On 6th June, the Telegraph reported this story about an attack on twin girls as they slept in their London home, but does reassure us that [...]]]> Just a short little piece of wondering out loud. Following the election of our Con-Dem government, there seems to have been an increase in fox attack stories in the press.

On 6th June, the Telegraph reported this story about an attack on twin girls as they slept in their London home, but does reassure us that “experts say these attacks are very rare”. Just like Michael Beurk at the end of Crimewatch telling us not to have nightmares.

The “rare attack” was followed the following day in the same paper by a call by “experts” to cull “out of control” urban foxes. Obviously not the same experts who were telling us it was a rare incident.

Although the girls were treated in hospital, they are both safely home with their parents, as reported in the Daily Mail, although I’m not sure that a bandaged arm constitutes being “swaddled in bandages”…

The Times got slightly more milage out of the same incident by quoting the mother’s “nightmare” experience, with heroics from husband, and plenty of blood and screaming to titilate the chattering classes.

So far, so banal. But wait, there is more!

The Guardian published a particularly crap piece of journalism on Monday which reported that a three year old in Brighton had been “scratched or bitten” on the arm by a fox. So which was it, scratched or bitten? Was it even a fox?

What we do learn from this article is that the parents of the twin girls, mentioned above, were watching Britain’s Got Talent at the time of the attack, as if this is somehow significant.

But what foxes me is that these rare attacks have suddenly occurred following the election of a Prime Minister who would re-open the debate on whether fox hunting should be legalised. Spooky coincidence, no?

I have missed you. I have stayed away far longer than I ever intended. Why did I go away. Well, it wasn’t you. It was me. I became far too obsessed with checking my stats, then too worried that no-one would love you but me, then too worried that people might not read you, [...]]]> Dear Blog,

I have missed you. I have stayed away far longer than I ever intended. Why did I go away. Well, it wasn’t you. It was me. I became far too obsessed with checking my stats, then too worried that no-one would love you but me, then too worried that people might not read you, and worried that they might

Lots of worry there, plain to see now I type it.

Instead of having fun, I made you into a project. Into Work. I like to work, I like to be busy, but I made you into an Obligation, and then I resented you for it. I forgot this was meant to be Fun.

Sometimes I even make Fun into Work. Like it’s a box to be ticked or something. I berate myself if I don’t feel like going out with friends, so I force myself to do it and then it’s not Fun anymore, but Hard Work.

This is a Huge Issue in my life. Relaxing and having fun just for the sake of it. Lightening up. I can be a fun and funny person if I can stop being serious long enough.

OK, enough of my Stuff for today. I’m not going to blog about my Stuff all the time, so don’t worry. Just this once. Just to say: Hello Blog, I’m back.

And lighter.

After finally getting my certificate translated, that left only the Carte de Séjour. I summoned up the energy to have another crack at it. It is a very draining process, and one has to be psyched up for it. I arrived outside at 6.30am and camped out [...]]]> Previous Chapter: It’s not what you know, you know.

After finally getting my certificate translated, that left only the Carte de Séjour. I summoned up the energy to have another crack at it. It is a very draining process, and one has to be psyched up for it. I arrived outside at 6.30am and camped out on the steps until the office opened at 7, reading Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. By the time I got to the desk, it transpired that they had the whole dossier on me, and just needed at transfer of my file from Haute-Savoie. I left my number with the woman. I know things will speed up now, since Mme Lutin knows someone who works at the Sous-Préfecture.

A couple of days later (after speaking to Mme Lutin), I went to the Aliens Office for the last time. They handed me the document I needed. It was so easy. I still have it to this very day, and if I ever move back to France, will be able to go through the whole process again. Fun!

To say I was ecstatic about getting my resident permit would be taking it a little too far. However, I was feeling the sweet victory at having taken on French bureaucracy, and finally having my efforts pay off. I had taken on the system and won. Actually what I really did, with this and the translation, was what French people do: I used the Système D, which means that eventually you emerge victorious either by sheer dent of willpower or knowing the right person. In France, and especially a small place like Guadeloupe, it’s a people thing.

