The Accident

Warning: please prepare yourselves for a slightly gory account of the last two weeks. If accident stories make you feel nauseous, please do not read! 

Also - I have a feeling this will be rather a lengthy post, so grab some cookies :)

Rewind to last Wednesday:

Both Mother and I were at home. Suddenly, a loud explosion rang through the house, followed by a smash. Without thinking, I ran straight to the emergency - without knowing what it was (not wise, on reflection)  - and found Mother looking at something. As I rush to the other side of her, she screamed "NO! DON'T...!" but it's too late; my bare foot stamped straight down on a right-angled chunk of heavy glass, slicing straight through inches of my foot.  I lifted my leg up, expecting blood, only to find nothing... oh no, there it is; the delayed volcanic eruption. Mother went into 'no-panic' mode; "Don't worry, darling - it's fine - don't panic, don't panic". 

As soon as I saw the blood - I fainted. 

Considering I am studying to be a criminal psychologist, this may be something I'll have to overcome. However, I collapsed as Mother tried to save me from any more injuries and laid me down in the hall, trying to drag me to the living room. At this point, I was laughing to cover the intense pain as Mother looked like a flustered murderer dragging a dead body. Only a few feet and yet Mother is exhausted and needed a sit down. I made it to the sofa, my leg elevated and my foot wrapped in a white-now-red towel and a plastic bag. 

"Hospital.... we need to get you to a hospital, darling" Mother informs me.

"WHY?? Is it that bad? What's it look like? Take a photo... how bad is it?" I am concerned. 

Quite an annoying location for an injury actually - as it is immediately disabling and I can't actually see it. 

"Well, darling - I am in the middle of writing up an interview actually, so you Google our nearest hospital and let me finish this work. You'll be fine, just sit there... if blood starts pouring out of the bag onto the floor, call me because that's an expensive rug. Do you want something to calm you down, darling? I've just opened some cava, how about a glass of that, just to calm your nerves? Quite a shock you've had, cava is good for that, darling."

"No thanks. Just water and something sugary please... I need to not faint again. I don't need a celebratory beverage thank you..."

So, half an hour later, arriving at the hospital with Mother (who had miraculously somehow created herself a fresh face of makeup whilst I nearly drowned in blood), rushing in to get a wheelchair. As I'm wheeled in, I register and wait in the waiting room. This in itself was quite an ordeal as Mother cannot manoeuvre a wheelchair at all. She shuffles me around for a good two minutes - back and forth, round and round, jerking the wheels across the floor - before settling me down right at the front, in the way of everyone else, like a spectacle in a museum. 

Luckily, I wasn't waiting for long as the Spanish healthcare system is actually very impressive. I was assessed and sent to a different waiting room. Mother's face drops here as hospitals are not her favourite place. For me, I find it a rather educational experience. Even though I keep coming over faint with the pain. As I witness a conveyer belt of patients, cries and broken people, I register the three or four doctors on duty. There are three young men who smile at me and seem like they know what they're doing. There's also an older gentlemen - who I describe as a grizzly old bear - seemingly grumpy at both staff and patient. Worse; this bear seems to be taking in the patients that are waiting in this room with me. As the possibility of him treating me grows, I have a mental breakdown.

"Mummyyyyy!! *sob* I c-c-can't have h-h-him! I d-don't like h-him! Pleeeeaaseee no! He'll be m-mean and rough with m-me! Look! I don't w-want him, mummy!" I sob uncontrollably as the young doctors pass through, worried at my state.

"Ok, darling - if you don't want him I'll tell him, darling. Don't worry - you won't have what you don't want, sweetie. Mummy's here. Mummy's here, darling! Look - maybe you'll have one of those young junior doctors! You'll be fine, darling, don't worry." 

After a few minutes of realistic reflection, my sobbing subsides and I let fate take control. Everything happens for a reason. I'll be fine.

Of course, the gruff bear calls my name and ushers me in. 

Fine. Fine. It's okay - I tell myself. 

