A Life or Death Situation...

A few weeks ago, Mother went on a girls' night out. Inevitably, she found herself obtaining another BFF and this has led to many more girls' nights out. A dinner is planned for her and the girls this Friday in a restaurant. To Mother's dismay, it is Spanish. Actually, it is Catalan ... but we won't get into that debate on this blog, no thank you. So, as we all know, Mother is not a fan of Spanish food and makes it known to everyone she comes across (including strangers). So, she had to investigate specific details of this restaurant beforehand. Unfortunately, she insisted I join her on this walking-tour-of-town after my shift at work. 

"Oh, rats! I forgot to look up the address, can you do it when you get to work, darling? I'm busy."

Yes. I shall do that at work because it's not like I have anything else to do. Like... work, or anything...

So, I found the address of the restaurant and after work I met mother (a very irritable Mother because she had been in a 'high street' store where there were children present) and we walked a good twenty minutes to the other side of town. At every step of the way, Mother said; "Ah yes, I recognise this, I think the restaurant is around the corner, it's got an arched wooden door"

N.B. The houses, buildings, museums, restaurants etc in this area of Spain, as I am sure you can imagine, all have arched, wooden doors.

So, we made our turns around these corners. Until we were back to where we started.  I checked Google Maps again and showed her that we were standing at the exact location of the restaurant and then I pointed up to a sign that displayed the name of the restaurant.

"Oh, um.. well that's not it!"

Excellent. "What do you mean, Mother? It clearly is... this is the name of the restaurant you told me. Here it is. It even has wooden doors, see?"

"No, no, no! I'm telling you, this isn't the one! It's got a blue sign! It's not this one. Come on, darling."

So, off we trot in search of a restaurant that Mother cannot remember the name of. Or the location.

A further twenty minutes later, we step into the path of two policemen.

"Ah, wonderful, they'll know, come on!" Mother says as she drifts towards the tall, dark and handsome policeman. The older, shorter man was completely invisible it would seem.

I tried to quietly stop her, as I'm sure these policemen are not here to tour-guide Mother.

"Hello! Hola! Do you speak English?" Mother smiles up at Hunky Policeman.

"Si! Yes I do, can I help?" Bless him, he's very sweet.

"Ah yes, thank you. Well  -  I'm looking for a restaurant! It's near here"

"Ok, no problem! What is the name of the restaurant?"

"Ah. Yes. This is the problem. I don't actually know...." Mother displays an intense 'sorry' expression on her face.

"....right. Um.. okay... what kind of cuisine?"

"Spanish. Well, I think. I don't actually like Spanish food but, you see, I'm going for dinner this Friday in this restaurant that is apparently Spanish but I don't like Spanish food - sorry - so I have to go and look and see, do you see?"

"...Si. Ok. So....  a Spanish restaurant, you are looking for, yes?"

"....yes. OH, it has paintings on the ceiling!"

"Hmmm...." Hunky Policeman turns to his colleague and presents the dilemma to him. He is of little help, considering the minimal detail he has to work with.

The colleague turns and  continues his job; redirecting the traffic with his whistle. Mother jumps dramatically each time the whistle is blown. Hunky Policeman finds this most amusing.

"Why is he blowing his whistle?" Mother demonstrates whistle-blowing.

"Haha, well - it is the job of the policeman, we must stop cars from coming here on this street"

"oh, why?" Mother enquires.

"Well, there is lots of ambulance and fire fighters there because a lady she jump from the balcony at the house there on the street"

Right. So Mother is interrupting this very serious suicidal rescue mission in order to locate a restaurant four days in advance.

"Oh, really!? Gosh, that's terrible! Do you have data on your phone? We can look at all the restaurants here on Google and maybe I will recognise the name?"

"Yes of course, I will look, it's no problem" This man is very, very accommodating.

Ten minutes later, after letting Hunky Policeman scroll through pages of Google, Mother calls her BFF and asks her the name of the restaurant.

What an idea.

"Ah, yes - that's it!" Mother says as she is informed of the restaurant's name.

Hunky Policeman looks excitedly at Mother as she comes off the phone.

Mother sheepishly gives him the name of the restaurant; "yes, it's the one you said ten minutes ago. Sorry...."

"No, it's no problem! So, this restaurant is down this street here and you walk to the plaza and then you turn to left and you see the Calle [street] and maybe you ask with people for the restaurant close to there? It is that way, see?"

"WONDERFUL! You have been most helpful! I am sure you have better things to be doing but I am so grateful! Really - and if I see you again I will tell you if I found it! Thank you, muchas gracias, darling!"

Mother then proceeds to jut her arm out and grab his unaware hand in a firm handshake.

"oh, aha, yes you are welcome!" He is taken aback but smiling, nonetheless.

Mother sends a loud parting wave to his colleague and shouts "GRACIAS!!!!" at him. He gives her a little wave back.

I manage to subtly take Mother's arm and lead her away from Hunky Policeman before she takes up any more of his time asking his name (I could see it coming. It would become a short but intense 'how-to-pronounce-it' lesson of which I wanted to avoid).

