Festively-friendly men

A day out to Murcia with a stop at the market brought an array of interesting encounters. The morning started out with a pleasant stroll through Orihuela market (we've upgraded from our previous Saturday market fyi) to buy our fruit for the week. Heading for the festive oranges (satsumas / mandarins /  tangerines / clementines .... they're all the same!) and a very friendly guy warbles on in Spanish. I'm trying to high-speed interpret as Mother is dishing out insignificant questions about his oranges. Naturally he doesn't understand anything but this doesn't deter her.

Unfortunately, this young man (think 'farmers son' but more like a lost sparrow in a hay field rather than a tweed-clad Downton Abbey gentleman) takes a shine to me and asks me on a date. I explain that Mother is, in fact, my mother... and he gasps. It was a swift goodbye but his oranges were the best I've ever had and may need another batch, so I expect there'll be another awkward encounter in the near future. Will keep you updated.

As we depart from 'mandarin-man', we are engrossed in the squabble between another farmers son and a batty old woman about a cauliflower. She seems extremely particular about her vegetables. Suddenly Mother whirls me to her other side; "Honey! Stay back! *eye-points to a dishevelled elderly man heading our way* he looks awfully smelly!" Thank God for Mother, always there to keep me safe from a potent OAP.

Murcia. On a beautifully crisp Christmas Eve with hundreds of families trotting around, children in tow, we head to our friends' restaurant again. A warm welcome as usual and we have our lunch. An hour or so later as we're paying the bill, Mother's favourite waiter rushes over to our table. The waiter I may have mentioned before?  The one Mother has a giant crush on? Yes, him. He heads over, looking extraordinarily bashful, clasping a scrap of paper. To my amazement he briefly asks me to tell Mother he'd like to go for a coffee with her! (Fluent Spanish, very little English. Could be interesting). I hand Mother the scrap of paper with Joaquin's number on (if I hadn't disclosed his name before then I have now!) and she gracefully accepts. A few glances exchanged, kisses, hugs etc and we're outside in the square. This is very exciting! Since our first visit to Murcia in April 2012, Mother has had a crush on Joaquin! Finally, he's given her his number! I approach Mother on the subject.
"Hmm. Yes. I don't really want his number though."
"Pardon???"
"Hmm. I mean, I just liked him to gawp at. I don't want to marry the man!
"I hardly think a telephone number translates to a marriage proposal... even in Spain!"
"Still. I can't go out with him, he's far too young for me."
"What?! You've been wanting to go out with him since forever what are you talking about?! Just go for a coffee!"
"I don't think so. OH but maybe he has a rich father! Maybe he owns a yacht! Yes. Perhaps Joaquin Senior will be better suited to me."

Mother has returned to dreamworld.

xoxo

Panic Room

Perhaps some of you are still unaware of the regular misfortune Mother and I have of locking ourselves out. Well, it appears we were due another exhilarating experience. This afternoon, whilst attending to our laundry in the laundry room, Mother asks me to close the doors to keep the cold air from breezing into our home. Not-so-smart me decided to pull these sliding doors completely closed, engaging the lock on the other side. We are now entirely locked in this laundry room. There is no way out. Immediately I roll over laughing... as does Mother (for the first ten seconds). Eventually we both realise this isn't a movie; Liam Neeson sadly isn't going to bust the door down and rescue us. Mother is now beginning to feel fear; "We're going to die in here! This is it! This is the end! How on earth  do you think we'll get out of here?! Nobody knows we're here!" (and so on and so forth).

The tool kit is out. Mother is now in full Tomb Raider mode. Annoyingly, she is switching from 'we will get out of here pass me the hammer!' to 'WE'RE GOING TO DIE IN HERE OMG HONEY SERIOUSLY!!!!'
I put forward a relevant and helpful comment; "Actually, don't you remember speaking to security? They said that burglars can get in no matter what, if they really want to. So we'll get there eventually. We just have to figure out how. How do you think they do it?"

"IF I KNEW HOW TO BREAK IN I'D BE A BLOODY BURGLAR WOULDN'T I?!"

So, minutes (hours???) pass and we're still trying to break into our own home.

EVENTUALLY we're free (Mother saved us) and laughter resumes (ignoring the slightly damaged door). Mother then spends the next few hours going through the scenario we scarcely missed;
"You know, Darling, I had it all planned. We have a children's sleeping bag in there (didn't question why), a yoga mat, wet-weather gear. We would have been just about warm enough to last through the night in there. Ohhh... and we had VIMTO! We would have had to force ourselves to drink that vile beverage to keep our blood sugar levels up. You see, you really do have to be prepared for such occasions, don't you, Darling?"

