Thursday 21 August 2014
Stupidity at breakfast.
Not even Mother's stupidity. Odd.
So, keeping on the healthy-eating wagon, I choose a good, wholesome selection of fruit and muesli from the breakfast buffet. Of course, I preceded this with bacon, scramble, croissants etc, not wanting to be wasteful (logical explanation).
On my little adventure I notice that noodles are provided (presumably due to the influx of Asian travelers at this hotel) for breakfast. What's that there by the noodles? Aha! Maple syrup! Perfect. I proceed to dress my fruit in such deliciously-sweet goodness and head back to the table.
After my first mouthful I feel a little...
"Mummy, I think the fruit here in Barcelona is very different to back home. It tastes a bit funny"
After two more bites I am quite sure something isn't right.
Salty.
Oh. My. God. I have put soy sauce all over my fruit and cereal. Wonderful. Upon the discovery I am partially sick and partially very disappointed in my idiocy. The question of 'why would they put maple syrup by noodles' clearly didn't come into play beforehand.
I'd like to say everything went as it should the following morning. Sadly not.
Not wanting to make the same mistake again, I locate the real maple syrup. Labelled 'maple syrup'. Good sign. Right by the cereal and pastries. Next to the honey. Even better sign. With absolute confidence, I pour a healthy (unhealthy perhaps) amount onto my breakfast again.
Being extremely hungry, I do not hesitate in taking a very large bite. No inhibitions. I know what to expect.
Wrong.
This time there has apparently been some ridiculous mix-up in the kitchens and have switched the soy sauce and maple syrup around. I am very nearly sick and fully suspicious of foul play by the devil.
It may be a while before I eat soy sauce again. Or maple syrup. Or fruit. Or breakfast.
xoxo
So, keeping on the healthy-eating wagon, I choose a good, wholesome selection of fruit and muesli from the breakfast buffet. Of course, I preceded this with bacon, scramble, croissants etc, not wanting to be wasteful (logical explanation).
On my little adventure I notice that noodles are provided (presumably due to the influx of Asian travelers at this hotel) for breakfast. What's that there by the noodles? Aha! Maple syrup! Perfect. I proceed to dress my fruit in such deliciously-sweet goodness and head back to the table.
After my first mouthful I feel a little...
"Mummy, I think the fruit here in Barcelona is very different to back home. It tastes a bit funny"
After two more bites I am quite sure something isn't right.
Salty.
Oh. My. God. I have put soy sauce all over my fruit and cereal. Wonderful. Upon the discovery I am partially sick and partially very disappointed in my idiocy. The question of 'why would they put maple syrup by noodles' clearly didn't come into play beforehand.
I'd like to say everything went as it should the following morning. Sadly not.
Not wanting to make the same mistake again, I locate the real maple syrup. Labelled 'maple syrup'. Good sign. Right by the cereal and pastries. Next to the honey. Even better sign. With absolute confidence, I pour a healthy (unhealthy perhaps) amount onto my breakfast again.
Being extremely hungry, I do not hesitate in taking a very large bite. No inhibitions. I know what to expect.
Wrong.
This time there has apparently been some ridiculous mix-up in the kitchens and have switched the soy sauce and maple syrup around. I am very nearly sick and fully suspicious of foul play by the devil.
It may be a while before I eat soy sauce again. Or maple syrup. Or fruit. Or breakfast.
xoxo
Wednesday 20 August 2014
Tuesday 19 August 2014
Mother chases the emergency services
Returning from our sunset beach work-out (very Cali, I know) we find ourselves driving behind two fire trucks, being led by a police car.
"Let's follow them! Come on, I'm going to follow them! What's going on, Darling?"
"... I couldn't say"
"In fact, Darling, it is simply my duty to follow them"
"What?"
"Well, you see, I need to check how efficient they really are. It's no good if they dawdle, is it?"
"I see."
So, unlike those who may be being chased by a police car, the police car is being chased by Mother. Along with the two fire engines.
Clearly, things like this do not happen frequently. We used to be immune to anything like this (an overly-regular occurrence in Brighton) however, as we are literally speeding through the windy roads of an urbanization, Mother has a greedy, thrilled facial expression. Trying to keep up with the flashing lights and deafening sirens ahead, nearly knocking over residents, I am beginning to wish I had been more aggressive when trying to persuade Mother to just go home. Like everyone else.