Eventually, a lifetime later (I am sure I developed an extra wrinkle somewhere), we found the restaurant. For your information, it was two minutes from where I work and did not have a blue sign anywhere near it.

It was also very closed.

Ultimately, a fairly useless two hours that  I could have spent at home with my Christmas pyjamas on.

I am quite sure that Mother will approach every police officer in town over the coming weeks to inform them that she 'found the restaurant but it was closed'.

I shall be holding down the fort in my festive PJ's on Friday, whilst Mother is gallivanting around town. Another example of roles reversing.

xoxo

MOTHER CLAIMS TO BE A ROCKET SCIENTIST.

A slight kerfuffle arose recently regarding a new key for a (perfectly fine) door. Long story short; our lovely, safety-conscious neighbour decided it was necessary to change the locks on a shared external door (in light of the recent Barcelona attacks...) which, in turn, meant that Mother had to go to a very specific key-cutting store to make a copy of the new key. Unfortunately, a regular key-cutting store wouldn't... cut it... (HAHAHA excuse the pun!) I say "Mother had to go" but - of course - that means me as well.

Arriving at the store (finally, after negotiating their bizarre, Spanish opening times), I spot two women operating the machines and zero men. I suggest immediately leaving so as not to waste time. Mother wishes to combat my sexist opinions (a basic concept that Spanish women are capable of giving birth to a lot of children and not much else) by confidently marching in and reeling off a script of information (in English, of course) regarding the key situation to one of the two women. The woman stares at Mother. I intervene; condensing Mother's narrative into a "please can you make a copy of this key? Thanks".

Ah, it is not a normal key. It is a "special" key. A security key. With codes. The woman asks some questions and trots off, a little scatterbrained, trying to locate a scrap of tiny paper with a 5-digit code scribbled on. A-ha, the EVER-SO-IMPORTANT-SECURITY-CODE needed to make the copy. Glad she was able to dig that out from underneath her ham baguette. She then informs us that, as it is a complicated key, could we come back another day?

"Pardon?" Mother is shocked.

The woman explains that, as they are currently making a set of copies for a community, they cannot stop the machine (the ONE machine they have in this key-copying-shop) so we will have to return  another day. The fact that we are even in here, getting a copy of a new key that wasn't necessary in the first place, is rather irritating. To have to return another day was, apparently, not an option for Mother.

"No. You'll have to stop that machine. I can't come back. Do it now. I've got a plane to catch and I need this key, it's to my HOUSE!" (n.b. ~ flight was non-existent...)

The flustered woman pressed a button and the machine stopped. Evidently not too much of a problem.

This is precisely when my thought process went from "we'll be out of here in 5 minutes, brilliant"  to; "I am going to be forced to spend the rest of my living life in this store."

The following 25 minutes consisted of Woman 1 aggressively pressing multiple buttons on a high-tech touch screen programming system, whilst Woman 2 observed closely, occasionally joining in on the screen-prodding. Multiple times, Woman 1 waddled off in frustration, heading to the back of the shop to have a munch of ham baguette, then returning to the situation. Clearly, her boss did not train her. Or Woman 2, for that matter, as she appeared to be more of a hindrance than a help. During these endless minutes, Mother continued to tell me, in great detail, the solution for the 'broken programming computer'; "unplug it".

A simple solution.

"Tell her, darling!" Mother demanded of me, "Tell the lady she needs to unplug it, leave it for three minutes and then plug it back it again. Tell her it has a memory,  go on!"

 Mother points at the woman, as if I were unsure who to give this message to.

I do pass this message on, however Woman 1 does not accept these wise words. Instead, she insists on prodding away at the exact same buttons that she's been bashing for the last 20 minutes.

During these torturous moments, a mother with three delightful, screaming toddlers descend into the store. Hooray. I love children, especially when they're screaming their heads off. Just as I turn to Mother in order to suggest a swift exit, I see Mother; bending over the pushchair, head INSIDE the pushchair, making bizarre noises. The mother of these toddlers is staring at her, in shock. However, the sounds of screaming and whining seem to have ceased. The Baby Whisperer has succeeded.

Turning our attention back to Woman 1 (Woman 2 does not return in this story. She gave up long ago. Very little interest in the job and very high interest in her chocolate donut) ~ we see this persistent woman on the phone to, presumably her boss. I tell Mother this.

"Oh, great, do you think he's a man..... excccuuuuuuuuuuuuse me!" Mother hollers at Woman 1, whilst she is on the phone. She doesn't turn around.

"Excuuuuuuse me!!" Mother turns to me and says; "Darling, ask her if her boss is a man, quickly! He will know what to do if it's a man."

"No.  Just, no. Let her do her job. Or at least try."

Five seconds later, Woman 1 is actually shouting at her (presumably) boss down the phone, whilst we can hear another voice doing similarly on the other end of the line. This terrifying exchange of harsh words (I have learnt my fair share of Spanish swear words.... they were all used in this conversation) escalated into a tearful smash-down of the phone by Woman 1. Woman 2 makes a slight appearance to see what all the fuss was about and then retreats to a second donut.

