In which we lose our minds.

9:30am : *bedroom door swings open, revealing a miserable, slumped-over shell of a being in a pink polka-dot bath robe and curlers* “Are you going to get up today or…” Oh dear. Grumpy mornings are back. Fair reasoning though: we are officially cut off from the rest of the world. Spain seems not to know what ‘broadband’ is, or recognise its importance. We are slowly coming to terms with the fact that it won’t be as fast as the UK (fibre-optic glass cable has not made its way here yet) but some sort of connection would be useful to everyone, surely? Also spent a good ten minutes bashing the complicated security gate with the keys… There really needn’t be so much security here; a locked metal grill, aluminium roller blinds with metal locks and locked patio doors?! This is not a lovely Spanish villa. This is Alcatraz.

10:10am : we both collapse in tears and tantrums because nothing seems to work. We have moved from one temporary home to another, which is unsettling in itself. Would you believe it… there are only two plug sockets in the living room?! Bundles of cables everywhere.  Mother abuses the décor violently, nearly knocking the hideous, huge metal boat plaques off the wall.

10:17am : “Right. That’s it. Come on. Get your clothes on, we’re going out, I can’t go on like this.”  When the going gets tough, the tough get going (apparently).

10:30am : arrived at the Golf Club Hotel. Oh no, not just a regular hotel. An elite hotel exclusive to premiership footballers, obviously. Not intimidated by its grandeur, mother marches ahead to the man at the reception desk; “Hola! I’d like to speak to someone about conference facilities here. Where’s the manager?”

10:50am : twenty minutes later business cards have been exchanged, mother has invited the manager to an event in England, meetings have been booked and a nervous giggle has escaped from the manager as mother announced she’d ‘be here every day!’

18:00pm: somehow somebody sucked the day away and it was nearing sunset. A quick trip to the IT centre in the hope they could save us (and the unrealistic hope that we could ‘buy the internet’). Spent rather a long time determining what on earth is going on in this country and where has all the internet gone?! Mother made the tragic blunder of mistaking tech-head Neil as an American; “Oh goodness! You’re American aren’t you?! Your accent, you’re American? Oh GOD that’s such a relief! No wonder you’re so helpful! Honestly, I’ve had quite enough of the Brits, where are you from?”

“… I’m from Manchester, love”

Charlotte-Elizabeth xoxo