I had a class after that, so I took the bus up to Baimbridge, wearing my triumph like a crown. I got off on the corner by the mango trees, and there was Leila staggering towards me.

“Oh Kate, I’m so pleased to see you!” she breathed. Pleased to see me? Who’d have thought it? She did look rather desperate to tell the truth. She seemed dizzy and her left arm was cut and bleeding.

“I had a car accident…” she trailed off. The traffic lights were changing so she had stopped and the person behind ran straight into the back of her.

I took her into school so she could get some first aid and get out of the heat. Then it suddenly occurred to me that there was no sign of any car.

“Where’s the car?”

Apparently the police had towed it away as it was blocking the intersection. Since Leila was babbling away incoherently, and I was still feeling like I could take on the world, I called the car hire company and did five rounds with them. As it turned out, the car had been delivered back to them and they had been charged by the police for the use of the camion-grue which had brought it back. They wanted to pass this charge on to Leila, but I managed to talk them out of this, pointing out that she had taken out collision damage waiver, and that they would be insured. I really laid it on thick about how poorly Leila was feeling and how far away from her family she was.

“Do you have children monsieur? Would you not like to think that people would be compassionate to them in the same situation?”

They let her off the charge. That’s the Système D for you. I don’t know why I bothered, after all I owed Leila less than nothing, I guess I was still high after taking on the system and winning once that day, I thought I’d have another go. Besides a deposit in the bank of Good Karma never goes amiss, a lesson the Leilas of this world would do well to learn.

School started again and I still did not have my degree certificate translated, or my carte de séjour. This was becoming a joke, and not a very funny one at that.

I telephoned Mme Erivan at the Chamber of Commerce. I had left a photocopy of said certificate with [...]]]> Previous chapter: Exploring the local flora and fauna.

School started again and I still did not have my degree certificate translated, or my carte de séjour. This was becoming a joke, and not a very funny one at that.

I telephoned Mme Erivan at the Chamber of Commerce. I had left a photocopy of said certificate with her the previous week. I strongly suspected that if I gave her the original I would never see it again. Mme Erivan said it should be ready by Monday, but I should call before coming “in case there was a problem”. What kind of problem could there possibly be? There were only about twenty words on the certificate, I was effectively paying for a rubber stamp.

David Dabydeen, author of “The Counting House” was doing a book tour of the French Caribbean to promote its translation into French. He  just happened to be giving a talk at Leila’s school, so Abigail and I thought it would be fun to gatecrash. Since we had been invited to the reading and meal that evening, I didn’t see there would be any harm. Leila, incidentally, was nowhere to be seen. Somehow I managed to get on the local news that evening, as RFO were there filming the talk.

After that fun-packed day there was still more to come. The dinner and talk was a posh restaurant in Gosier. The food was fantastic. Leila was there and I couldn’t be bothered to pretend to be nice. She completely ignored me anyway, but I noticed that everyone else ignored her and I had plenty of people to speak to. She was wearing a strange zebra print outfit which sagged and strained in all the wrong places.

Crazy Jean was on our table, but behaved himself. In France, they don’t expect you to stand up, manoeuvre a plate, knife, fork, and wine glass and hold a conversation at the same time. Party planners take note: you are provided with a chair and a place at a table, much more civilised. During the conversation, I recounted the translation story to Murielle, who promptly introduced me to Mme Erivan. The certificate will be ready on Monday morning. Typical of the way things work here. But something else happened which was funny, in a cringing kind of way.

David Dabydeen was saying about when the book had been translated into French, and how it was difficult to render puns and word plays into another language. In one part of the book, one of the characters corrupts some Latin dictum by changing “sunt” into “cunt”

“What was this word,” asked Mme Erivan, earnestly, “That means a man’s thing?”