At this point, the woman turns to me and rapidly spills out something that translated to "well the machine isn't working so can I come and do the copy at your house?"

I tell Mother this and Mother recoils in shock; 

"Pardon?! Why on earth... What?! I don't see how that would be any better, considering they need codes! How odd but certainly not! I do not accept visitors at home without 48 hour prior notice! She'll have to do it here! Tell her, sweetie, tell her that NO she may not come home with us!"

I mildly translate a decline back to Woman 1.

Woman 1 begins to cry a little. This is HORRENDOUS. I have never seen such a mess of a situation. This is not rocket science but this poor woman has no idea what to do.

Unfortunately, I then share these specific thoughts with Mother, which encourages an idea...

"OH MY GOD, darling, brilliant! Here, tell her I work for NASA."

"Sorry, what?" I am confused, of course.

"Yes, tell this woman I work for NASA and I deal with computers all day long."

"Wait, why am I lying about your career path to this stranger?"

"Just tell her I work for NASA, darling! Then she will listen to me. Look, just get her attention and then you can translate each thing I tell you to at the time, okay?"

I didn't have a choice as Mother leans over the counter and taps the woman on the shoulder. Her shaking body swings around. I translate Mother's message:

"I work for NASA. I deal with computers like these all the time, it is my job. I can see the problem. If you unplug the cable there, see? Leave it 'off' for three minutes and this way the computer will forget everything that was entered before. You can start fresh, see! Go on, try it!"

NASA-Engineer-Mother looks smugly as Woman 2 waddles over to see what's going on. They do exactly as Mother says. Of course they do; this is an official NASA Engineer, we're talking about here!

Now - as bizarre as this may sound - the whole "turn it off and on again" solution actually worked! Who would've thought it?! Only a NASA engineer could have fixed this complex issue.

The two women were as perplexed as they were grateful. I, too, was grateful (mainly to leave but thank God Woman 1 didn't have a full mental breakdown). Mother's grin was as wide as ever as she embraced the women (I'm not joking; she actually dished out hugs...) and there were a lot of translated "thank-you-so-much's".

Finally, we made it home. A billion years later, mind you. I think I missed seven birthdays during this experience. Oh, by the way......

The key doesn't work. 

xoxo

Looking for a lost African lady

For those of you who haven't read the previous Italy post... I strongly advise you do! It's alright, this one will still be here afterwards.

For those of you who did read the previous post; welcome back! I'm sure you're all wondering what happened to Mother's sausage-feet after disembarking from the plane. Well, I imagine by now that you all regard me as the caretaker of Mother - an accurate assumption indeed. Upon arriving at the baggage claim, I suggest that Mother opens her suitcase and changes out of Ke$ha's shoes and into some appropriate, tourist shoes. Anything would be better, really.

"Okay darling. I don't remember what I packed though...." Mother looks a little sheepish.

"Right. Well, let's have a look" - I say, as Mother releases the tight string encasing the swollen cankles - "Flip flops might be a wise choice. Give your feet a bit of freedom. Where are they?" 

I am raiding her suitcase (sweeping aside the multiple kaftans and Hawaiian-print sarongs).

Right.  I have practically emptied her suitcase on the floor now. Only two shoes are among the pile of colourful clothing.

"What are these, Mother?" I say, holding up a seemingly brand new pair of Barbie-pink, suede heels with about 80 large pearls encrusted all over the top. Fantastic.

Mother pulls out her justifications; "Well, what on earth did you think I was going to walk around in? I mean, we are in two of the most romantic cities, darling! I highly doubt a handsome sailor will approach me if I'm in sloppy flip-flops, will he?!"

We will have to go shopping.

Upon arrival at our hotel in Venice, Mother begins her ritual. She is completely incapable of giving up DIY and therefore the hotel room suffers a bit of 'feng shui'. The window has been tied up, strategically, with a plastic bag - so as to allow the correct amount of fresh air and city noise in. Mother has also installed a fire alarm within approximately 4 minutes of arriving.  Interestingly, Mother also 'fixed' the kettle (by wedging a piece of paper in the lid to keep it down), however Mother had less than zero interest in tea or coffee...

"Wine, darling!! Let's go and find somewhere to have some wine!"

"Um - what about.... food?" I am concerned that the concept of 'dinner' has flown out of the (strategically-sized-gap) window.

After a good TripAdvisor hunt for a great pasta place, Mother and I topple into a typical Italian bistro and are shown  to our seat. Only to be re-seated to a 'better' table upon Mother's firm request, of course. Wine is instantly ordered and arrives within seconds, to Mother's delight! Down it goes! ..... Oh. Oh, dear. No it doesn't, actually. In fact, it nearly comes back up in a very dramatic fashion.