I'd like to add here, I managed to adopt the traditional British mantra; 'KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON' ... However Mother failed miserably.

All is fair in flight and war

I think it is now time to illuminate the repetitive struggle to get Mother from our home in Spain to her work schedule in the UK. Most of the time I feel like her PA but when it comes to flights, I'm sure we switch roles entirely and I become the organised (occasionally flustered) parent; shuffling her curious child through the terminal. As we reach the security check and I pass through undamaged, I look back to see Mother being thoroughly examined. Wonderful. Her boots are off (revealing baby pink socks over black tights, teamed with a dress that possibly won't protect her fully from the frost we are headed towards). She spots me peering round, a little worried and instantly gives me a reassuring wave and an eye roll. Mid-frisk (as Mother likes to refer to it) I see the Spanish lady-inspector admire her outfit and she asks Mother if she's French. Mother gleams back at her and spontaneously squeals; "Oui! Si! Oui! Je suis French! Uhh... well... *bashfully bows head* no, actually... I'm English *grunts* BUT I'd very much like to be French!" The woman lets her go after this.

 Waiting for our gate number to be displayed, Mother takes the opportunity to people-watch. I accompany.
"Good Lord! What on earth is she wearing?! She must be British. Bloody British slobs."
"IS THAT A DOG?!"
"He won't be allowed on board if he has another beer, will he, darling?!"
"How much longer do we have to wait?!"
"They better have my peppermint tea on board. I only like that brand they have. I want some. What should Mummy buy to eat with it, darling? What does Mummy like? What do I usually like to eat with my tea, sweetie?"

Arriving at the gate we join the speedy boarding queue and Mother's eyes are on full alert. Glaring at anybody who has exceeded the bag limit.
"Look! Look at her! She's got a case and a handbag! Well, I'll tell you now; if they let her on like that, I'm going to say something. I mean, what are rules for?!"
"Oh my God. Look, darling. Just look at that woman! The one with the child! Those are the worst kind of women; the ones with the babies who think they have a license to do anything they want to because they carry a small human being! Just HOW MANY BAGS DOES SHE HAVE?!"

I can tell this is going to get worse.

As we go through to board the plane, I turn around to find Mother several yards away, at the top of the slope, bag checking?! Aha! She has found a villain. Scandalous! I watch as she observes the staff telling the unsuspecting traveller to please condense her hand baggage as only one per passenger is permitted. She proceeds to empty the entire contents of her handbag into her duty free shopping bag (permitted also) and then place her empty handbag underneath her husband's jacket. Somehow, this satisfies Mother and she triumphantly comes to stand by me.
"You know, darling, I wasn't doing that to be nasty. I just think that if she can have two bags then why on earth am I going to squish my bag into my suitcase?!"

I do actually agree.

We are then greeted with a new boarding system. Annoyingly, this system completely defeats the purpose of the Speedy Boarding facility we have. For some very bizarre reason, the airline has decided to board the plane in seat number order. The first half of the plane first and the second half being sent down two flights of stairs to be faced with a locked door for 15 minutes. Mother, being the terribly impatient person she is, engages in several raging conversations (rants) with seven or eight other passengers in this situation.

Finally on board and Mother addresses a member of the cabin crew;
"What on earth was all that about?! Just simply ridiculous! Honestly, I don't know who came up with this procedure but I certainly do not agree with being shuttled downstairs and waiting like a HERD OF ANIMALS! Could you please send someone of high importance to speak to me? I'd like to make a formal complaint."

Moments later, the head of cabin crew summons Mother to the front of the plane (apparently more private, although the entire plane is now gawping at this woman trundling down the aisle behind a member of staff. She looks like a school girl in assembly). This does, however, mean I missed out on the conversation. Although, from what it looked like, there was no arm-flapping (rare) and no high-pitched shouting. I think they may have even made friends?!

The remainder of the flight was fairly calm. Until the stewardess informed Mother that they had switched their brand of peppermint tea.

Disrupting a plane journey

Firstly, grand apologies for my hiatus. The travels had ceased over summer and therefore there have been minimal ‘travels with Mother’. However, I feel you’d all like to hear about the small mishap on the plane recently.