“It doesn’t mean a man’s thing. It’s a woman’s thing,” I said, embarrassed.

“What was the word? I need to know this slang term,” she insisted.

So I told her. Murielle (the one with the hair) was howling with laughter.

“How’s it spelt?”

How I kept a straight face is beyond me. Murielle pointed out to Mme Erivan (the translator) that it is probably the rudest word in the English language. She was duly apologetic.

“But I needed to know.”

Yes well, we left it there. What was she going to be translating with that word in, I wondered?

The certificate story ends happily, as on Monday morning, I wandered down to the Chamber of Commerce. The certificate was indeed ready and Mme Erivan only charged me a hundred francs instead of two hundred “because of the inconvenience”.

I went walking in the rainforest with some of the teachers from school. I only slipped over on my bum once, which wasn’t bad going for me. I found a cute bloke to help me across the river. His name was Germain and he was a classroom assistant at Caraïbes. After that we went [...]]]> Previous chapter

I went walking in the rainforest with some of the teachers from school. I only slipped over on my bum once, which wasn’t bad going for me. I found a cute bloke to help me across the river. His name was Germain and he was a classroom assistant at Caraïbes. After that we went for a picnic on the beach at Deshais. The waves there were huge, and we went surfing. It was great getting to know people. After the negative week I’d had, it was sorely needed.

Over the holidays I made several discoveries which helped the settling in process. I discovered the CIJ, from where I could access the internet. Guadeloupe was just starting to catch on to the net in the year 2000. I also found a shop which sold incense and joined a yoga class. Maybe Tim was right, I was just a hippy after all. I experimented making yummy food with mangoes, green bananas and plantain.

England was on the television hit by floods, storms and snow. I felt a bit guilty as I lay out on the beach one afternoon. but not for very long! Abigail had taken Amy and myself down to Sainte-Anne. It was lovely getting out of town and relaxing, although every time I looked out to sea all I could think about was all those miles between Jim and me. I still thought about him every single day.

As we were packing the picnic stuff back into the car, Amy told me something which had me kind of concerned. She’d been over to Providence to visit Mike, and on the way back home she mentioned that someone had given her a lift.

“A car stopped and these two guys asked if I wanted a lift.”

“Did you know them?” I felt worried. Things which would make me uncomfortable didn’t seem to bother Amy. The time we’d been at Tim’s it had been me who’d wanted to leave.

“No, but they were really nice.”

Abigail agreed with me. It was just too dangerous, she said. I’d rather get a bike and take my chances with the traffic. I may sound paranoid, but rather than try and get out of trouble I try not to put my person in that position in the first place. That’s not to say I didn’t have a couple of near misses myself that year, but Amy pushed her luck too far sometimes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a clear night, the moon settled into a Cheshire cat grin in the darkening sky. Abigail took us back via the cemetery at Morne-à-l’eau. It may sound bizarre, but Toussaint is one of the biggest events on the Gwada calendar. In a fusion of Catholic tradition and local superstition, whole families spend the day up at the cemeteries visiting the graves of their ancestors. They tidy the place up, put flowers out, get out the deck chairs and make a day of it. They’ll tell stories, sing songs, have a picnic on the tomb. When it starts to get dark, the families light candles and party into the night. It really is a massive social occasion. As we drove past the cemetery, there was something of a carnival atmosphere, with hotdog vans and candy-floss stalls lining the pavement where children played.

Death is a very important part of Caribbean culture. Every morning on the radio, there is an announcement of who is having their funeral that day, along with family wishes. They do this on most of the islands, regardless of the language spoken there. People listen to these announcements and sometimes even if they have the most tenuous links with the person will turn up to wish them well in the next life. So the text books say. Marie said it was more of an excuse to catch up on the gossip.

Marie would have got on very well with Jim. We were discussing politics after yet another news bulletin showing Mr Gore and Mr Bush waving around plastic swords. We came to the conclusion that there should be a party somewhere between the Greens and the Communists, and that we’d really like an interview with Fidel Castro. Now you can criticise the guy for a great many things, but I thought it was good on him that Cuba didn’t have any McDonald’s.