"OH!!!! Oh, no! No no no no no no no ..... darling, it's .... it's cold!" Mother looks at her glass of wine as if it were poison. In fact, she can barely hold it. She puts it down and clasps her hands together to reheat them.

"Is it? It looks pretty normal to me..."

Mother ignores me and calls over the (lovely) waiter, who immediately asks what's wrong.

"In England, darling, we don't drink cold wine. Sweetie. Darling." Mother tries to be some form of 'nice' but it proves difficult. You know, due to the shock of the 'cold wine'.

"Oh really? Ah - ha! Here we have it in Italy this temperature when it is the summer"

"Mmmm." Mother, again, nods sympathetically. "Yes. Well, I'm English actually..."

Duh.

Mother continues; "Is it possible, sweetie, to find a warm wine? Or... warmer? Please, darling? What's your name?"

Oh here we go. Mother establishes a very intense relationship with every waiter in every restaurant/cafe/take away etc. This is no exception. In fact, as we are in Italy, the effort Mother puts into relationship-building is far stronger.

Speaking of relationships and non-existent boundaries, I must also tell you about our departure from Italy. Don't worry - I have vlogged every day of the Italian trip on my YouTube channel, so be sure to keep your eyes on that.

Regardless of the successful shoe-buying in Italy, Mother still opted for her Ke$ha-cages as footwear for the flight home. I am not sure why she doesn't remember the absolute fiasco on the outbound flight revolving around these shoes but there we go.  Another downfall of these ridiculous shoes is that the tassel that ties up does not do a very good job of remaining tied (as you may recall from the previous blog post) and therefore, during the short security check, they untied themselves. I say 'short' security check... I mean short for me. It is a lengthy process for Mother, who refuses to travel with minimal jewellery. Instead, she prefers to be scanned by an airport security guard as the alarm goes off. The people at security ask her to remove her bangles but Mother insists they are 'stuck on forever'. So personal scanning is inevitable. Mother is released, eventually, and slides over to me, signalling to her untied tassels grazing the floor.

"I need to re-tie these, hold on, darling" Mother spins around in order to locate a seat to perch on.

I too look but - as this is security at a rather small airport - there is no seating available.

"There'll be some through here, in Duty Free, come on" I say, starting to move on.

"No, wait, darling. I'll just sit here." Mother signals to a large and in-charge black leather spinny-chair that has just this second been vacated by the head security guard, as he carries his guns on his hip. There is a very important machine by this chair and it is clearly forbidden to be anywhere near it unless you are an authorized member of airport security. This does not phase Mother (despite my best efforts to dissuade her) and she immediately plonks down. I am on edge for the duration of the shoe-lace-tying, hoping desperately not to be arrested. By contrast, Mother reclines and spins around happily before eventually leaving the area.

Now, we are waiting at the gate. Ready to board the plane. Mother does her usual scan so as to locate who she would most like to be seated next to. She selects approximately seven inappropriately-aged 'men'. The boarding process seems to be taking quite a while (ie nobody is moving and we are supposed to be taking off in 4 minutes...) As we are waiting, Mother sighs in a majestic, know-it-all way and says;

"OH! I see why we're running late - we are waiting for somebody! See, we're waiting for Ultimah Chumata, see? That name up on the screen, flashing, darling? They're calling for her."

I look up and see the words "Ultima Chiamata".

"She must be African. Oh, poor lady! She's going to miss this plane if she doesn't hurry up, I wonder where she is...." Mother frantically looks around for this poor, late African woman."

There is no African lady, speedily jogging towards the gate. In fact, she doesn't exist, considering Ultima Chiamata is Italian for 'Last Call'.

We finally board. Thank goodness, no more disasters. Oh no... wait. I hear Mother behind me as we head onto the plane. She seems to be huffing and puffing to someone.

"God! I was here first! NO, no - wait! I was here first!!!"


Mother is cross. Her arms are flailed to the side in a bodyguard style so as not to allow this imbecile to jump the queue.


As I turn around, I see who the imbecile is. Oh, it's the pilot. He is trying desperately to slide past Mother and into the cockpit. Thankfully, Mother had no neighbour-passenger on this flight.

xoxo

P.S. Stay tuned to the YouTube channel for videos of our Italy trip! Teaser: Mother got extremely sloshed on our last afternoon and it was rather amusing.    

GLOBE TROTTING WITH TROTTER-FEET

Hello wonderful friends around the world! Such a globetrotter I do feel! Mother and I have just returned from ITALIA! Yes, the land of gorgeous pasta, gorgeous pizza, gorgeous gelato and gorgeous... men! Well, according to Mother - although I do agree with the first three gorgeous-es.

A 2pm flight means a relaxed morning, am I right, ladies and gents? Uh, well no. Not when Mother is involved. The alarm rang aggressively at 7am (earlyyyyy!) in order to alert Mother to all the household safety precautions that were necessary to set up before leaving. I used this extra morning time to make green smoothies, which I'm sure you'll agree is the appropriate preparation for a flight. Mother used this valuable time to stuff hangers into the window blinds.

