Mother and the Tradesmen

*names have been changed

Dear lord and lady where do I start with this?  I'm not sure this post is going to be #relatable unless you live in Catalunya and are an expert in dealing with the tradesmen here.

Electrical sockets. A simple thing. However, the architects and electricians here do not go through any form of training. They just give it a whirl and hope for the best, which is evidently what happened when they built our apartment. Unfortunately, this means that our sockets and lights and various other electrical fittings frequently malfunction.  For the latest disaster, we made the mistake of enlisting  'outside help'.

Five weeks ago, a little man arrived (with zero tools) to fix our sockets that didn't have any current and Mother's broken bathroom mirror light. Mother and I both glanced at each other when *George waddled into our house to "take a look". He "took a look" and then returned to his van to bring his tool box up. It was more of a small first aid box but there we go.

"You see? The lamp is broken, no light, look!" Mother indicates to George to look at the broken light. He had already established the situation but I translated anyway.

"Si. Ok."

I tell Mother that George is going to change the bulb.

"He'll break it. I bet. Look! There's no wa..."

Ah. George has smashed the bulb connections.

George sighs and blasphemes in Catalan.

I do not translate.

"WHOOOPS A DAISY, GEORGE! I TOLD YOU! We need a whole new fitting!" Mother's input was, of course, valued in this sensitive situation.

George tells me he must now remove the entire mirror. He begins to lift the mirror (by himself)...

He bonks a corner of the mirror on the marble wall tiles and it shatters.

This is going really well. I'm trying to stifle my giggles whilst Mother is screaming internally.

"Oh!" Mother exclaims.

George is absolutely mortified. I can't bear to look. I'd quite like to leave, to be honest.

"Well, what now? You can't leave that here like that, it's DANGEROUS!" Mother, offering her help.

George apologises and explains he will have to go and buy a new lamp and mirror and bring it back in a few days.

A tremendous huff comes from beside me;

"WHAT? OH NOOOOOOO, I CAN'T BE WITHOUT A MIRROR! AND WITHOUT A LIGHT! LOOK AT THIS NOISE THE FAN MAKES WITHOUT THE LIGHT! LISTEN! LOOK! LISTEN!"

I try to make the situation a little less uncomfortable by not translating Mother's demands.

Anyway. Fast forward 5 weeks. Yes, that's right. 5 weeks. The current day. I have aged. During the last 5 weeks there has been a ridiculous amount of communication between Mother and George's employers regarding how slow and useless tradesmen are. I might also add here that dear old George arranged 3 visits within these 5 weeks that he simply did not turn up to.

I receive a phone call this afternoon from George, telling me he is half an hour away.

I see. Appointments are not in their brain capacity, it would seem. I gently tell Mother;

"PARDON?! WHAT? What on earth is this chaotic mess?! How do these morons operate? They cannot work like normal people, can they! As if they just assume we will be at home! We have stayed home the previous 3 times and he didn't even arrive! LIBERTY! "

We stayed home to encounter George again.

He arrived with an accomplice. Just as useless, I'm afraid. They also arrived empty handed.

It seemed to click when Mother stared at George, as he swiftly (nervously) jumped back downstairs to collect the lamp. His accomplice was left alone with Mother projecting God knows what at him (he does not speak English, either).

George trots back with a lamp under his arm.

Before they connect it they spend 15 minutes figuring out how to do it. That training day they didn't attend really would have come in useful here. Mother suddenly says;

"What colour is it? It better not be some ghastly LED light! Oh GOD what if it's not the same as the last one! I want a warm light not a horrendous blue light!"

I gently ask what colour it is and close my eyes as George informs me it is, indeed, a cool blue LED light.

I translate this back to Mother.

"WHAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTT???!!!!!!!!"

Mother pulls her entire body a foot back and rearranges her facial features as if she has just witnessed 12 humans vomit all over her Chanel suit.

"EEEUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRGHHHHHHH! NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!"