On the Friday before the Toussaint holidays came to an end, I had been invited to the Histoire-géo society’s annual dinner dance. I had a wonderful time and didn’t get home until three in the morning. Alex, one of the teachers from school and his wife came to pick me up and took me home, which was very good of them since they lived over in Petit-Bourg. They also brought their son Michel over with them. Michel was the same sort of age as I was and was studying for his maîtrise in applied mathematics. The very nice Germain was also there and asked me to dance, and asked me for my number.

On Sunday, I went over to Alex’s yacht at Bas-du-Fort. Afterwards, I went for a “petit tour” with Germain in his car. I suppose it was a bit rich after what I’d said to Amy about getting into cars with guys. But I’d met Germain a couple of times and he worked at the same school, so that was OK, wasn’t it? We ended up at his place (big surprise there). And then he tried it on (even bigger surprise). Now, I liked the guy, but I just didn’t want to get into this kind of scene when we’d only just met. I asked him to take me home, which he did. I was lucky, because he could have turned out to be a real creep and not taken no for an answer. I didn’t expect him to call me again. I had this mantra, “I can’t stand one night stands”. I had such high morals, back then.

However, a week or so later, he did call me. I was not completely happy that he did.

“Hi Germain, how’s it going?”

“I’m fine. I’m just outside your apartment.”

This threw me off guard. He’d called on the landline too, so I couldn’t pretend I was on the other side of the island or something. I should have said I was just on my way out or something, but I felt obliged to invite him up. Fortunately Marie was in, so there was little chance of any sort of problem developing. He left after about an hour, but wanted to take me back to his house. I said no, I had other plans. I made that up, but the guy had made it blatantly obvious what he was after and I wasn’t interested.

If we were to have any sort of relationship, I didn’t want him just popping up like that. Apart from anything else, it was just plain bad manners.

“Don’t be naïve, Kate,” warned Abigail when I told her about this incident, “He had no business just dropping round like that. He should have called first.”

“I’m glad you said that. I was starting to think that it was me who had a problem.”

“If you want to go out with him, fine. But he has to respect your boundaries. Go to the cinema or the beach, not each other’s apartments. Don‘t be too available. If he‘s genuine, he‘ll want to make plans with you in advance, and if he‘s a jerk he‘ll disappear.”

As it turns out, Germain was a jerk, and as Abigail predicted, he and his booty calls simply disappeared without trace. I didn’t see him again until several months later as I was coming out of the reprographics room. He’d put on a bit of weight, and I didn’t think he was that good looking anymore. Case closed.

Having regained my composure sufficiently from my failed attempt to get my paperwork done, I tried again to get my carte de séjour done during the Toussaint holidays. I found the office straight away thanks to Mrs Straw Hat. Trouble was, I ended up waiting for three hours and then it closed for lunch. [...]]]> Previous chapter.

Having regained my composure sufficiently from my failed attempt to get my paperwork done, I tried again to get my carte de séjour done during the Toussaint holidays. I found the office straight away thanks to Mrs Straw Hat. Trouble was, I ended up waiting for three hours and then it closed for lunch. Not to be deterred this time, I was the first on the doorstep when they opened for the afternoon. The woman told me that I would need the carte that I’d had done when I was in Annecy, which was back home in England. Great. I didn’t get upset this time, though, as I was starting to accept that this was just par for the course and not a personal affront.

As I left the office, the heavens opened in a true pathetic fallacy. I ducked into the pharmacy to buy some sweet almond oil to put on my bites.  I had planned to go to the chamber of commerce to get my degree certificated translated for the CAPES, but I gave up on that idea. None of this sums up exactly how crap I was feeling, but I managed to contain myself until I called my mum to ask her to post my old carte de séjour. Thankfully, being an organised kind of person, I knew exactly where it was.