"What is that you're doing, dear?" I say, with caution as I enter the kitchen (early-morning-Mother is not sensationally rational)

"What does it look like, darling?!" ..... (told you) Mother replies, as she is perched on a stool.

"Urm, well I couldn't really say... to be honest...."

"I'm obviously using these clothes hangers that I've sawn in half to wedge between the window and the blinds so that nobody can break in!" Mother says, looking at me as if I'm stupid.

"Right. Of course. I see it now, yes. Indeed. Makes sense. Sensible. Mhmm."

As Mother dismounts the wooden stool, I offer to put it back.

"I haven't finished yet!"

I glance at my watch; it is precisely the time that Mother said we would be leaving. Yet, she has returned to the kitchen with a mop.

"Oh.... what.... what's that for?" I am looking for the spillage.

"I'll show you, sweetie!"

As she says this, the mop is whipped up in the air and Mother glides it between the handle of the window and wedges it into an alcove of the wall.

"There, see! Now, if the burglar does manage to break through the hanger-wedge, he won't be able to open the window anyway, you see, darling? Mummy's very clever, isn't she?" Mother is a tad flushed but evidently very pleased with herself.

I am concerned that Mother thinks we live in the ghetto.

We are finally ready to leave the house. It is half past ten in the morning and about 52 degrees centigrade. A 15 minute walk to the station actually took 30 minutes due to Mother's choice in footwear. Again. For those of you wondering, I am wearing a sports bra, running vest, jogging bottoms and sneakers. Backpack, water bottle and suitcase in tow.  Mother, in high contrast, is wearing a silk dress (with a crossover flap that flies open during a breeze, exposing more than we all bargained for) and... oh, no, not the famous diamante pumps this time! Instead, Mother has beige, suede heels with a very long tassel that ties up from her ankles to her calves. Much frill. Much tassel. She is channeling some strong Coachella vibes. So, this explains the time it takes to reach the station; as we had to stop every 7 minutes in order to re-tie her tassels (they were untying themselves in an attempted escape perhaps).

Eventually, we arrive at the airport (in just enough time) and navigated to the correct terminal (a slight rigmarole) and arrived at the gate. Judgy-Judgersons (us) were in full swing as we (not-so-quietly) discussed the family in front of us. A family of four; two little boys and their parents, dressed immaculately.  I immediately spot the mother's Louis Vuitton handbag, Levi jeans, Prada sunglasses and a new Burberry purchase (looking at her grand shopping bag over her shoulder). The children have slicked back hair, brand new Nike's and Porsche polo shirts. HOWEVER, they are not obnoxious fancy-pants. Actually, they look very approachable and the mother is talking quietly in Italian to the boys. Mother and I stand discussing the beauty of Italian fashion and ... "oh, her hair is so lovely!" .... etc. We stop instantly when the father spins around and tells us, in a very English accent, that we are going to board now. Oh. Whoops. It could have been so much worse!

Right. On the plane! I whip out my spelt crackers and sesame snacks (wow I'm so annoying) and settle down with my podcast and neck pillow. I'm very anti-social on flights, usually - as you may remember. Mother, on the other hand, is very excited to find out who will sit next to her.

"Ooooh, darling! Do you think it will be him, he looks like he's travelling alone, doesn't he, sweetie?"

"Oh, what about him? He's a little bit old but he looks like he might own a yacht,  darling!"

"OH! GOODNESS ME! I hope it's him, I hope it's him!" (Mother is pointing at a 16 year old Italian boy, boarding the plane with the rest of his class as the teacher follows behind).

Alas, no bachelor is seated next to Mother. What a shame. Instead, however, is a lovely lady from America with her three children (two boys and a girl ranging from about 10-21 years old). She is apologising profusely for bringing McDonalds onto the plane, assuring us that this is a very unusual meal for them, despite being American!

Anyway, Mother - of course - engages "friendship" mode and for the rest of the flight they got along like a house on fire. Nattering and showing each other pictures of their respective children.... which I found most odd, considering we were literally all there, sitting within three metres of each other but anyway.  I even engaged a little 'socialising' with one of the older children, discussing high school and university, which was a rather exotic experience for me and my neck pillow (it ceased fairly soon after we took off as he fell asleep and I returned to my crackers and tomato juice).

2 hours later, we land. We are all trying to collect our hand luggage and may I just say what an absolute nightmare this process is. It always has been. Everyone stands up as we pull into the little 'parking spot' for the plane as if the first person to stand up is the first person off the plane. Idiots. You can hear everyone's mobile phone switching on and messages zooming in (before we're officially allowed to even turn our phones on WHAT ARE YOU DOING, PEOPLE?). At this point, three people on each row simultaneously struggle and fight to whip their elephant-weighted luggage from the cabin part... above everyone's head. Upon successfully squeezing it out, they then have nowhere to put it. Nowhere to even turn around due to the other six people surrounding them tightly. Everyone is now standing, holding their luggage above their heads like morons, waiting for the doors to open (which is never within fifteen minutes). I, however, remain seated. I really do not mind being the last one off the plane. What is the rush?!