As we are blasting away, four strange-looking planes are circling above us along with an SOS helicopter. Luckily, this once, all the attention is focused directly on something other than Mother. As we approach the scene, there are a whole load more police cars with men surrounding the area. Naturally, Mother rolls down her window to make certain she has secured sufficient eye contact with the young ones.
Unfortunately, as Mother tries to inch closer, we are warned away. Not by the police (who probably wouldn't care who did what) but by three old men. Shirtless. Standing side by side in a garden with fedoras and a hosepipe in hand (for the gardenias, not the fire). They all signal to Mother that she ought to turn around (very weirdly, they all do the exact same hand motion in sync with each other). Another flashback to the Village of the Damned et al.
"I know! I know!" Mother retaliates, "Bloody hell, I know!" *flustering arms*
Reluctantly, Mother has to turn around and travel back. Slowly, mind. Almost as if the road were her red carpet. Basking in the glory of knowledge. Smugly smiling at all the passers-by who are not as equipped with the details as Mother is.
Actually, to be completely honest, neither Mother or I are any wiser. We didn't see very much. Even upon our arrival home (the next-door urbanization) the neighbours were out on their terraces, trying to work out what all the fuss was about. Helicopters still buzzing around.
It's probably a boring bush fire.
xoxo
Friday 15 August 2014
Kidnapped by the rich and famous / (this is a long post so get some tea and biccies please)
Our final evening in Barcelona.
After another long day of sightseeing (no, despite what every single person has told me, it is not a tiny city to explore in two hours)we are recovering on the sofas in the fancy pants exec lounge (both Mother and myself sporting rather un-fancy sneakers and a handful of video/photo devices). Keeping ourselves to ourselves (or being anti-social) by reviewing the day's photographs with wine and tapas , arranging our evening to visit the Fountain of Montjuic and trying to soothe Mother's angst over the obnoxiously-loud woman from New York who was passionately telling the entire room every last intricate detail about her (boring) day and completely oblivious to her 12 year old son waddling back to the sofa with a mountain of chicken nuggets. Mother and I observed as her audience were pretending to be listening intently (one man was definitely snoring at one point) and her son shovelled the entire plate into his mouth within 2 minutes.
Anyway. Just a few minutes before we were about to leave, we spot the two guys from the night before. I have not written about the previous evening's experience, however the brief version is as follows;
Waiting for Mother, I am standing in the lounge, reading the city guide, as a young man with a strong New York accent approaches me (referred to as 'E' from here on) and asks me where the hotspots are for a good night out. I apologetically inform him that it is my first time visiting and therefore am very under-educated regarding this subject. I do, however, feebly recommend the only place I could remember from the day. Natter, natter, natter until he invites me (and Mother who has suddenly appeared behind me and introduced herself) to have drinks with him and his friend from London (referred to as 'O' from here on). Long story short, E (pro squash player) and myself found joint comfort in the fact that Mother and O (pro polo player) were in deep business chat that lasted until 23:30 (at which point we sleepily tottered into the nearest tapas bar for supper).
Back to the current time. We spot O and E (looking a little worse for wear to be honest) cruise in, hunting for beer.
"shh! Don't make eye contact, I want to get out tonight!" Mother says.
Oddly enough, O and E have indeed spotted the red-head woman shielding her face behind both her daughter and her goldfish bowl of red wine. As they make their way over to the empty sofa beside us, Mother un-tucks herself and greets them, as do I. I was actually quite glad for their company as I knew they'd have a rather interesting report from their night. I was not wrong; O had woken up in the hallway somewhere and E had stripped off at a club, into the pool and then out again to find himself on the beach, before being picked up by a group of Italians who luckily gave him a far-too-tight floral shirt to wear into the hotel at 5am.
"Well what do you expect? An Italian shirt will always be tight!" Mother adds.
He also lost his expensive mobile. In case you hadn't caught on, these men are those of the 'lavish lifestyle' and two nights before had partied with Snoop Dogg. Also close friends of Prince Harry.
So, thirty minutes in, I am subtly trying to nudge Mother in hope that she will realise we ought to leave. I try again one hour later. After two and half hours of 'socialising' they free us. It is around 10pm and we are still in our attire from the day (not good).
No time for the magic fountain. This is exceedingly disappointing and for a moment I hold aggressive hatred for O and E (and Mother...) but the moment passes. We find a very nice restaurant just around the corner instead, relieving us from a midnight metro ride.