A quick trip back to the UK (of which Mother tried to stall for as long as she could) and an adventure was inevitable. Outbound we were flown by a lovely female pilot, whom Mother rested all faith in; “Ahh, excellent. You see, we need more women pilots. They don’t mess around. They get straight on with it. Up and go is their philosophy isn’t it? Oh, I am pleased.”

So the journey was blissful. Naturally, silent gratitude was insufficient. Upon disembarking, I noticed Mother skilfully slide ahead of the queue (leaving me with the challenge of over-head lockers and grumpy travellers).  Several moments later, I noticed the line of passengers had stopped moving. We were all stuck in the awkward hovering stage of mid-leg-stretch / coat-adjusting / baggage-retrieving. Suddenly, roaring laughter drifted through the cabin from the front of the plane. It seems Mother has approached the pilot and the cabin crew to engage in a highly ‘pro-feminism’ conversation. Disgruntled male passengers were huffing and I was mortified.

The return journey was perhaps even worse. Half an hour into the flight and the refreshment service was under-way. Mother ordered her peppermint tea and settled down with her Hello magazine (catching up on the Kate & Will gossip). Believing she was in a relaxed state, I took the opportunity to nap. Moments later I was woken by a gasp and a squeal. Oh God. It turns out one of the male stewards had come around to collect any rubbish. Mother became confused as to how one should dispense of a tea bag. Her decision was to frantically lob it directly at the steward’s crotch. “Oh my GOD I am SO sorry!” Mother exclaimed as the poor man winced and glanced down at his damp trousers. Marvellous. Most of the other passengers witnessed the disaster and were giggling for the next fifteen minutes. Mother, refusing to feel embarrassed, found it hilarious too.

Haunted

There are only two possible explanations for the recent disasters; the heat has driven us to mental instability or we’re being haunted by a mischievous spirit.

Contributing to our ‘moving-in’ hiccups, we have had a fresh batch of happenings. We have inherited a dreadful washing machine (Mother will not grace the Spanish plug sockets with her beloved Zanussi. This we must save and make do with the use of a washing machine that appears to have been sitting in our laundry room since 1901. It may well have been made in 1901.) Colour-blending and shrinkage are just the beginning. Yesterday Mother yelped in grief as she pulled out her nice new dress (bought in Spain… possibly made in Spain?).  It no longer resembled a dress. The washing machine had shredded it. God only knows how such a simple machine turned into a beast to attack just one specific item. Everything else in the wash load was untouched. Spooky? Yes.

Destruction continues. Several weeks ago I think I lost my heart momentarily in the middle of the night. I have a metal notice board on my wall; somebody somewhere didn’t like it and decided to tip it off. The intense crash of metal on tiles in the dead of night was the most terrifying experience I’ve ever had. Mother naturally thought we were being engulfed into the earth’s core and there was a lot of screaming and shaking. A week later, conveniently at night again, one of my frames fell from the wall. Another similar situation followed. Ah, nearly forgot – yesterday the tiniest framed photo on the wall toppled off with zero explanation.

I also believe this spirit is a true Spaniard who hates our traditional English interior-influence. We came home to find ‘Fairy’ (the gold mask Mother has had for nearly 30 years and has travelled from home to home safely) shattered on the floor, millions of Fairy spread over the obnoxiously hard tiles. Mother also has a ‘bust’ of Caesar. Caesar is now in two parts as I witnessed his head detach from his shoulders and roll off. Yesterday our gold china bowl dramatically jumped off the side table and smashed in two. Two very even pieces (is this some kind of sign?!) and needless to say we now have a large supply of superglue.

Spooks are a regular occurrence for us, however a couple of days ago I considered relocating both of us to an asylum. Mother’s black hair pin went missing. Zero bothers given as Mother is constantly misplacing things (glasses. GLASSES!) and a nonchalant response sent Mother into a frenzy to find it; “but Honey! It was right here! No, no, no I left it right here! It wouldn’t be anywhere else!!” I will say now how difficult I find it to listen to this. Quite clearly you did not leave it there. A two-hour search ended up in my believing that the heat has really got to Mother and she has officially lost her mind. Finally, Mother went down to the giant skip (yes, Mother was a one-time ‘dumpster diver’) and retrieved the week’s garbage. Bizarrely, it was buried at the bottom of a bag we had tied up days before the clip was missing. Spooky? Yes. Really questioning our sanity now, we both placed it back exactly where it belonged. That night, Mother went to check it was still there. It wasn’t. I got a little excited and Googled everything about poltergeists. Tears ceased from exhaustion and Mother and I had given up thinking about it. We now knew this apartment had an evil spirit and we were ready for battle. I was ready to see things flying off shelves and cutlery dancing (no, wait… is that Beauty and the Beast? Ooops). Later that evening, as I stood in the doorway talking to Mother, I glared past her shoulder and spotted it. Spaniard Spirit had relocated the clip. I really had gone past the point of fear and watched Hannibal instead.