Anyway - I sidetrack. Whilst everyone is fanning about, Mother and her new bestie are exchanging multiple contact details (business cards, twitter handles, emails, addresses, twelve phone numbers etc) and are still chatting as the new BFF's children and I glide down the aisle and off the plane. We are about to say our goodbyes and separate when we look back to our mothers. My mother is not able to glide down the aisle quite so swiftly as her nimble daughter. Instead, she is unsteadily sliding. Dragging. She gives me a worried glance. It seems as though her weight has trippled during the flight, as she seems unable to carry herself (or it might have been the gin and tonic she had....). Oh no, I see it now. As I glance downwards, towards Mothers feet, I see the problem. Mother's feet have swollen to the size of baby hippopotamuses. Her trotters have, in fact, trippled in size. They are trying desperately to escape the confines of the tassels wrapped ever so tightly around her ankles. The purple pastry puffs have indeed risen within these utterly unsuitable shoes. Mother has managed to restrict all blood flow to her feet by dressing like Ke$ha at Glastonbury and her bff and I have to help her and her hippo-feet off the plane.

Suitable shoes...

More Italian anecdotes coming soon, stay tuned!  

xoxo

I'm in rehab.

Ok, so you may be shocked to hear - but yes, I'm in rehab. I should clarify, however, that 'rehab' does not only treat drug and alcohol related problems here in Spain. It also treats physiological problems - which is the reason I have been admitted. Upon being "sentenced to 5 weeks of rehab", Mother soared to the floor in horror; disgraced with her sudden alcoholic daughter. I had to explain to her that it was for my neck injury instead, which took a good 15 minutes.

My first appointment goes smoothly; just an initiation with my doctor, Francisco. Oh - how fortunate; he is 30-something and strikingly good looking (according to Mother), with the typical 'tall, dark and handsome' traits. Mother insists on asking numerous, insignificant questions about anything at all (I am translator again... yay) and finds it quite the struggle when his assistant nurse tries to usher her out before his next appointment.

"I don't like to be rushed!" Mother quips.

My next appointment, a few weeks later, is to begin the therapy. As we arrive, I register at the desk (which takes around 3 hours as the wonderful Spanish female receptionists are not exactly the most efficient, swift workers I know). I am then told to wait in the waiting room with the others. Mother is still here beside me for moral support upon my first visit, dressed as if she were attending a royal garden party (sunglasses still on and the diamante pumps making yet another outing).

"Where is he, darling?" Mother asks.

"Where is who?"

"Francisco, sweetie! Obviously!" Mother looks around, urgently. She also gets off her chair and saunters down the corridor, nonchalantly, peering into the offices!

I urge her to sit back down and she does, reluctantly.

Five minutes later, my female therapist appears with her clipboard and calls out a few names, including mine. She then proceeds to explain the process for today's session and asks us to follow her. I am quickly translating the information for Mother - as she is demanding to know what is happening. I reiterate what my therapist told us; that we would have some kind of electrotherapy thing and then go into the gym for physiotherapy exercise.

"Ooooh! Fantastic, a gym! So it's like a retreat, marvellous! I wonder where the swimming pool is, I didn't see one outside. Perhaps they only have an indoor pool..." Mother is now very excited about rehab.

Mother is edging forward with me and our small group as the therapist looks at her with suspicion. I presume it is because we, the patients, are all dressed in gym gear. Mother is evidently dressed quite the opposite. Then someone says something and the therapist explains that Mother cannot come further than this door we are hovering at because it's 'treatment time' (and of course we are not allowed 'observers' etc during the process). I steadily translate this to Mother and she does not take it very well.

"Why?" She asks, with an aggressive confidence.

"Que?" The therapist asks.

I see I am going to have to be the translator again.

Mother is not accepting any of the very reasonable explanations.

"I am her Mother!" Seems to be her only counter-argument. It does not do well in altering the rules of the rehab centre, funnily enough. So Mother withdraws her glare and spins around.

Right at this moment, Francisco appears from around the corner and Mother finds herself a few centimetres from his presumably toned torso.

"Ah! Francisco! Hola, darling!  I am going to have to wait for Charlotte-Elizabeth whilst she has her therapy, that's right isn't it? So - where is the spa?"

"Uhh.... sorry, what, Madam?" Francisco, bless him, is struggling to understand Mother. Not only due to the language, mind you.

"The spa, darling? Can you tell me where it is? So I can relax by the pool with a magazine. Do they serve cava there? Ooooh, are the magazines all in Spanish or do you have 'Hello' magazines? I usually read 'The Lady', actually....." Mother trails off as she sees Francisco's confused expression not changing in the slightest.

I smile apologetically at Francisco and tell him not to worry; I will explain the reality of this situation to her.