I didn't feel the need to translate.

"You don't want?" Poor George is very confused, after being pestered for 5 weeks to bring the damn lamp.

"NoooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo!!!!!!!!"

I grow concerned as Mother looks as  though she might have a mental breakdown any second.

Faces are just glancing at one another, trying to figure out what's going on as Mother rapidly shakes her head and slaps her hands on her face.

"urmmmmm....." I do not know what to say.

"THIS IS NO GOOD!    Oh for God's sake, I can't believe this! What do you mean, it's not the same as the last one!? I want the same as BEFORE! Oh my GOD  I just...... I can't have BLUE! It's awful! It's cheap! Look at how cheap this is! I can't bear it, oh God no make it stop turn it OFF TURN IT OFF!!"

George is looking at Mother as though he has murdered her husband.

I shake my head apologetically and they start disassembling the lamp...

Mother then demands the men to find the lamp she wanted, the warm light. However, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum inform me that they can 'try' but it could take weeks.

Ah, what a surprise.

Mother gives in;

"Oh for God's sake, just leave it there then. I'll just have to not use it won't I! NEVER turn it on because I'll be blinded by that horrific white glow! YUCK! If they take it away I won't have a lamp for the next 12 years!"

Ever the exaggerator.

"Where is the new mirror?"  Mother asks, as she sees the men trying to fit it to the broken mirror.

Ah. Apparently they do not have one. There appears to be two mirrors stuck to each other and only the top mirror is broken, so they want to pull them apart and leave us with the mirror intact.

"IT WILL BREAK! IT WILL BREAKKKKK!!!!"

Mother is not wrong. I do not know anything about DIY but it doesn't seem feasible to pull apart two mirrors that have been suspiciously glued together without resulting in a giant shattered mess that will take them five more weeks to clear up.

Conversations ensue as  Mother's level of annoyance increases and the level of awkwardness in the room rises rapidly. The men are trying to convince us that it won't break. They will "try" and if it does, they will bring a new one. When that would be is under much questioning.

"Oh God. Darling, tell them! Tell them it will break! Tell these men.... ask the men what the voltage of the lamp is! Tell them I AM TRAINED in these things, I KNOW! Move them out of the way. Don't let them touch that broken mirror! It WILL break and I will be without a mirror and a light and oh GOD this is ..... just TELL THEM, darling, tell them what I'm saying!"

This is very difficult to translate because, at the exact same time,  intellectual George decides to give his lengthy speech in Spanish to me.

"So, yes or no to mirror?"

"what? WHATTT? I want a NEW MIRROR! Oh for God's sake! Just leave it. Just leave it. Gracias. I suppose"

The men then proceed to wrap hideous black duct tape across all the shattered and broken parts of the mirror. This is gorgeous, really sets off the pearl marble wall. Lovely.

Mother glares at their work in disgust and then rolls her eyes. She has given up trying to teach these men how to work.

I take the initiative to refuse further translation in the hopes that it will get these morons out of our house a lot faster. Mother continues to screech translation instructions to me as I nod and say some sort of Spanish rubbish to the men to satisfy her.

Eventually they leave with their first aid box. Oh, and the cat. Thank you very much Dumb and Dumber, you've left the front door wide open and taken our cat with you.

So, here we are. The lamp replacement is about as good as no lamp at all, since Mother refuses to switch it on. The mirror is worse than before they came in the first place. This is the archetypical story of inviting tradesmen into your home; they come to fix one thing and break another. However, in Catalunya, they don't fix the first thing and end up breaking two things.

We'll do it ourselves next time. DIY QUEENS DO NOT NEED A MAN!

Thank you, next.

xoxo

Holiday Throwback

Hello dear readers. I am fully aware of the thousands of blog posts in my mind that are not getting the exposure they deserve, however I do intend to rectify that. I shall not digress into guilt here, however. This post is about our accidental holiday exactly ten years ago.