The only imperfection about the restaurant is that, as the Spanish eat rather late, it is extremely busy. Mother, of course, will not be seated inside the restaurant and therefore we must wait fifteen minutes for a terrace table. I'm far from being concerned as my energy levels are dangerously low. Regardless of energy levels my hearing is always acute to horrible noises. The worst being noisy, bratty children and, tonight, a baby crying on the terrace has fallen into this category. I glance at Mother to see if she has noticed it. Of course she has; pursed lips and fury in her eyes. Before I know it, she has marched over to the over-worked waitress;
"Why is that allowed?! What is wrong with parents?! Either you shut it up or I will."
The waitress tries to explain that families dine together in Spain and crying babies are sort of included in that. Mother does not accept this and continues to raise her eyebrows at each gurgle heard.
Eventually we are seated (after a small kerfuffle) by the balcony. Not 30 seconds go by and another table is put next to us. Literally, the two tables are now touching. Joined. Like some sort of arranged marriage. This baffles Mother. She is momentarily speechless as a young couple are then seated at this table. It is essentially a table for 4.
Luckily Mother had enough wine with O and E to let this bizarre scene occur with no fuss. In fact, Mother has become so relaxed she says;
"Well, if this is the way Spanish dine then we must absorb the culture and join in, don't you agree, Darling? I quite like it actually, this intimate experience, I feel like we might be friends with them! Isn't this nice, Darling? I like this! Oh..."
Oh. They have been relocated to another table. Mother's face drops. Then the waiter removes the nice tablecloth from the table beside us to reveal a nice metal...
"PICNIC TABLE?! Oh for God's sake, Darling! Why did he take the tablecloth away?! I can't dine next to that! What on earth...?"
By this time, I don't believe I would notice if I were having supper on a sea lion, so long as I was eating something.
The unfortunate events cease as our food arrives, which was absolutely lovely and has now changed our opinion of Spanish food. As it turns out; it's beautiful. We just live in the one region where they don't really know what they're doing.
If you stuck with me all the way to the end here, congratulations on your attention span! Thank you for reading :)
xoxo
After another long day of sightseeing (no, despite what every single person has told me, it is not a tiny city to explore in two hours)we are recovering on the sofas in the fancy pants exec lounge (both Mother and myself sporting rather un-fancy sneakers and a handful of video/photo devices). Keeping ourselves to ourselves (or being anti-social) by reviewing the day's photographs with wine and tapas , arranging our evening to visit the Fountain of Montjuic and trying to soothe Mother's angst over the obnoxiously-loud woman from New York who was passionately telling the entire room every last intricate detail about her (boring) day and completely oblivious to her 12 year old son waddling back to the sofa with a mountain of chicken nuggets. Mother and I observed as her audience were pretending to be listening intently (one man was definitely snoring at one point) and her son shovelled the entire plate into his mouth within 2 minutes.
Anyway. Just a few minutes before we were about to leave, we spot the two guys from the night before. I have not written about the previous evening's experience, however the brief version is as follows;
Waiting for Mother, I am standing in the lounge, reading the city guide, as a young man with a strong New York accent approaches me (referred to as 'E' from here on) and asks me where the hotspots are for a good night out. I apologetically inform him that it is my first time visiting and therefore am very under-educated regarding this subject. I do, however, feebly recommend the only place I could remember from the day. Natter, natter, natter until he invites me (and Mother who has suddenly appeared behind me and introduced herself) to have drinks with him and his friend from London (referred to as 'O' from here on). Long story short, E (pro squash player) and myself found joint comfort in the fact that Mother and O (pro polo player) were in deep business chat that lasted until 23:30 (at which point we sleepily tottered into the nearest tapas bar for supper).
Back to the current time. We spot O and E (looking a little worse for wear to be honest) cruise in, hunting for beer.
"shh! Don't make eye contact, I want to get out tonight!" Mother says.
Oddly enough, O and E have indeed spotted the red-head woman shielding her face behind both her daughter and her goldfish bowl of red wine. As they make their way over to the empty sofa beside us, Mother un-tucks herself and greets them, as do I. I was actually quite glad for their company as I knew they'd have a rather interesting report from their night. I was not wrong; O had woken up in the hallway somewhere and E had stripped off at a club, into the pool and then out again to find himself on the beach, before being picked up by a group of Italians who luckily gave him a far-too-tight floral shirt to wear into the hotel at 5am.
"Well what do you expect? An Italian shirt will always be tight!" Mother adds.