"Mother, this is not a spa. This is a rehab centre. I am not an A-list celebrity overcoming drug addiction. There are no detox juices or masseurs. This is a hospital. I suggest you wait outside on a bench. Please try to stay outside, okay? Francisco is definitely busy, he won't have time to join you either." I say, a little stressed that my fellow physio group have already been ushered through and I am stuck here bringing my deluded Mother back down to earth.

Mother shuffles off, a little disgruntled. Eventually I catch up to my group and I begin my therapy session.

One hour later, I emerge from the centre to find a lady of leisure spread out, legs up, on a bench in the sun. It is Mother; her posh summer dress has been hiked up above her knees - for more efficient tanning purposes. She has obtained a straw hat from somewhere, which is perched on her head. Beneath which are her sunglasses over the top of her reading glasses. She has a book in one hand and an ice cream in the other. It looks as though she is a resident at a top spa in Hampshire, if it weren't for the cement-churning lorry behind her.

xoxo

Ready for the luxury spa.

"ASK HER TO GET RID OF THE TRAMP, DARLING!"

Hello dear reader! How I have missed writing these blog posts, I am truly sorry that it has been too long since posting. I could ramble on about how busy I've been (albeit very true) but I shan't, because you are not here to read about excuses. You are here to read about how I've been coping with Mother. Perhaps you are here to see if her behaviour has improved. I can put you out of your questioning immediately and tell you that; no, she has not changed at all. She remains a child trapped in a Mother's body and is consistently a high demand on my time.

Last week, Mother and I took ourselves out for a lovely dinner (I had some days off work and treated her to a meal). As you all know, we are certainly not fans of Spanish food, so I chose somewhere we had been once before a long time ago that is a blend of Mediterranean cuisine. Upon entering the restaurant, we were greeted by the lovely Hungarian girl I had reserved a table with and shown to a little table for two. Oh, I had to reserve a table not because it was busy but because Mother wanted to request a specific table "not too close to the door and not too close to the kitchen please and thank you".  So, having been shown to our table, we hear a shriek of laughter coming from a table behind me. As it turns out, there is a mild party of 6 travellers. From Ireland. Speaking in English.  A rush of fear floods over my body as I turn to see Mother's face; it is her "FURIOUS" face. Jaw clenched, eyes bulging, brow furrowed so strongly that I think her face might actually break. Her nostrils, too, are flared so wide they are like little volcanic craters. In fact, she resembles a volcano. A very active volcano. Ready to erupt.

Mother is furious that there may be another diner in her vicinity from the British Isles. This never sits well with her; she doesn't like "Brits" - as she calls them. Anyway, I admit, their voices are rather shrill and they are quite possibly disturbing another table of 2, quiet and demure diners next to us. Mother decides that the young girl of this couple next to us is indeed terribly bothered by the Irish hooligans and makes it her duty to catch her eye, in order to signal that; "yes, I too am bothered by these ignorant idiots, I agree - we should not put up with this should we? I am glad you are on my team." So, eventually the young girl glances over, smiles gently, which surprisingly satisfies Mother enough to stop staring at her. I try to distract Mother from her inner raging by quietly discussing the nice couple; "Oh look, he is wearing a nice watch... and his shoes, look Mother, his shoes are nice, aren't they?" etc etc ... Mother decides he is most definitely American as he is very tall.

As my attempts of distraction last approximately 30 seconds, the roaring from the Irish behind me increases in frequency and volume. Suddenly, one of the buffoons says;

 "Aw, Stacey I gotta tell ye, this squid is f**king FANTASTIC, get it down ye!"

Oh dear. Mother jolts so far in her chair as if a giant gust of wind has thrust her back.

"OH MY GOD, DARLING! DID YOU HEAR THAT?! He swore! This is outrageous, I cannot believe it! Only the bloody Brits would behave so abhorrently, darling!"

"Jesus f**kin' Christ, Mick! Ye right it's cracking! Eh, take some of dat bread there, pal but save some for the rest of us ye' f**kin pig, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" - Stacey responds.

Mother blinks back her tears. Her lips are pursed so tight that a sip of wine would not even pass them.

Speaking of wine, Greta (we shall call her Greta, the Hungarian waitress), comes over - ready to take our order. Only Greta does not realise, at this point, that Mother is not a normal client. Greta does not speak good English and therefore I am employed as the translator, once again.

"Tell the lovely girl that I cannot eat whilst those absolute hogs are sitting there with the big fat mouths. Tell her we are going to have a drink and wait until they leave. I simply cannot eat food with those disgraceful animals in my view. Ask her how long they are going to be, darling."

I translate. Vaguely. Greta seemed to understand the majority of Mothers complaining due to her finger jabbing towards the table behind me and facial expressions.

Mother then conducts her own observational psychology study of the couple next to us. I have already determined that they are speaking English but managed to convince Mother that they are probably not from Britain. Mother proceeds into a process of not-discreetly leaning into the couple to listen; glancing over several times with beady eyes  and then leaning into me to tell me exactly what her observational skills have uncovered. Not a lot apparently; simply that they have ordered some potatoes (I could see that myself) and that they too are GREATLY offended by the Irish party behind. I do not ask how she knows this.