In the autumn of 2008, Mother and I were becoming desperate for some sun after spending three months trying to embrace the 'British Summer'. Alas, as many of you might be aware, The Summer of '08 in the UK did not live up to our expectations. So, upon the arrival of my October half term, Mother decided to whisk us both off to an exotic destination. Since the internet was invented, going on holiday has become increasingly difficult, in my opinion, due to the never-ending options, discounts and false advertisements seeping out of your PC screen.

"Booked!" Mother exclaimed as I came home from school one day.

"What? What is booked?"

"Our holiday, darling!"

"Oh good! Where are we going?"

"A beautiful island off  the coast of Spain! One of the Balearic Islands, sweetie!"

Obviously I didn't know what a Balearic Island was but the word "island" was enough to get me packing. In the midst of my teenage years, I decided that 12 pairs of shorts and 97 bikinis would be sufficient for a 5 day break. Wonder where I get it from.

Arriving at the check-in, I realise we are flying to Mallorca. Now, ordinarily, this is a great choice for some European sun in October. However, I simply never imagined Mother stepping foot in Mallorca, simply because every time she mentions it, she pronounces it; "Muh-YAAAAAAAW-KAAA" (with a delightfully strong South-East London accent) and grimaces. Oh well, perhaps this is a different 'Mallorca'. Maybe it's Majorca? Is that a different place? My 16 year old self was fairly weak on European geography.

A number of hours later, we are being shuffled off the plane, out into the sunny airport car park of Mallorca and shoved into a people carrier with about 10 other people. Well, this is fun, I thought. It's like 'Coach Trip'. Mother tried to smile (grimace) towards the other passengers (oddly enough, most of them were from ...... 'The North'.  A source of distress for Mother).

Anyway, this trip from airport to hotel takes rather a long time. I am desperate to get to the beach (hello yes that's me, the typical Brit sun-seeker).  Mother is desperate to get off the minibus. Unfortunately, we are the final drop off (evidently the bus was an airport transfer for a variety of people all going to different areas of the island).  So, after a lengthy tour of Mallorca's motorways, the driver says to us (in perfect English. In fact, he was English. Possibly  a 'Gary') ; "alright ladies, 'ere we are. Magaluf. 'Av a nice 'oliday!"

Magaluf.

Mother has booked a holiday in... Magaluf.

We are in Magaluf?!    MAGALUF?!   Magaluf, as in 'Shag-a-luf'?

WOW. Fantastic. Great. This is just.... Yes, excellent.

For those who are unaware, Magaluf is not a holiday destination. It is hell.

A simple Google Image search will not show ANY photographs of an idyllic island, let me assure you. This is what you will find on the first results page;

 

I nearly vomited whilst scrolling through.

A Booze Cruise doesn't appeal to me, I'm afraid.

Mother remained silent for approximately 45 minutes. This is unheard of. A moment of silence from Mother is absolutely terrifying and is a sure indication that something rather shocking is about to occur. However, when Mother eventually uttered a word, she simply said;  

"Magaluf? I don't think I booked... Magaluf?"

So. We are on an accidental holiday.

However, to my great surprise, Mother then said;

"Oh well. We're here now and it's sunny. Get your swimsuit on, darling. We'll go to the beach!"

A remarkably positive outlook on such a horrific situation.

And so it goes that we spent the remainder of that day avoiding the club street and enjoying the white sandy beaches.

For those of you needing a good cry, now would be the time. The following day a ridiculously large storm arrived in Shagaluf, barricading Mother and I  (and all the other hotel residents) inside the hotel. You may think that the worst part of it all would be the extremely untimely weather that lasted the remainder of the holiday. It was not. It was, in fact, the simple idea of spending an entire twelve hours inside a hotel with the Tylers and the Damiens and the Kierans and the Chontelles and the Kayleighs . Sorry, Katie Hopkins got inside my head there.