He also lost his expensive mobile. In case you hadn't caught on, these men are those of the 'lavish lifestyle' and two nights before had partied with Snoop Dogg. Also close friends of Prince Harry.
So, thirty minutes in, I am subtly trying to nudge Mother in hope that she will realise we ought to leave. I try again one hour later. After two and half hours of 'socialising' they free us. It is around 10pm and we are still in our attire from the day (not good).
No time for the magic fountain. This is exceedingly disappointing and for a moment I hold aggressive hatred for O and E (and Mother...) but the moment passes. We find a very nice restaurant just around the corner instead, relieving us from a midnight metro ride.
The only imperfection about the restaurant is that, as the Spanish eat rather late, it is extremely busy. Mother, of course, will not be seated inside the restaurant and therefore we must wait fifteen minutes for a terrace table. I'm far from being concerned as my energy levels are dangerously low. Regardless of energy levels my hearing is always acute to horrible noises. The worst being noisy, bratty children and, tonight, a baby crying on the terrace has fallen into this category. I glance at Mother to see if she has noticed it. Of course she has; pursed lips and fury in her eyes. Before I know it, she has marched over to the over-worked waitress;
"Why is that allowed?! What is wrong with parents?! Either you shut it up or I will."
The waitress tries to explain that families dine together in Spain and crying babies are sort of included in that. Mother does not accept this and continues to raise her eyebrows at each gurgle heard.
Eventually we are seated (after a small kerfuffle) by the balcony. Not 30 seconds go by and another table is put next to us. Literally, the two tables are now touching. Joined. Like some sort of arranged marriage. This baffles Mother. She is momentarily speechless as a young couple are then seated at this table. It is essentially a table for 4.
Luckily Mother had enough wine with O and E to let this bizarre scene occur with no fuss. In fact, Mother has become so relaxed she says;
"Well, if this is the way Spanish dine then we must absorb the culture and join in, don't you agree, Darling? I quite like it actually, this intimate experience, I feel like we might be friends with them! Isn't this nice, Darling? I like this! Oh..."
Oh. They have been relocated to another table. Mother's face drops. Then the waiter removes the nice tablecloth from the table beside us to reveal a nice metal...
"PICNIC TABLE?! Oh for God's sake, Darling! Why did he take the tablecloth away?! I can't dine next to that! What on earth...?"
By this time, I don't believe I would notice if I were having supper on a sea lion, so long as I was eating something.
The unfortunate events cease as our food arrives, which was absolutely lovely and has now changed our opinion of Spanish food. As it turns out; it's beautiful. We just live in the one region where they don't really know what they're doing.
If you stuck with me all the way to the end here, congratulations on your attention span! Thank you for reading :)
xoxo
Tuesday 12 August 2014
Mother tries to find the missing car park
Day 1 of our Barcelona travels. In an attempt to minimalise any unexpected fiasco upon arrival, Mother pre-booked the car parking. However, as we drove along the 6-lane, busy road, we could not find any signs to direct us to the hotel car park. Negotiating the one way systems of central Barcelona, Mother and I are squinting at all the road signs, making certain wrong turns and almost getting squashed by the tram. Eventually Mother gives in and calls the hotel reception;
"Hello? Is that you, Franco?"
"Hello?"
"Hello Franco, darling, it's me"
"Hello no it is not Franco I am Victor..."
"Now are you totally sure? You sound like Franco to me..."
"..-Uhmm.. hello? No, this is Victor, how can I help you?"
"Yes, I have a car parking space booked but you don't seem to have a car park."
"Ah, yes, madam, we do have car park, it is at front of hotel"
"Nope. No. No it isn't."
"Yes of course madam, it is, it is up the ramp if you go to the front of the hotel..."
"There isn't a ramp what are you talking about?!"
"Are you coming in from the main road madam?"
"Yes but there's no point in telling me to go up the ramp because there isn't one"
"Yes madam it is small if you turn right off the main road onto the side street..."
"What?! If I did that I'd get smashed by a bus that's the bus lane!!"
"No madam, do not worry, where are you now?"
"Well I don't really know but I think I'm somewhere behind the hotel"
"Ok go around to the front and you will see a little opening to drive through right in front of hotel yes?"
"If I do that I will end up putting my car straight through the hotel?!"
"... umm no, madam, ok maybe you go round to the main street and I will come out and help you okay?"
"Yes, that's a far better idea. Thank you."
Mother then proceeds to drive around the block until we are back at the front of the hotel...