Greta brings over the wine and is extremely accommodating of Mother's wish to wait until the Irish leave. Personally, I am starving. I have scanned the menu three times and then studied it intensely four times. I know what I'm having. I want all of it, I am that hungry. I am feeling woozy, having drunk all my wine on an empty stomach. Mother orders more wine.

At every moment I look at Mother, I see her glaring at the party of 6. I ask her if it's wise to death stare the drunk Irish hooligans, as I'm sure they wouldn't be scared to start a fight. She ignores me;

"They must be TOLD how to BEHAVE! This is UNACCEPTABLE behaviour. Look at them, darling!  They are eating like PIGS, they need to be eating soap, their language is foul, I can't bear it."

Greta walks by again and Mother calls her over, in order to get across the message that she is still waiting for the Irish to leave. I am fully aware that this is a technique in the hopes that Greta will magically remove them from the restaurant. Of course, Greta smiles apologetically and tells us it's totally fine we can stay as long as we like. My stomach growls in reply.

Mother sees my face; 

"I know you're hungry, darling -  but do you honestly expect me to dine with THOSE?! I am not an animal. I am not used to this. I dine from Prince Albert china and I was really born to dine with royalty at the palace. This is so far removed from my lifestyle, darling. I am so offended. Revolted."

"Oh my GOD. You will not believe what I have just seen. I am almost too embarrassed to tell you. That TART of a woman has actually left the table, walked over to the waitress with her empty wine glass and demanded that she refill her glass! I am going to be sick. I can feel it. This is horrendous."

Greta walks by again a moment later and Mother mouths "sorry!".

Mother means "sorry for those ignorant British morons" but Greta probably understood it as "sorry for sitting here for over an hour without ordering food, I know it's  nearly half past 10."

OLIVES!! Greta has bought some OLIVES! Hallelujah! I literally pour them into my mouth.

A  6-person roar vibrates from the table behind and Mother's over-reaction nearly causes her to fall off her chair and fly back through the window.

"F**KING HELL DEIRDRE! Hahahahahahahaha ye stupid sh*t! Ye spilled some good wine there, ye silly b*tch! Eh, WAITRESS WE NEED ANOTHER BOTTLE POR FAVOR!!!"

Mother instructs me to "call the waitress over again, darling. Try to ask her to throw them out."

I didn't. Obviously.

The loud party remains loud for the next few minutes and Mother's rage is showing violently in her face.

"Darling. Seriously, if they don't stop and leave I am going to be very ill! Oh God... they're going to start off my menopause, darling! I'm having a hot flush and a hot flash, darling! Look at me! They are affecting my hormones!!!"

One of the men stands up to wipe the wine from his Bermuda shorts.

"Good LORD, look at what he is wearing in a restaurant!?"

I must add here that all of Mother's comments are not discreet and whispered. Rather, they are purposefully loud as each comment is thrown in a direct line of fire from Mother's mouth onto the table behind me.

Eventually, they order pudding. I sigh of relief and suggest we order our food, as it is nearly 11pm. I am sure I have lost 3 stone just sitting here.

I have spoken too soon. A party of three have walked in just as I make this suggestion. To my luck, one of the group happens to be Irish and Mother notes that he may well be homeless, due to his clothing choices and long, shaggy hair. Like a magnet, he is pulled towards the party of 6. They exchange loud tales of where in Ireland everyone is from and what they are doing here.

"Oh my GOD. He cannot come in here! This is a restaurant. He looks like a TRAMP! Look at his trampy-ness! This is preposterous! " Mother exclaims.

She says the word "tramp" far too loudly.

"He cannot come in here..... just look  - OH MY GOD NO! He's taking their leftovers! He's actually eating their leftovers!!!"

After Greta whips away the leftovers, the party of 6 depart. Slowly. With many goodbyes. It would seem they were all too drunk to notice Mother's comments throughout their dining experience. Nobody made any kind of remark to Mother upon leaving.

I am SO RELIEVED. I immediately call Greta over and order literally everything. It is 11:00pm. In fact, I am hungry just writing this; remembering the pure suffering and famine I was put through that evening.

Mother's face went from red to mellow-peach as soon as the Irish left  the premises and their wailing and hollering could no longer be heard as they turned the corner of the street. Mother looks satisfied with herself for some reason and says;

"See. Isn't this better. I can hear the music. I am ready to eat. What shall we have, darling?"

I told her I had ordered the food already but she'd be lucky if she were able to get a fork into any of it, for I will demolish it all rather quickly.

We did, in fact, end up having a nice evening - as the Catalonians eat their dinner from 10pm onwards, so we were accompanied by several nice groups of people. I remain British, however, when it comes to times of eating. I cannot adapt to the 11pm dinners. Evidently.

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Right, I am off to find a plethora of snacks, as I am now very hungry. Thank you for reading, my dear friends. I will try to keep writing as often as possible - as you know there is always something to write about!

xoxo