More sssssnake.

Sometimes, dear readers, my life does feel like endless days of stories, anecdotes, drama, comedy, tragic-comedy, punctuated by…

…ssssssssnake!

Aw man, let me not talk about that, let me talk about goodies…

…pine tarts, that is, pineapple jam baked in thin, flaky pastry fold-up like small triangles; biscuits; thick, juicy chunks o’ sweet pineapple; li’l square cakes; sandwiches and tea in delicate teacups…

On Saturday evening we been to auntie-by-the-sea for tea - me and ma and Auntie M. and Uncle J. and a grieving widow. It is a home not far from here with a wide view of the sea. In the verandah we sit, sipping and chatting, watching the brown, unruly tide washooombing high against the seawall. Uncle-by-the-sea make a’ off-hand remark about moon and high tide and the conversation waddle ‘round that for a while, I say something about the November rain finally here after days of screaming white heat.

I point to the house across the road. The man who live there build up a reputation for collecting junk and piling them under he house. Iron, wood, plastic, every scrap that neighbours fling out, he take and keep. As the story go, he got junk under he table, he bed, in he toilet. In the future, if any anthropologist want to study the building habits of we the people, they could go to that spot. Anthropologist wouldn’t see evidence of paint though. Them walls ain’t had one coat o’ paint since the seventies.

“I wonder if that man gon ever paint he house,” I laugh. “He poor wife, I don’t know how she could stand to live there.”

Auntie-by-the-sea say, “His wife said, if she had another life, she would not want to see him ever again, not even his best bones.”

Uncle-by-the-sea say, “One of the neighbours asked him when he’ll paint the house…he told them that he lives inside the house, not the outside.”

Hilarious stories about the mean-spirited ways of the man towards neighbours pass around with the tea. Then, just when the sun glide away to down under, and I been wallowing in the beauty of dark ocean and fishing boats lights dotting horizon, the snake talk punch in.

Electrician find a snake coil-up in the fuse box. Uncle-by-the-sea say it was a thin snake with a small head, look just like one o’ them wires. When the electrician open the fuse box, the snake leap out. This lead to speculation about snakes in we neighbourhood. Which make me thoughts uncoil wildly…me working in we garden…piles of leaves composting…snake curling under…me disturbing leaves…labaria snake…poisonous…

“We should kill every single snake in the world,” I bleat.

Uncle-by-the-sea say, They’re good for the eco-system. I mutter, I don’t care, all snakes must die. My cowardice become the source of amusement but I notice noooobody ain’t say one word about liking snakes and wanting one as a pet even though uncle-by-the-sea talk at length about people Abroad keeping them as pets and snakes is big, big business in pet stores over there.

Yesterday, despite fears, I go into the garden and bravely face the dangers of the Amazon, planting leafy, green vegetable. Tree-cutter, grass-trimmer, sometimes gardener Fazal come by to collect some payment. He stop in we driveway, glance down. And in the drain near the driveway, between garden wall and parapet, what he should spy with he sharp, sharp eye?

“Look a snake shed he skin and leave it there.”

The skin been transparent, long and fat. A big snake.

“Why, why,” I moan and lift mine eyes up to Heaven crying, “Why me Lord?” (Yesterday was Sunday).

“They like you,” my mother say.