"OHHHHHHH! There's the bloody ramp! Well, I can't see that can I?!"
Sadly we did not use Victor's assistance. If we had, I am quite sure there would have been another exciting dialogue to share with you all. We must wait until next time.
xoxo
"Hello? Is that you, Franco?"
"Hello?"
"Hello Franco, darling, it's me"
"Hello no it is not Franco I am Victor..."
"Now are you totally sure? You sound like Franco to me..."
"..-Uhmm.. hello? No, this is Victor, how can I help you?"
"Yes, I have a car parking space booked but you don't seem to have a car park."
"Ah, yes, madam, we do have car park, it is at front of hotel"
"Nope. No. No it isn't."
"Yes of course madam, it is, it is up the ramp if you go to the front of the hotel..."
"There isn't a ramp what are you talking about?!"
"Are you coming in from the main road madam?"
"Yes but there's no point in telling me to go up the ramp because there isn't one"
"Yes madam it is small if you turn right off the main road onto the side street..."
"What?! If I did that I'd get smashed by a bus that's the bus lane!!"
"No madam, do not worry, where are you now?"
"Well I don't really know but I think I'm somewhere behind the hotel"
"Ok go around to the front and you will see a little opening to drive through right in front of hotel yes?"
"If I do that I will end up putting my car straight through the hotel?!"
"... umm no, madam, ok maybe you go round to the main street and I will come out and help you okay?"
"Yes, that's a far better idea. Thank you."
Mother then proceeds to drive around the block until we are back at the front of the hotel...
"OHHHHHHH! There's the bloody ramp! Well, I can't see that can I?!"
Sadly we did not use Victor's assistance. If we had, I am quite sure there would have been another exciting dialogue to share with you all. We must wait until next time.
xoxo
Sunday 20 July 2014
Mother checks the beach safety regulations
A small part of me had been starting to believe the adventures with Mother had ceased. Apparently not, however, as a brief afternoon beach stroll nearly ended in a Baywatch scene.
Realising we hadn't eaten all day we walked to a beach bar (serving Spanish food... and therefore a mistake in itself). Yes, of course, Mother caused a little fuss; showing her strong distaste to... well, everything actually. I will say now that it may appear from past blog posts that we are dining all the time. This is not actually the case; the small compensatory factor of Spanish eateries is that you can order very little and not waste money. Although this can also be extremely frustrating when you're ravenous and your waiter brings you a tiny fish draped over an olive.
Already being a little tetchy with an empty stomach at 3pm, Mother became very disturbed by the bratty Barbie beside us - and her useless parents. Obviously Mother took it upon herself to reprimand the child her own way (facial contortions and growling in close proximity). Almost an hour after ordering our food, Mother summons one of the flustered waiters and taps her invisible watch; "forever! Waiting forever!" and gestures spinning clock hands. I shan't even begin writing about the disappointment of food that then arrived.
Walking back along the beach we come across a lone man of around 60 laying face down in the shoreline. The rest of the beach is simply stepping around him but not Mother. "Oh my GOD! Is he dead?!" I tried to assure her he was fine, probably taking an afternoon nap. Mother was not convinced. She decided she would take this opportunity to judge the ability of the lifeguards. I am still unsure whether this was for general safety checks or simply an excuse to be closer to the young and fit Spanish boys.
The latter, it appears.
As Mother approaches the lifeguards, she swiftly deters them away from the four teenage girls surrounding them. Not even attempting to speak Spanish, Mother frantically points to the poor man on the shoreline. He follows her gaze and all of a sudden, at literal speed of light, the lifeguard turns into a superhero and grabs his first aid kit and whistle, runs AS FAST AS I HAVE EVER SEEN towards the 'scene'. The second lifeguard has now climbed down from the top of the lifeguard tower and is powering along the beach. He's blowing his whistle to attract the attention of the lifeguards at the other end of the beach, shouting at the bathers to give some space. The entire beach is up on their feet, staring at the exciting drama they´re expecting to unfold. However, as the lifeguards approach the man, we see him lift his head from the ground, highly confused. A few moments later, the two lifeguards retreat and are walking back towards us. The beach has returned to their business. Everyone a little deflated, including Mother.
"He was only ah-sleeping"
Another disruption caused and we await the next.
xoxo
Charlotte-Elizabeth
Friday 14 March 2014
Friday 28 February 2014
Being a civilized citizen. Not Mother's strong point.