As it was the holidays and not much was going on, I passed by Amy’s place to see how she was getting along. Somehow I ended getting sucked down another vortex of weirdness. I ended up accompanying Amy and this teacher called Tim to look for a mobile phone.

“He’s a bit odd,” Amy warned. Possibly the understatement of the decade.

An ageing Skoda pulled up outside the school and executed a near-perfect handbrake turn. Impresses me every time, that’s for sure.

“Get in then,” he said without saying hello or anything. Rest in peace chivalry, I thought.

He started up with a barrage of questions, which I started to deflect rather skilfully. I was starting to regret saying I’d come. Then I thought, why not play along and have a bit of fun?

Tim seemed to take a macabre pleasure in the seedier side of life. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he was into necrophilia, and I don’t say that about many people. During the course of the afternoon, he managed to introduce the subjects of sexual harassment, physical attacks (sexual and non-sexual), marital infidelity, murder, rape and various other crimes against the person.

Tim was in his early forties and from England. He was divorced, he told us. This was because his wife had walked out and left him for another man. I could completely understand why. He spent all afternoon referring to her as his “lady spouse”. He accused me of being a tree-hugging hippy and he didn’t even know me. I cannot really do justice to how obnoxious this guy was. The only surprising thing was that anyone would want to marry him in the first place. He would have been well on his way to becoming another statistic if the knife I’d just stuck between his shoulder blades wasn’t just a figment of my imagination. And that’s coming from a tree-hugging hippy freak.

Against my better judgement, Amy and I ended up at his flat. I thought I’d better go along as I didn’t want to leave Amy alone with him. He lived in Grand-Camp, so we made up some story about being invited somewhere at seven in a bid to escape from this weirdo.

Amy came back to mine and ended up staying over. It was good to talk to someone who was going through the same things I was. If anything, Amy was finding things even more difficult than I was.

I mentioned this Tim to Marie over breakfast the next day. Marie listened carefully and told me never to go to his flat again, advice I gladly heeded. She seemed to know exactly who I was talking about and was convinced that he was a maniac sexuel. She said he sometimes hangs around Match supermarket staring at passers-by. This would not have surprised me. He was a class A freak, at any rate and I’ve known a few.

“If it’s the same guy,” I ventured.

“Hope so,” she said, “Else there’s two of them running around the neighbourhood.”

Next Chapter

The next day, I went to the sous-préfecture, which, conveniently, was closed due to refurbishment. The police station was located next door, and that seemed a logical place to go and ask for directions. The officer on desk duty was a Métro. He looked about eighteen, and severely hung-over. A few minutes later, I [...]]]> Previous chapter

The next day, I went to the sous-préfecture, which, conveniently, was closed due to refurbishment. The police station was located next door, and that seemed a logical place to go and ask for directions. The officer on desk duty was a Métro. He looked about eighteen, and severely hung-over. A few minutes later, I found myself walking up the stairs of a rather sombre building. I saw a doorbell with an intercom. I buzzed and a woman answered.

“Excuse me, is this where I can apply for a residence permit?”

“No, you need the fourth floor.”

On I climbed. I was fully expecting to encounter snow at the next turn as the stairs wound on and on. At least I was in the right building, I thought. Eventually, there were no more stairs, but a landing with seats. It looked reassuringly like a waiting room. Someone came out of the door, and when he left, I rang the bell.

“Come in,” called a female voice, barely audible above the sound of a dog barking. Gingerly, I opened the door half way. There was a middle-aged Métro woman talking on the phone with only a towel wrapped round her. Something told me that this was not the place where one applied for a residence permit. I hastily excused myself and left.

