I would be the first to admit I can be a bit of an absent blogger, but leaving it this long’s been a record even for me. As normal, I’ve got no excuse but at least I can say that I’ve been doing a bit of jet-setting recently.
One of the few bonuses I can see to being a teacher are the school holidays, so in my Easter vacances (which were actually nowhere near Easter, classic French) Mum and I went to Gambia. We spent the week wandering on the beach, being harassed in equal parts by a group of men on horseback, and a gang of monkeys.
One of the few bonuses I can see to being a teacher are the school holidays, so in my Easter vacances (which were actually nowhere near Easter, classic French) Mum and I went to Gambia. We spent the week wandering on the beach, being harassed in equal parts by a group of men on horseback, and a gang of monkeys.
However, that wasn’t the weirdest thing to happen in Gambia – the new craze over there is for young Gambian men to try and snare any (literally any) English woman, and get her to take him home with him. You wouldn’t believe the amount of obese British grandmas on the arms of young Gambian twenty-somethings until you see it for yourself.
The confusion continued when I realised that if the locals can’t remember your name, they will just pick one out of the blue and that will become your name. Thanks to this, we spent the holiday being called, Pauline, Hilda, Moira, Hannah and my personal favourite… Jonnifer.
In fact, a lot of the people travelling in Gambia were a bit weird too. I spent one lunchtime watching a couple having the ultimate mid-life crisis as they bathed a stray puppy (against its will) in the sea, and then wrapped it in a towel and forbade it to leave their sunbed.
Shortly after, a spindly bloke who introduced himself as Barry White appeared and beckoned me into his wooden hut full of material. Most people with an ounce of common sense would have been straight off back to watch the puppy show, but off I went and before I knew it I was putting down a deposit for him to make me a pair of African trousers and a maxi dress. For all you of little faith that said I’d never see that money again (or Mum's maxi dress which I lent him after seeing the look on his face when I said 'maxi dress' and he clearly pictured a smock for the obese traveller) I’ve gone high-tech and popped a couple of pictures of my new African garmz below:
As for life in Lille, it’s all ticking over as normal. In true Northern France style, we went to a ghetto party last week and got more attention on the metro than I’ve had since I moved here on October. It’s probably worth mentioning that most of this ‘attention’ was from a surly trackie-clad teenager who shouted ‘’I have the big balls’’ down the metro carriage at us, which reminded me alarmingly of being back at work with the more challenged pupils who have disregarded ‘hello’ in favour of ‘motherfucker’, no matter what the circumstances.
As any of you who know me will be aware, a blog of mine isn’t complete without a health fail of some sort, and as usual you won’t be disappointed. A couple of weeks back I went to the doctor with sinusitis and he prescribed me a cocktail of tablets and ended our rendez-vous with ‘and OF COURSE you will be desperately needing a nasal spray.’ Of course. Just as I was starting to feel better, I headed over to Angers to meet up with the usual Soton gang, and had a classic ‘’to faint or to be sick’’ moment in the Grand Place, which everyone enjoyed (particularly Will, who had to carry me like an invalid).
The same evening, drama over, we all went bowling and even though I won spectacularly, my top fell down and left me bowling in just my bra. Swings and roundabouts though, and I rolled with it because it’s tough being a hero and something had to give.
Once the glory wore off and I was safely installed back in my Lille pad, I’ve been considering what to do with my Summer, fairly certain I didn’t want to spend it in England. Not that England’s all that bad, but I’d much rather experience something new while I can than get excited about returning to Waitrose and 4oD. I’ve been considering all corners of the globe, trying to work out what the most beneficial thing I could do would be, until yesterday when I ordered a tuna sandwich and a brie baguette from a stall and the woman replied: ‘’OK, so one chicken bagel yes?’’ On that note, I reckon the best thing I can do is stick around in France, and hopefully move down South – looks like leaving Lille won’t mean an end to my French faux pas.
Definitely time for me to love you and leave you now, as the flush on our toilet’s broken and I made the unwise decision of having a cup of tea when I started writing this, which means time for another sneaky mission to an unsuspecting café. Oh, France.
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