Mother's incapability to behave as a sane member of society has returned. I shall take a trip down memory lane for those of you who are new to this story. I don't believe it's a popular one.
Several summers ago (I must have been about ten), Mother is trailing through Marks & Spencers with me in her fabulous sarong (bought from our then-recent holiday to Hawaii) and a skimpy vest. As we are on the escalators, Mother's sarong gets caught in between the mechanisms. This is HIGHLY unfortunate. All of a sudden Mother's sarong is whipped off, exposing a scantily-clad parent perched on the escalators of M&S, shrieking at me in a raging attempt to get me to rescue her delicate sarong from the stairs that are about to guzzle it. There is zero concern about Mothers state (knickers and vest in the middle of a busy store). Obviously, the security guards hear Mother's panic and run to assistance... with towels and blankets to resurrect her dignity. Mother did not want this and began shoving these two men away; "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! SAVE MY SARONG! SAVE MY SARONG! QUICK! IT'S FROM HAWAII!"
- Do any of you remember the magazine 'Mizz'??? Pre-teen mag? Well, as it happens, I sent this story into the 'embarrassing stories' column and it was published! Entitled; 'It's all gone sarong'... I found this highly amusing. Mother was mortified.
So, back to 2014. We seem to have had a similar situation. I should mention that similar mishaps have occured before, I have simply been lucky enough to not be present. Not quite such luck last week though.
Waltzing into the DIY store (yawn) and Mother is in her element. A few minutes later and Mother emerges from the ladies room...
A few paces into the store and a heavily embarrassed woman has hobbled up behind us. For some reason she has crouched down to an uncomfortable level and is prodding at Mother's skirt. Oh.
"Uhhmm, sorry... I just... Umm.. You seem to have... your skirt is... sort of... I think you may have accidentally... Just... Can I just... Let me... Ummmm..... sorry..."
Absolutely marvelous. Mother has peered down behind her and discovered she's managed to tuck her gloriously-vivid, sequined, lace, tweed skirt into her not-so-glorious knickers. As I turn around, I spot the two security guards giggling into their radios. The customer service team has huddled together; watching intently. Other shoppers are looking rather afraid, actually. They shuffle past. As much as the woman may have been trying to help deter any attention, I actually think she may have attracted it. With her strange crouch and red face.
Mother, however, is unperturbed. She makes a slothful wave at her skirt in hopes that the two items will become detached. She thanks the poor woman and proceeds to make very little effort to complete the un-tuck. Clearly, I must take over. I must save any dignity left. I shamble Mother into the curtains department and restore her skirt to an appropriate length.
I apologise to anyone who now has a vivid image of the scenario. I can assure you, I have made an accurate recount.
I will do a full check before Mother addresses the public in future.
xoxo
Several summers ago (I must have been about ten), Mother is trailing through Marks & Spencers with me in her fabulous sarong (bought from our then-recent holiday to Hawaii) and a skimpy vest. As we are on the escalators, Mother's sarong gets caught in between the mechanisms. This is HIGHLY unfortunate. All of a sudden Mother's sarong is whipped off, exposing a scantily-clad parent perched on the escalators of M&S, shrieking at me in a raging attempt to get me to rescue her delicate sarong from the stairs that are about to guzzle it. There is zero concern about Mothers state (knickers and vest in the middle of a busy store). Obviously, the security guards hear Mother's panic and run to assistance... with towels and blankets to resurrect her dignity. Mother did not want this and began shoving these two men away; "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! SAVE MY SARONG! SAVE MY SARONG! QUICK! IT'S FROM HAWAII!"
- Do any of you remember the magazine 'Mizz'??? Pre-teen mag? Well, as it happens, I sent this story into the 'embarrassing stories' column and it was published! Entitled; 'It's all gone sarong'... I found this highly amusing. Mother was mortified.
So, back to 2014. We seem to have had a similar situation. I should mention that similar mishaps have occured before, I have simply been lucky enough to not be present. Not quite such luck last week though.
Waltzing into the DIY store (yawn) and Mother is in her element. A few minutes later and Mother emerges from the ladies room...
A few paces into the store and a heavily embarrassed woman has hobbled up behind us. For some reason she has crouched down to an uncomfortable level and is prodding at Mother's skirt. Oh.
"Uhhmm, sorry... I just... Umm.. You seem to have... your skirt is... sort of... I think you may have accidentally... Just... Can I just... Let me... Ummmm..... sorry..."
