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