Outside on the street the sun was beating down mercilessly. My head was spinning with frustration and helplessness at not being able to complete the simplest of tasks. I sat on the kerb and cried my eyes out. I felt well and truly wretched. I knew that one day I would laugh at this story, but at that point in time the comedy of the situation evaded me. I was ready to pack my bags and leave. So this is what I came here for? To sit on a pavement crying thousands of miles from home? If I never came back to Guadeloupe ever again it would be too soon. Everything was starting to piss me off big time. Like when complete strangers came up to me in the street to offer suggestions for my many mosquito bites. Maybe they were just trying to help, but I would sooner they just minded their own business. What I didn’t realise it that everything is everyone’s business there.

“Hey, it can’t be that bad,” an ample woman wearing a straw hat and a flowery dress spoke to me in English. It turned out that she was from Dominica, and had just been to apply for her carte de séjour. She directed me to the office, which was on the other side of the street. After queuing for over an hour, I came out with a list of documents I needed to apply for my card.

I decided that was enough for one day. I retreated back to Grand-Camp. Maybe Marie would be able to offer me some advice. Or if not, kick me out of my depression. I was sick of the responsibility of being an ambassador for my country, sick of the heat, the humidity, the men, not having my friends from home. I did not want to paint a gloomy picture to the folks back home, nor offend the local people who had been so kind to me. My only solace during those dark moments was to confide in the blank paper of my travel journal, my constant companion. Most of all I felt angry at myself for letting things get to me.

Anyone who has travelled will have experienced this culture shock and basically you have two choices, either to give up and go home, or work through it. I was discovering that it is in precisely those moments when you think you cannot cope that you learn to cope. When all your crutches from your home life are taken away, you find out what really supports you. On that day I wasn’t feeling that much inner strength, but somehow, I knew things would, had to, get better.

Stay tuned for tales of a weird ex-pat British teacher, hitch-hiking and a side serving of politics.

The seaside edtition. Check out the mussels on that!

OK, enough chat, today is supposed to be wordless!

My role at the Lycée was somewhat fluid at best and took me most of the first month to figure out what I was actually doing there. For a start, at no point was I ever given a timetable. I eventually figured that as long as I put in a cameo appearance in the [...]]]> Previous chapter

My role at the Lycée was somewhat fluid at best and took me most of the first month to figure out what I was actually doing there. For a start, at no point was I ever given a timetable. I eventually figured that as long as I put in a cameo appearance in the staff room now and again, and turned up regularly to the lessons of teachers who wanted me, that would be fine. At one point I probably could have taken a two-week holiday in the middle of term and no one would have noticed.

I would have questioned my own sanity if it were not for the fact that there was another assistant in the school, a Zimbabwean lady called Abigail. She was married to a chap from Martinique who worked at the University. She had two children and had lived in Guadeloupe for ten years. If I ever thought that my problems settling in were due to being white, Abigail soon set me straight on this. At one point she had got so fed up with Guadeloupe that she took the children back to Zimbabwe for the best part of a year and Jean, her husband, had to move heaven and earth to get her to come back. No big deal, he’d already done that to get her in the first place, but that is a story for another day.

The following Monday saw us attend a meeting for all the English language assistants. I did meet Amy, and it turned out that she worked at the other Baimbridge school and was staying in the boarding house there. She did have her tongue pierced, but not the face full of metal that Leila seemed to imply. Spookily enough she was on her year abroad from Cardiff university. It was a small world indeed. Amy had also experienced the big freeze from Leila. We swapped numbers, since it would be good to explore with someone who had an open mind.

The meeting was at the Lycée de Providence, which compared to Lycée Caraïbes was very posh. Apparently Caraïbes was awaiting a rebuild and in the meantime the old buildings were just being left to rack and ruin. It also had a reputation for being a “bad” school in the local area, something which would prepare me nicely for my future career. I could tell this by the way people winced when I told them where I was based. Providence had language labs, computer aided learning and all mod cons, whereas at Caraïbes we would gouge each other’s eyes out over a tape recorder only to find that the room in question did not even have an electrical socket.

Mme. Fleurival talked for a while about how we were all ambassadors for our countries and that our behaviour here was very important. Guadeloupe is a small island, and in any small place, people gossip about anything and everything. Being from a small town, this was not news to me.