Absolutely marvelous. Mother has peered down behind her and discovered she's managed to tuck her gloriously-vivid, sequined, lace, tweed skirt into her not-so-glorious knickers. As I turn around, I spot the two security guards giggling into their radios. The customer service team has huddled together; watching intently. Other shoppers are looking rather afraid, actually. They shuffle past. As much as the woman may have been trying to help deter any attention, I actually think she may have attracted it. With her strange crouch and red face.
Mother, however, is unperturbed. She makes a slothful wave at her skirt in hopes that the two items will become detached. She thanks the poor woman and proceeds to make very little effort to complete the un-tuck. Clearly, I must take over. I must save any dignity left. I shamble Mother into the curtains department and restore her skirt to an appropriate length.
I apologise to anyone who now has a vivid image of the scenario. I can assure you, I have made an accurate recount.
I will do a full check before Mother addresses the public in future.
xoxo
Tuesday 25 February 2014
"Expectation is the root of all heartache" - William Shakespeare
Being the perfectionist that Mother is doesn't always constitute a successful outcome. Proven strongly the other night when we decided to eat out post-shopping. Considering our choices have now narrowed down to approximately two eateries within a twenty mile radius, we were heading towards the American diner at the mall when suddenly Mother stops. She's spotted the waiter. The waiter that has been chatting her up for about three months. I'm all for this prospective new relationship (he's from Atlanta, ergo trips to the states) however Mother is definitely not interested and finds his continuous advances somewhat of a pester.
"No, darling. I don't think we can eat here after all... QUICK! He's spotted us! Oh GOD!"
We shuffle away.
We then end up outside an Italian. Beautiful interiors and just up Mother's street; there's even tiny twinkle lights in the ceiling like stars. The waiter is trying quite hard to jazz up this Italian in hopes of persuading us to eat there.
"Hmm. Is there an a la carte menu?"
"No madam, this is a buffet-style restaurant..." *a fancy tailored description of 'how it works' is then offered to us*
"No. I don't like that. That's not what I want.
"... ok..."
"You see; I very much would like to try your restaurant. The problem is, I won't do buffet. It's just not something I do. Can't you do an a la carte menu?"
"I'm sorry madam, we only do buffet"
"Why is everywhere a bloody buffet?! You see, this is the problem. This is precisely the problem in Spain. I should run this place, I guarantee more people would eat here. I really don't understand why they can't just put a regular menu on for people like me, darling!"
Naturally, this is mildly embarrassing for me and I back up a little bit so as not to be obviously associated with Mother. She then spots the German restuarant next door. It is briefly considered before; "Oh no wait a minute I don't like German food do I? It's all meat! Yuck. I'm on a diet. I think. Yes, I'm on a diet, aren't I darling?"
After much fluster (on Mother's part... obviously. I rarely fluster), Mother decides to leave the mall alltogether and head to the trusty Italian near home.
Upon arrival, however, Mother's face drops. My eyes match her line of vision and fall upon a Spanish Elvis. This is a terrible sight for Mother. Having lived here for over a year now, Mother has become almost allergic to the many Costa Blanca Elvis'. Trying to avoid them has become a priority for her... although apparently it proves difficult.
"Oh my God... I can't believe it! I just can't believe it! Perhaps we should go"
Mother then proceeds to enquire; "will this man be here much longer or is he leaving soon? Is he staying?!"
"No madam, he's leaving in a minute..."
*obnoxious sigh of relief*
I then begin opening my menu...
"NO! STOP! Do not open your menu until he leaves!"
It is now that I notice Mother is still wearing all outer layers. Despite the warmth of the restaurant and our neighbouring diners eyeing Mother's red face. Stubborn Mother refuses to contribute to the evening until fake-Elvis is out of sight.
Finally, Elvis leaves and Mother is taking her first sip of wine.
Oh. Apparently this is also disappointing.
"YUCK. *makes baby-tasting-lemon face* Ughhh! Nope. This is not the wine I had last time! I don't like it! Vinegar. Bloody hell! We should have gone home. That way I know my wine is good."
The angry observations continue;
"For goodness sake! They couldn't make any more noise if they tried! Listen to them bashing the china around like that- OH MY GOD she's just scraping the chairs under the table! *grimace* Oh come on really now?! They ought to upgrade their coffee machine - it sounds like a rocket landing! It needs foyer music in here you know. It's far too hot in here, wouldn't you agree? We're not all freezing cold! GOD it's like a sauna!"
