unwittingly unloaded the dirty dishes! I knew their anal rinsing methods would cause a problem.
Although I thought solitary confinement was what I wanted I contact Oli. Bless J He’s always one for putting things in perspective. Lionel’s only a phone-call away too and he offers to come over. He coaxes me out of the mad maison and we unravel the world’s problems by the quay in Fort-de-France before I’m sent to bed for having les petits yeux.
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