We moved into another room, for drinks and nibbles. Pete came over and sat next to me, and we chatted for a while. He seemed quite surprised that none of the others had called on me. Leila had not given any of them my number, typical of her. Pete asked for my number, so I gave it to him. Much good may it do him, I thought.

I tore myself away from sexy Pete. I was not there to pull, I had networking to do. I had become quite good at networking, although by no means a natural, I had come to understand that my survival in Gwada depended on knowing the right people. Mme. Fleurival even gave me her personal contact details, which she told me not to give anyone else.

I managed to negotiate three hours a week at Collège Saint John-Perse. Abigail and I were also pumping Mme. Fleurival for information about the CAPES, the French teaching certificate, and there just happened to be a bloke from the training college there. I noticed Leila sticking her beak in.

“What’s the CAPES?”

“It’s the French teaching certificate. You have to have your degree, though, so I guess it wouldn’t interest you.”

Leila seemed dumbfounded by this snub, as if no-one had ever played her at her own game. Sometimes you have to speak to a bully in their own language. She faded into the background after that, although later on I heard her complaining about not getting to practise her French as much as she would like since she was living with English speakers. Go figure.

The next day, after morning lessons, Abigail and I went up to the teacher training college to find out more information about the CAPES. Somehow, thanks to our conversation with Mme. Fleurival, they were expecting us and we managed to enroll straight away. There were also exam preparation classes on a Wednesday afternoon, since that is when French schools are closed.

I had got the Education Nationale stitched up, but one thing which had been bugging me was the ongoing issue of the carte de séjour. Having done this paper chase once during my stay in Annecy, I thought it would be relatively straightforward. Famous last words. In reality, the fact that I had already been registered in France actually complicated matters.

More about that adventure next time.

Previous chapter

It was the third week into my stay in Gwada, when one Saturday night, Marie went out to some party or other and I stayed at home experimenting making myself a little treat of curried green bananas. I was quite surprised when Marie came back before ten.

“Kate, [...]]]> Based on extracts from The Guadeloupe Diaries, 2000-2001

Previous chapter

It was the third week into my stay in Gwada, when one Saturday night, Marie went out to some party or other and I stayed at home experimenting making myself a little treat of curried green bananas. I was quite surprised when Marie came back before ten.

“Kate, you’re never going to believe who’s there! Leila and the English assistants. You’ve got to come, I want to see the look on her face when you arrive!” I could not resist. I got myself glammed up and off we sped to Prise d’Eau.

Leila made little secret of her irritation that I was there, trying every trick in the book to exclude me from conversation. At one point she actually turned her back on me and practically waved a fan right in my face to obscure my view of the group.

“So Leila, how’s life in Gosier?” I inquired with forced conviviality. “Oh it’s absolutely fabulous!” she gushed. “Jenny and I are sharing a room. We’re like sisters!” Jenny, I noted, smiled weakly, but remained silent. A silence which said more than words ever could.

“Pete not with you tonight?” Stating the obvious, I knew, but I would have bet a million that there had been some kind of bust-up. I was right. “No, he’s decided to stay in his little boarding house.“ Leila barely concealed a scowl. This was obviously a sore point. She changed the subject. “Have you met the other assistant? The one with all the piercings?” “Who’s that?” “Amy or something. You’ll know her when you see her,” Leila added with a superior smile which I wanted to swat like a fly.

“She’s at the Lycée Classique,” Leila continued her character assassination of the unfortunate Amy, but I wasn’t really listening. She was boring me, to be honest. Luckily, someone appeared with more drinks and I took the opportunity to attempt to make conversation with the insipid Jenny (a totally unrewarding experience) while Leila went to find the poor gimp she’d suckered into giving her a lift.

I was rescued when they all went off to a club somewhere. I wasn’t invited, but that was just fine by me. I spent the rest of the evening drinking and smoking way too much. Ho-hum.