Mother then asks me what I'm ordering and I make the mistake of telling her.
"Pizza"
"WHAT KIND OF PIZZA OMG you can't just say pizza!"
*I slowly point...*
"Hmmm that sounds ni- EGG?! No, darling. You won't like that. You can't have that. It's horrible, I'm sure. No. YUCK! Choose something else."
"Umm... actually I do like it... I always have it... but thank you for your input..." I nearly add; "scary Mary" but decide against it.
So, that sums up the evening. I will also inform you all that this is certainly not a rare sequence of events. However, fear not! I have become immune.
Also, I have since managed to train Mother to alter her thought processes. Kind of like dog-training. Cognitive therapy, if you will. Loosely using the title of this post.
"No, darling. I don't think we can eat here after all... QUICK! He's spotted us! Oh GOD!"
We shuffle away.
We then end up outside an Italian. Beautiful interiors and just up Mother's street; there's even tiny twinkle lights in the ceiling like stars. The waiter is trying quite hard to jazz up this Italian in hopes of persuading us to eat there.
"Hmm. Is there an a la carte menu?"
"No madam, this is a buffet-style restaurant..." *a fancy tailored description of 'how it works' is then offered to us*
"No. I don't like that. That's not what I want.
"... ok..."
"You see; I very much would like to try your restaurant. The problem is, I won't do buffet. It's just not something I do. Can't you do an a la carte menu?"
"I'm sorry madam, we only do buffet"
"Why is everywhere a bloody buffet?! You see, this is the problem. This is precisely the problem in Spain. I should run this place, I guarantee more people would eat here. I really don't understand why they can't just put a regular menu on for people like me, darling!"
Naturally, this is mildly embarrassing for me and I back up a little bit so as not to be obviously associated with Mother. She then spots the German restuarant next door. It is briefly considered before; "Oh no wait a minute I don't like German food do I? It's all meat! Yuck. I'm on a diet. I think. Yes, I'm on a diet, aren't I darling?"
After much fluster (on Mother's part... obviously. I rarely fluster), Mother decides to leave the mall alltogether and head to the trusty Italian near home.
Upon arrival, however, Mother's face drops. My eyes match her line of vision and fall upon a Spanish Elvis. This is a terrible sight for Mother. Having lived here for over a year now, Mother has become almost allergic to the many Costa Blanca Elvis'. Trying to avoid them has become a priority for her... although apparently it proves difficult.
"Oh my God... I can't believe it! I just can't believe it! Perhaps we should go"
Mother then proceeds to enquire; "will this man be here much longer or is he leaving soon? Is he staying?!"
"No madam, he's leaving in a minute..."
*obnoxious sigh of relief*
I then begin opening my menu...
"NO! STOP! Do not open your menu until he leaves!"
It is now that I notice Mother is still wearing all outer layers. Despite the warmth of the restaurant and our neighbouring diners eyeing Mother's red face. Stubborn Mother refuses to contribute to the evening until fake-Elvis is out of sight.
Finally, Elvis leaves and Mother is taking her first sip of wine.
Oh. Apparently this is also disappointing.
"YUCK. *makes baby-tasting-lemon face* Ughhh! Nope. This is not the wine I had last time! I don't like it! Vinegar. Bloody hell! We should have gone home. That way I know my wine is good."
The angry observations continue;
"For goodness sake! They couldn't make any more noise if they tried! Listen to them bashing the china around like that- OH MY GOD she's just scraping the chairs under the table! *grimace* Oh come on really now?! They ought to upgrade their coffee machine - it sounds like a rocket landing! It needs foyer music in here you know. It's far too hot in here, wouldn't you agree? We're not all freezing cold! GOD it's like a sauna!"
Mother then asks me what I'm ordering and I make the mistake of telling her.
"Pizza"
"WHAT KIND OF PIZZA OMG you can't just say pizza!"
*I slowly point...*
"Hmmm that sounds ni- EGG?! No, darling. You won't like that. You can't have that. It's horrible, I'm sure. No. YUCK! Choose something else."
"Umm... actually I do like it... I always have it... but thank you for your input..." I nearly add; "scary Mary" but decide against it.
So, that sums up the evening. I will also inform you all that this is certainly not a rare sequence of events. However, fear not! I have become immune.
Also, I have since managed to train Mother to alter her thought processes. Kind of like dog-training. Cognitive therapy, if you will. Loosely using the title of this post.
Monday 20 January 2014
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