So, despite popular belief, I don’t think Mother has gone mad just yet…

Charlotte-Elizabeth xoxo

Mother’s first date with a fully-fledged Spaniard

Well. Having barely settled into our new surroundings and Mother has already been scouted for a date. A not-so-simple starting point when the phone rang;

“Honey – HELP! He’s Spanish, Darling! What’s he saying?!”

Now thoroughly used to having the phone bundled into my hands, I had a lovely conversation with Manuel. Of course, it took several minutes to decipher which ‘Manuel’ I was speaking to, however I confidently understood it was the ‘Manuel’ proposing a date with Mother.

*Mother glares intensely as she hovers over me*

“It was Manuel” I calmly say as I hang up.

“Manuel? Manuel who?! EVERYBODY’S BLOODY MANUEL!”

“No – Manuel from Peugeot!” – It turns out he had remembered Mother from our car-hunting day a few weeks ago. We did not purchase a Peugeot, much to his dismay as he had hoped to take us for a ‘test drive’.

“Well why is he calling? What does he want? I already have a car for God’s sake.”

“He wants to take you for coffee”

“PARDON? No he didn’t. You’re joking.”

“He said he would come all the way down here to meet you. I gave him your email address.”

“I can’t just go out with the first Spanish man that comes along, can I?! He’s far too young for me! Anyway, he’s bald and he’s got a tattoo!”

“He wants to go out with you on Saturday afternoon. So I said “Perfect!” – I told him you’d reply to his email. Don’t be rude.”

So, here we are a few days later. I managed to persuade Mother to accept the invite by convincing her it may very well be a PR meeting, rather than a romantic encounter (and the work-angle naturally swayed her enough). A couple of emails sent and received, one of which utterly shocked Mother into a disgraced disappointment; its mischievous tone suggested Mother bring her bikini.

Après-date:

Quite a short-lived date actually, compared to Mother’s outings in Brighton and Hove (rarely returning before sunrise). Clearly it had been unsuccessful and I prepare myself with an appropriate beverage for a full debrief.

*Mother sighs. Then sighs a little more. Then sits down and sighs.*

“Oh goodness, Honey. This is precisely why I don’t go out with men! I now have the dreaded problem of telling him I don’t want to go out with him again! In Spanish!”

I then witness Mother unroll a grand list of all the things below par.

“Well firstly, he’s too short. He comes up to my eyes! Secondly, he has shaved hair… and while we’re on that subject, you just won’t believe what he’s done. You won’t believe it. He’s shaved his legs and arms!!”

*crumpled and confused facial expression from both of us*

Trying to refresh the negatives I ask what he wore when he arrived.

“He turned up in shorts and… flip-flops! HE WORE FLIP-FLOPS TO OUR DATE IN A 5 STAR HOTEL, DARLING!”

Oh dear. No second date.

“Bitten nails. Hundreds of tattoos. Too young. He also likes nudist beaches. This is definitely not the man for me. I can’t even really describe him as a man, can I?! He’s just been to bloody Ibiza, dancing and drinking!  I need a nice, respectable man. Preferably with a yacht. Anyway, this Manuel wanted to come back here and swim in the pool! I don’t think he really understood my British dry humour as he appeared slightly taken aback when I sternly refused his many offers for future encounters but I mean really, Darling, I can’t go out with a sex-maniac who enjoys nudist beaches and would rather talk about football than politics.”

“So, what about the language barrier? How on earth did you communicate” I say, having already received multiple texts frantically asking for translations.

“Well. I was popping migraine pills in the first ten minutes.”

On to the next one then.

Charlotte-Elizabeth

xoxo

Cursed Pt. 2

Hello, glad the curiosity got the better of you all.

I shall set a small disclaimer here: Prepare yourselves, as this really was a near-death experience and Mother and I are still recovering. Please send chocolates and tissues. Maybe a rom-com?

Turning into our parking spot, sighs of relief and tummy rumbles.

