Burning up in winter

Celebrating the end of an assignment, I treated myself with a shopping spree in BCN city this Saturday, bringing Mother along. Unfortunately, Mother had not slept too well the night before, which automatically means a grumpy and irritable companion for at least the first 3 hours of the day. Mother refused to take anything that resembled breakfast-on-the-go (as usual) so I had to handle the 'hangry' side of Mother too. Once on the train, Mother relaxed a little (own body instantly de-tensed itself....  I wasn't aware I was scrunched up in fear of an outburst) and we began to enjoy our 25 minute journey.  As always, I boarded the train well prepared with my breakfast and a book. Mother refused to do similarly, reacting with; 

"we are in BARCELONA, darling! I don't want to stuff my face in a book when there are all these views! You could be enjoying all the pretty seaside towns here... look!" 

For the duration of the journey I managed to read only one short paragraph, for I was frequently jabbed in the ribs by an exasperated Mother telling me how much I'm missing. At one point, I hadn't been bothered for a good 3 minutes, so I nearly dropped my book in shock when Mother suddenly had my thigh in an oddly strong  hand-clamp; "OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. No. No, no, no, no,.... what's going on?!? Look!!!! AHH!!"

Expecting to see a giant green alien aggressively eating away at Mother's window, I turned immediately, prepared to rescue all passengers from such a traumatic event. However, as I followed Mother's frightful glance out of the window, I could only see the crystal blue sky blending with the ocean, framed with beautiful palm trees and Caribbean green hills. Confused, I asked Mother what the issue was. 

"DARLING, WE'RE GOING UP A MOUNTAIN!! WE'RE ON THE EDGE OF THE CLIFF LOOK WE'RE IN THE CLOUDS OH MY GOD!!! THIS IS MY WORST NIGHTMARE WE HAVE TO GET OFF DARLING STOP THE TRAIN, TELL THE MAN TO STOP THE TRAIN MUMMY HAS TO GET OFF IT'S GOING UP HIGHER OH MY GOD OH MY GOD ..... WE'RE GOING TO FALL TO OUR HORRIBLE DEATHS ANY SECOND .. HELP US OH GOD HELLLPPPP!!!"

Slightly concerned, I peered a little closer to see if Mother was dramatising or not. Sure enough, Mother hasn't changed; the train, in fact, was on a slight incline (so slight that it went unnoticed by every other passenger...) and the track ran along the edge of a small hill tracing the outline of the beach for about half a kilometre. 

"Mother, we are not going up a mountain. In fact, we are many miles away from anything resembling a mountain. This is in fact the ocean, look, see? That is a beach. Please calm down and release your grip from my leg because people are starting to move out of our carriage. I think you're scaring them."

"Nope. NO! I can't do it!! There is NO WAY IN HELL we are doing this again. My palms are so sweaty LOOK DARLING this is making me physically ill I CANNOT GO ON!!"

So it went on like this until we arrived.

An enjoyable day out in the city would not be complete without a mortifying moment, at my expense (as usual). Struggling with shopping bags, I decide I have enough arms for one more and so shuffle into a well-known flip-flop store (the sales were on, valid excuse).  Whilst checking out a pair, Mother waltzes up behind me and whispers (loudly); 

"GOSH, darling, I think we're going to have to buy something! Have you seen the sales assistant?!" winking at me, nodding to the young, Brazilian re-stocking. You may wonder how I know he is Brazilian. Mother has already obtained this information, along with the rest of his personal profile, whilst enthusiastically chatting to him about shoe sizes.

As I'm choosing a pair, I ask a different assistant if they have them in my size. He leaves and then returns a few minutes later to disappoint me. However, Mother would not let me leave without purchasing something, of course. So she encourages (forces) me to try the pair on, even though they are a size too big.

"It doesn't matter, darling. They're flip-flops! You need them bigger!"

Despite having been told by the Brazilian that the size must be accurate for this reason and that reason, Mother insists I slide around the shop in these flippers, looking like a lost penguin. At this point, looking like a complete idiot, Mr Brazil saunters over (Mother elbows me hard) and asks if he could be of assistance. I am just about to politely decline (I am British. British people decline shop assistance 100% of the time no matter what the circumstances. This is common knowledge. Alas, not for Mother).

"YES! Yes, por favor, now I know you don't have these in the right size... they're too big ... but... they're nice, aren't they!"

He peers down at my size 4 foot drowning in the beautifully grand rubber shoe. He starts to bend down and I want to die. After the whole 'moving house' thing, I haven't had a chance to get a pedicure. I am very meticulous about beauty maintenance so, to me, 2 weeks pedicure-free leaves me extremely conscious that eyes should stay at least two metres away from my feet. As he bends even closer to my chipped nail polish, Mother decides to make this uncomfortable situation harrowingly dire. 

"Oh! You should give her a foot massage while you're down there! She's got lovely feet, she should be a foot model, don't you think? Go on, give her a foot ma-- ooof!"

I jabbed her, hard, in the ribs and she managed to bounce back a step or two.

Mr Brazil looks up from examining shoe-to-foot ratio; "Que?"

"Nothing! Nothing... don't worry" I manage to mutter, out of my beetroot face. I am sweating, my hair is stuck to my face.

Recognising my glare, Mother has been silenced. Mr Brazil discourages me from buying the giant flip-flops but offers some other options, which we speak about briefly whilst Mother is made to stand shamefully by the entrance. 

Finally back on the cool January city streets and my red face is going back to its normal shade as I escort Mother and I home (with the oversized flip-flops in my bag, of course).