Wednesday 30 July 2008

"Banjour!" as the old Guernsey patois goes, (I think).

Today is the third anniversary of my permanent move to Guernsey. I remember well the day that I arrived. My six foot something little brother helped me to close one of my suitcases with a clothes hanger after I'd broken the case's zip then drove me to Gatwick in the driving rain (it was 30 July in London, what other weather would there be?) In return I made a delicious tea for his cricket team and packed it all neatly into the fridge for him to take to the match later on.

When I arrived in Guernsey three years ago I had arranged to rent a room in a house at the south end of Vazon. The room boasted a sea view, but I was still unhappy to be greeted by someone with huge moobs and a wonky eye. Fortunately it wasn't my first ever visit to Guernsey so I knew that this was not the appearance of a typical islander. Oh no, moob man was very special. My room was huge and untouched by interior design trends since 1955.

I jumped on the bus to St. Peter Port. The bus driver ejected all of the passengers about five minutes' ride south of Vazon. I.e. nowhere near St. Peter Port. My fellow travellers were tourists and equally mystified about our apparently random ejection. We waited for about half an hour before a bus arrived from the opposite direction and we boarded, travelling back past my house and north, east and south around most of the island before reaching our desired destination: the civilised charms of St. Peter Port, otherwise known as shops.

I purchased a knife, a fork, a spoon, a plate (microwaveable), a Smarties mug priced at 50 pence, a sharp knife and a medium-sized, cuboid Tupperware box. After packing these necessities into my rucksack I hit Big Checkers at Admiral Park (for some reason it comes out as 'Admirable Park' whenever I utter the name myself although there is really nothing admirable about this unnattractive, unappealing development). I bought some food and caught a bus back to my new seaside home. I read the Guernsey Press and discovered that the Rocquaine Regatta was taking place, meaning that all buses would be unable to travel further south than Perelle (the beach immediately south of Vazon). I felt like a witless foreigner for being unaware of the existence of the annaul regatta at Rocquaine and its temporary impact upon public transports.

Back to the present and dinner smells faintly of burning. Sorry. Time to go. More to come...


SC