Hello wonderful friends around the world! Such a
globetrotter I do feel! Mother and I have just returned from ITALIA! Yes, the
land of gorgeous pasta, gorgeous pizza, gorgeous gelato and gorgeous... men!
Well, according to Mother - although I do agree with the first three gorgeous-es.
A 2pm flight means a relaxed morning, am I right, ladies and
gents? Uh, well no. Not when Mother is involved. The alarm rang aggressively at
7am (earlyyyyy!) in order to alert Mother to all the household safety precautions
that were necessary to set up before leaving. I used this extra morning time to
make green smoothies, which I'm sure you'll agree is the appropriate preparation
for a flight. Mother used this valuable time to stuff hangers into the window
blinds.
"What is that you're doing, dear?" I say, with
caution as I enter the kitchen (early-morning-Mother is not sensationally rational)
"What does it look like, darling?!" ..... (told
you) Mother replies, as she is perched on a stool.
"Urm, well I couldn't really say... to be
honest...."
"I'm obviously using
these clothes hangers that I've sawn in half to wedge between the window and
the blinds so that nobody can break in!" Mother says, looking at me as if
I'm stupid.
"Right. Of course. I see it now, yes. Indeed. Makes
sense. Sensible. Mhmm."
As Mother dismounts the wooden stool, I offer to put it
back.
"I haven't finished yet!"
I glance at my watch; it is precisely the time that Mother
said we would be leaving. Yet, she has returned to the kitchen with a mop.
"Oh.... what.... what's that for?" I am looking
for the spillage.
"I'll show you, sweetie!"
As she says this, the mop is whipped up in the air and
Mother glides it between the handle of the window and wedges it into an alcove
of the wall.
"There, see! Now, if the burglar does manage to break
through the hanger-wedge, he won't be able to open the window anyway, you see,
darling? Mummy's very clever, isn't she?" Mother is a tad flushed but
evidently very pleased with herself.
I am concerned that Mother thinks we live in the ghetto.
We are finally ready to leave the house. It is half past ten
in the morning and about 52 degrees centigrade. A 15 minute walk to the station
actually took 30 minutes due to Mother's choice in footwear. Again. For those
of you wondering, I am wearing a sports bra, running vest, jogging bottoms and
sneakers. Backpack, water bottle and suitcase in tow. Mother, in high contrast, is wearing a silk
dress (with a crossover flap that flies open during a breeze, exposing more than
we all bargained for) and... oh, no, not the famous diamante pumps this time!
Instead, Mother has beige, suede heels with a very long tassel that ties up
from her ankles to her calves. Much frill. Much tassel. She is channeling some
strong Coachella vibes. So, this explains the time it takes to reach the
station; as we had to stop every 7 minutes in order to re-tie her tassels (they
were untying themselves in an attempted escape perhaps).
Eventually, we arrive at the airport (in just enough time)
and navigated to the correct terminal (a slight rigmarole) and arrived at the
gate. Judgy-Judgersons (us) were in full swing as we (not-so-quietly) discussed
the family in front of us. A family of four; two little boys and their parents,
dressed immaculately. I immediately spot
the mother's Louis Vuitton handbag, Levi jeans, Prada sunglasses and a new
Burberry purchase (looking at her grand shopping bag over her shoulder). The
children have slicked back hair, brand new Nike's and Porsche polo shirts.
HOWEVER, they are not obnoxious fancy-pants. Actually, they look very
approachable and the mother is talking quietly in Italian to the boys. Mother
and I stand discussing the beauty of Italian fashion and ... "oh, her hair
is so lovely!" .... etc. We stop instantly when the father spins around
and tells us, in a very English
accent, that we are going to board now. Oh. Whoops. It could have been so much worse!
Right. On the plane! I whip out my spelt crackers and sesame
snacks (wow I'm so annoying) and settle down with my podcast and neck pillow.
I'm very anti-social on flights, usually - as you may remember. Mother, on the
other hand, is very excited to find out who will sit next to her.
"Ooooh, darling! Do you think it will be him, he looks
like he's travelling alone, doesn't he, sweetie?"
"Oh, what about him? He's a little bit old but he looks
like he might own a yacht,
darling!"
"OH! GOODNESS ME! I hope it's him, I hope it's
him!" (Mother is pointing at a 16 year old Italian boy, boarding the plane
with the rest of his class as the teacher follows behind).
Alas, no bachelor is seated next to Mother. What a shame.
Instead, however, is a lovely lady from America with her three children (two
boys and a girl ranging from about 10-21 years old). She is apologising profusely
for bringing McDonalds onto the plane, assuring us that this is a very unusual
meal for them, despite being American!
Anyway, Mother - of course - engages "friendship"
mode and for the rest of the flight they got along like a house on fire.
Nattering and showing each other pictures of their respective children....
which I found most odd, considering we were literally all there, sitting within
three metres of each other but anyway. I
even engaged a little 'socialising' with one of the older children, discussing
high school and university, which was a rather exotic experience for me and my
neck pillow (it ceased fairly soon after we took off as he fell asleep and I returned
to my crackers and tomato juice).
2 hours later, we land. We are all trying to collect our
hand luggage and may I just say what an absolute nightmare this process is. It
always has been. Everyone stands up as we pull into the little 'parking spot'
for the plane as if the first person to stand up is the first person off the
plane. Idiots. You can hear everyone's mobile phone switching on and messages
zooming in (before we're officially allowed to even turn our phones on WHAT ARE
YOU DOING, PEOPLE?). At this point, three people on each row simultaneously
struggle and fight to whip their elephant-weighted luggage from the cabin part...
above everyone's head. Upon successfully squeezing it out, they then have
nowhere to put it. Nowhere to even turn around due to the other six people
surrounding them tightly. Everyone is now standing, holding their luggage above
their heads like morons, waiting for the doors to open (which is never within
fifteen minutes). I, however, remain seated. I really do not mind being the last one off the plane. What is the
rush?!
Anyway - I sidetrack. Whilst everyone is fanning about,
Mother and her new bestie are exchanging multiple contact details (business
cards, twitter handles, emails, addresses, twelve phone numbers etc) and are
still chatting as the new BFF's children and I glide down the aisle and off the
plane. We are about to say our goodbyes and separate when we look back to our
mothers. My mother is not able to glide down the aisle quite so swiftly as her
nimble daughter. Instead, she is unsteadily sliding.
Dragging. She gives me a worried glance. It seems as though her weight has
trippled during the flight, as she seems unable to carry herself (or it might
have been the gin and tonic she had....). Oh no, I see it now. As I glance
downwards, towards Mothers feet, I see the problem. Mother's feet have swollen
to the size of baby hippopotamuses. Her trotters have, in fact, trippled in size.
They are trying desperately to escape
the confines of the tassels wrapped ever so tightly around her ankles. The
purple pastry puffs have indeed risen within these utterly unsuitable shoes.
Mother has managed to restrict all blood flow to her feet by dressing like
Ke$ha at Glastonbury and her bff and I have to help her and her hippo-feet off
the plane.
 |
| Suitable shoes... |
More Italian anecdotes coming soon, stay tuned!
xoxo
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