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