“OH MY GOD! HONEY! What’s that?!” *Mother points to a rock on the roof of a car next to us*

“A rock? I don’t know – I can’t see… it’s dark…” The rock moves. The moonlight has caught two, round eyes.

“IT’S ALIVE!” Mother screams.

I scream.

Instantly we lock the doors. There’s really no chance we can get out. Hunger will have to wait.

“What is it?!” The fear strikes as I hear a squawk. A bird. It’s a bird. I’m sure you all know by now but if you are unaware, Mother’s bird phobia is apparently genetic and consequently we are both a mess.

A car approaches and we bang our windows; “SOS! SOS! HELP US! PLEASE WE’RE TRAPPED SEND HELP!!!! SOS SOS SOS!”

The car ignores our cries for help and turns a corner.

Mother thinks it’s a great idea to explicitly inform me of the likely event that took place before our arrival: “I bet it’s nearly dead. Oh god, it’s been trying to fly hasn’t it?! Oh gosh, it’s just… there. Not moving. It’s going to die… look, it’s head has sunk into it’s body! It’s neck has just… gone!”

I feel sick.

“That’s the squawking! That’s the mother! Oh NO! The mother’s here somewhere… we won’t survive, Darling!”

At this moment a giant eagle lands on the street lamp by our car (ok, the mother owl – but what’s the difference tonight?!) Immediately, fear overcomes and I burst into tears. Mother’s ‘mother’ role is now fully in gear and she produces an umbrella from the side of the car.

“ It’s alright, don’t panic, Darling. Mummy’s got an umbrella, see?”

Nope. I am not okay. “NO! WE’RE GOING TO DIE HERE! THIS IS OUR DEATH! SOMEONE’S OUT TO GET US AND THIS IS THE LAST STRAW! We’ve survived everything thrown at us but THIS IS IT! This is worse than the truck oh my God!”

“Don’t be silly! Oh for goodness sake! What is the first thing I tell you in these situations?! DON’T PANIC! This is not worse than the truck, for God’s sake, Darling! The truck would tip us over and we’d be in a pile up in seconds! The worst that could happen here is that owl would swoop down, whip the umbrella from my hands and peck at my face *drastically aggressive hand gestures of face-pecking*”

“Great. Thank you, Mother. I feel so much better. I’m just going to crawl into this glove box until we’re rescued.”

“RESCUED! OH MY GOD THAT’S IT, DARLING! Oh God, fabulous! I’ll call security!”

As we await our personal emergency services, Mother reapplies her lipstick and pesters me to open the window and wave violently to the security. I do not open the window because believe it or not I’m not yet insane. I do, however, press my terrorised face against the window in the hope the moonlight will catch it and we will be identified. We are!

The security car pulls up a few metres behind us and out step two bullet-proof-vested vigilantes. At this time of night, the quality of security steps up and they are equipped with guns, tasers, batons and other unidentifiable paraphernalia. Both ready to take down a bear with their batons raised high in their hands. Having looked around and seen nothing, they come over to Mother’s car window; “Hello madam, you called - what seems to be the problem?”

“Oh! Thank GOD you’re here! Honestly, we’ve been trapped for ages! We both have bird phobias you see! Oh god, it’s been terrible! See? Over there, on the roof of the car? There’s a BIRD! AN OWL! There’s a Mother too! Oh god, help us please! We want to go inside! They’re going to attack us!!”

“I – you mean, a bird? I don’t --- oh, no, right. I see. Yes. I see. Oh, madam, they won’t attack you. You’re perfectly safe, I promise.”

At this point, Vigilante 2’s eyes light up; “Ohhh! I’ll take him! I want a little bird! Aww, yes I shall take him home!”

“Please, step out of your car – we shall protect you”

Uh-oh. Such a small phrase and Mother’s knees went. A glance at me. A wink. This is not the time, Mother!

So. We are now being escorted from our car to our front door by two impressive Spanish vigilantes. Mother’s fear subsides (now in the arms of two strapping young men) and giggles; “Thank you so much, you’ve saved our lives! I’m sorry to have to call you out like this – it probably isn’t necessary but we were just so scared!”

I’m certain these two men thought it was a wind up as the giggling smile hadn’t slipped from their faces since they discovered the ‘emergency’.

As if embarrassment were not at its highest, Mother then asks for a photograph with them. Mortified.

Sidenote: please try not to buy either of us that owl-design stationery.

Charlotte-Elizabeth xoxo