With absolutely nothing to do (unless we were willing to watch Casino Royale on a loop in the breakfast room),  Mother became creative. Dear old Travel-Ted was gifted with a tailor-made napkin suit;

How resourceful she is.

The glowing beacon of hope on this trip was the Indian Restaurant along the beach. To our surprise, it was better than decent. Practically empty as they didn't serve greasy drunk food at 4am. Mother made very good friends with Dave, the Indian waiter and owner. Sort of a one-man-band situation here, I think. I, myself, am still stunned as to why 'Dave' decided that Magaluf was a good place to reside and start his business.

Mother, not one to be defeated by the world's most dreadful town, made conversation with Dave every single night (yes, we ate there every single night). A small feast of mildly-interrogative questions hop back into my memory here;

"Are you married? Where is your family? Do they live here? Why are you here?"

Ok, so simple, small-talk questions. Unfortunately, however, it escalated by the third evening so much that I actually ended up third-wheeling their dinner date. (To clarify; it was definitely not a romantic date. I would not have allowed such a disaster).

The moral of the story, here, is ... NEVER go to Magaluf. Not even accidentally.

However, if you do  find yourself there and cannot escape (crying at the thought) , make the most of it and hang out with Dave and his curries.

I hope you enjoyed this little memory (traumatic flashback for me, personally) and raise your glass to more on-brand, exotic holidays in future.

xoxo

In which Mother tries to reprimand

Good evening all! It is very late on a Saturday evening, so we know what that means, right? YES, indeed, it is one of the seven nights of the week that Mother has several glasses of wine and behaves inappropriately!  The only reason I enjoy these tests of my patience is my ability to write a blog about it.

Mother and I are on a 4-day business trip (sidenote: I do not work with Mother on a regular basis) in a 'lovely' *cough* little town beside Valencia city. The purpose of this trip is strictly business, therefore leaving very little time to explore, which meant that I was not at all disappointed to find the hotel and venue in an extremely odd, remote area. However, my life does revolve around food (obviously) and so, upon dinner time, I am curious as to what I might be able to consume in this little village-thing. A-ha! A supermarket, thank you very much! A good little take-away salad will suffice. Oooh, look! They have pots of pureed fruit for adults! Right up my street! ... Ah, no... wait. Of course. The baby food does not quite reach the high standards that Mother holds. Instead, we venture into the 'town' to find something better.

"Perhaps they have a simple French bistro, darling!"

Yes, I'm sure someone has popped up an exquisitely posh, French culinary delight opposite the auto repair garage. Oh, I think I just saw Marion Cotillard glide out of there.

I must preface this by informing you all that Mother is in need of some hot food  due to her unbelievable misfortune the other night. I brought home some rosemary potatoes and tartar sauce from our friends' Italian restaurant to go with our fish and halloumi. Mother prepared the dinner by burning the halloumi (in the oven..!?) and filling our entire home with cheese-scented smoke. I then seated myself down for dinner to see steam coming off the tartar sauce. I enquired.

"Why is the tartar sauce steaming, Mother?"

"Pardon? No, darling, that's not tartar sauce."

"Yes. Yes it is. Why is it.... hot?"

"It was hot when I took it out of the bag, sweetie!"

"No, Mother. It was next to the carton of hot potatoes. Perhaps the potatoes warmed the portion of sauce a little bit... but why is the sauce now steaming?"

"..... I put it in the oven. It's supposed to be baked, isn't it?"

"Are you joking? You put tartar sauce.... in the oven???"

"Well, yes! I thought I had to heat it up!"

So there we have it. Mother burnt the halloumi to a crisp and we dined in a smoke filled room trying to eat lumpy, baked tartar sauce. You can see, now, why Mother might have felt inclined to find food cooked by anyone else.

Back to the restaurant-hunt in the desert. So, there is only one restaurant here. It is Chinese. I was sceptical, what's new. Mother was optimistic.

