It’s raining this morning and the mosquitoes are nipping at my heels as I wait under a restaurant entrance with other early risers. Fort-de-France is hidden from view by the fog today. I’ve my head in the clouds as I ramble down the capital’s streets to my destination. Someone greets me hastily as I pass by them on the narrow path but it doesn’t register until they’re past me. I think it was Richard but I can’t be sure.
We do another weather report in school today. Madame Caruge’s class apologise for not being available last week and I do likewise. Mr Duval’s class write a weather forecast while they listen to a song… How’s the weather? It’s sunny. It’s sunny today.
How’s the weather?
It’s cold. Brrr. 10°C
It’s warm. 25°C
It’s hot. 35°C
It’s raining (cats and dogs!)
It’s snowing.
It’s sunny.
It’s windy.
It’s cloudy.
The younger kids in Madame Acina’s and Madame Thaly’s classes get the same treatment only they get more arty as they design fluffy clouds and gigantic raindrops. I teach them the second part of Who’s the King of the Jungle?
Madame de la Directrice has been true to her word and she has ordered my materials for the spectacle. There’s not as much as I expected but we’ll have to make do with what we’ve got. Next week will be spent rehearsing, making masks and organising who does what.
Jossylene is in Chateauboeuf today. Boeuf! She has some evaluation sheets for me, for each pupil. Odile also arrives bearing gifts. She found a recipe for Irish pudding in a magazine. Beer and whisky and a multitude of raisons are needed. It’s a recipe for disaster, not for desert.
I’m supposed to be meeting Francine and Cecile for some shopping but the heat is on and it’s not long before I resemble a caramel sundae so I hop on the navette with Marjorie back to Trois-Ilets. Marjorie has finished her lycée teaching so she’s now funding her stay with work in The Litchi Bar and afternoon classes in Schoelcher. She doesn’t seem to pleased that her evenings are spent to-ing and fro-ing from town and Trois-Ilets but she’s made her bed and has to sleep in it – even with the heat and mosquitoes.
I’m reading a book on Météo et Santé about how the weather affects your body. I thought it’d be apt because by moving to Anse Mitan we’ve taken a dive altitude-wise but the temperature has risen noticeably.
I decide against plunging into the sea and I dive into my bed instead. Once the evening comes round I’ve cooled down considerably and am in form to join J.P and Majid in Point du Bout for a few. You just can’t escape the leering locals. About five dudes come up to us wanting to check them; one of them already has a broken hand but he insists on saluting us numerous times before Majid’s soft American accent tunes into coarser French tones as he asks them to buzz off. We invite the guys over for some Irish tea. Nic and J.P have a drop of sugar but Majid and I settle for the milk variation.
Our neighbours downstairs are having another outdoor discussion by the sounds of it. Sarkosy was the topic of conversation last night but they must either be drowning their disappointment at his election or arousing his appointment as their speech is more slurred tonight. The hostess calls up to us and invites us over so we make our way down with our patio chairs and assortment of pets. I don’t catch the girl’s name but according to their post-box it’s Angelique. I’ve already introduced myself to Remy the quiet, suffering boyfriend whose keeping up his act tonight as his angel becomes increasingly loud and cringe-worthingly tipsy. They have four French friends over. Maria and Maeva are staying for three weeks. Arnold and Loïc are here on holiday for what seems like an undetermined amount of time; their tans are proof of this. Angelique can speak English and she keeps telling us that she wants to improve her English. Nicola, always the business woman, tells her that she can give her lessons for a fee – beer could be considered also. The night rolls on and Angelique rolls about the place while the rest of us chat as quietly as we can trying to compensate for her animated antics.
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