"It must be lovely, darling! - Look, there are real Chinese people coming out of it. They must be real Chinese chefs, it'll be great!"

To be honest, she was right. It was the BEST Chinese food I have ever eaten and it was unbelievably cheap. A miracle.

We dined here yesterday for lunch and returned back to the hotel (rolling) very happily. Today, we decide to return for dinner, rather than stuff our faces with more boxed salads. Half way through our Korean chicken (ten out of ten, would recommend), a family of 300 come in. I exaggerate. 4 adults, 6 children. One child is one child too many, in my opinion, however I mildly understand the necessity of reproduction and I manage to hold back any resentment. Mother, on the other hand, does not. As the family enter the restaurant, the excessive amount of children pour themselves into the fish pond and loudly exclaim, continuously, with excitement. I presume they have never seen a fish before. I inhale and exhale, like YouTube meditation videos teach you to do whenever feeling a little overwhelmed. Meanwhile, Mother instantly marches (loudly) over to the table of parents who have seated themselves as far away from their own offspring as the restaurant's seating arrangements could possible allow.

"NIÑOS! YOUR NIÑOS, SÍ??!!" *translation; "Children!  Your children, yes??!!"

All four parents spin around and meet Mother's extraordinarily angry face. I see them physically tremble as they slowly nod...

"LOUD! TOO  LOUD!" Mother covers her ears frantically over and over again like a monkey.

Immediately, without hesitation, all four parents (the two men look at their partners to see what to do) get up and literally run over to their children, shouting "STOP, STOP, STOPPPPP!" despairingly at them. The children obey straight away and are formally escorted away from the fascinating fish and back to their seats, nodding apologetically towards Mother on their way. Mother nods, smugly, back. An understanding has been established.

During this, my reflex was to pretend I had nothing to do with Mother. I did not know this crazy British woman. I am dining alone. I take my phone from my bag and lean over it as if I have something very important to write. In fact, I open my notes and type; "chinese. children. cringe. help. blog." in hopes that this will have a dual purpose of disguising my knowledge of what's going on with Mother and also remind me to write a blog about it.

The remainder of our dinner went smoothly, of course. HAHAHA  OF COURSE IT DIDN'T. Nope, one display was not enough this evening, we had to have two. Another family arrived shortly after; mother, father, son, daughter. They seemed civilised and quiet (in comparison). However, when Mother is on a role, she really doesn't like to be stopped. So, when the little boy/girl (all children sound the same to me) raised his/her voice a tiny decibel above Mother's accepted noise level, she shot up, out of her chair like an overdue firework. Immediately, without Mother actually opening her mouth, the father spun around and said;

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, haha!"  and delivered a huge, friendly smile whilst Mother continued to bare her gritted teeth and snarl. Much like a dog.

Mother finds it difficult to accept the kind-hearted nature of the Spanish, due to spending many years in England, gearing up for some kind of verbal altercation at any opportune moment. So, Mother un-snarled slowly (an amusing visual) and nodded in acceptance. No words exited her mouth.

"It is Spain, this is what it is like, hahaha!" The wonderfully happy father proceeded to say. Poor soul, he thought he was going to get a laugh back. He did not. Mother simply said "mmhmm..." and smiled ( a bit). I however, interjected and took on the situation by sharing an embarrassingly large grin and laugh back at him, to show him that I understood, do not worry, please don't feel bad, I, in fact, am mortified.

" Well, if that is what Spain is like, bringing their children up to behave like chimpanzees in restaurants, they are DOING IT WRONG!" Mother informed me as she turned back to our table.

Mortified that the family might have heard (very strong understanding of English), I whipped out my phone again, on autopilot,  ready to disassociate myself from Mother, forgetting that she was sitting at my table.

Once again, I must stress to you, dear reader, that Mother is not Cruella de Vil (all the time) and is usually ridiculously nice to everyone she meets. As long as they are male. And athletic. With brown eyes. And shirtless.

Until next time, chums! xoxo