I tell him that I speak Spanish but I don't know all the medical terms so I ask if he speaks English. He doesn't (a shrug confirms his limited languages). The conversation that follows, puts my mind at rest as I realise he actually just has quite a British, dry sense of humour as we joke together. Mother has no clue what is going on and is frantically mouthing "WHAT IS HE SAYING????" to me from the other chair. As the doctor unwraps the plastic bag around my injury, he takes a peek and immediately says something to the nurse and she instructs me to lay down on the bed. I ask what he said so he demonstrates with hand motions; *stitches* and Mother nods to say "I told you". 

A very quick process proceeded, for which I was grateful, as I don't handle needles very well!  The nurse and the doctor were excellent and able to communicate the important parts to me. However, just in case of a return visit, Mother gathered up all the personal details of the staff members, including the receptionist (unnecessary I think). We now have a list of doctors' names - with a memo beside each one, such as;

 "v. good. not as grumpy as seems". 

"lovely watch. must ask where from next visit."

"speaks good English"

"gorgeous smile. Ask age next time?"

And so on. Eventually, I leave. Actually, upon arriving home, a nice lady offers to help me hop back to my house, whilst her dopy husband stands and watches. Yet another example of how women are stronger and smarter than men. 

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Housebound for a few days (the biggest struggle of all - as I'm very active and outdoorsy these days!), I let Mother out alone to the shops. Unfortunately, she returns with very bizarre items (due to the lack of language progression) - unable to identify simple things such as mayonnaise ('mayonesa', I'd thought, would be fairly easy. Apparently not - as she returns with a disgusting white salad sauce.) Carrot juice instead of orange juice was another gem. Nonetheless, Mother kindly brings home a crutch. A bright lime green one, in fact, because ; "it matches our sun chairs, darling!". I will also mention here, that as well as allowing her into the supermarket alone, I also had no other choice but to let her in the kitchen to cook. I know - I know - but really I had no other choice! (Even though Mother tried to persuade me to order us a kebab takeaway all week). Unfortunately, Mother believed that Chinese egg noodles and dried spaghetti were exactly the same thing and therefore cooked them together for approximately 30 minutes. Dinner resembled something you might find in the waste bin of Alcatraz. 

The following evening was the Sant Joan fiesta, which runs from around 7pm to 7am (seriously). Myself being perfectly happy with watching the fireworks from the balcony, Mother sets off to enjoy the experience even closer. Three minutes later, she rushes back in yelling;

"GET UP! QUICKLY! YOU ARE NOT MISSING THIS! IT'S AMAZING DOWN THERE! COME ON!!"

And so, in slight hysteria, Mother half-carries me to the beach. Electing herself as a traffic warden by stopping all the traffic as I hobbled across the road.  It wasn't quite what I expected; it looked a bit like a war zone, actually. There were children, bare-foot, running around with lighters and sparklers. There were parents lighting fireworks whilst holding a bag of them in the same hand. There were Bronx youths wearing stupid hats and carrying fire bombs. So, as I sat on the bench (see below), disabled in my pyjamas, I feared for my safety. Actually, I nearly got struck by a firework.

The following weekend, I couldn't bear to be inside for a minute longer - so attempted a beach day. I got half way, when Mother exclaimed; "Darling, sit here - wait. I have an idea" and before I could stop her, she zoomed off in the direction of the lifeguards. Brilliant. Ten minutes later, I realised that Mother has chatted up Mario in order to chauffeur me to my destination in my very own royal sand carriage (see below). I didn't expect quite such an audience but for some reason the entire population of Spain turned up to watch this.

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Fast forward to the beginning of this week. 

I wake to see my right knee the size of a football. Immediately, it all makes sense; I had a similar injury from the marathon in 2012 due to impact inflammation. I have been compensating the weight to my right leg to handle the foot injury. The pain was unbearable so Mother takes me to the health centre here, although I can't walk (left foot with stitches, right knee unable to take any weight). So Mother kindly leaves me in the car while she borrows a wheelchair from Alberto at the health centre (no wonder she took so long... they had a "lovely little chat" apparently). Collecting me, Mother embraces her inner Lewis Hamilton and races me through the car parks and across the main road... unaware that she must first locate the disabled access routes that allow the chair to glide up and down the slopes cutaway in the curbs. Instead, Mother tips me head first into the gutters.

My appointment was at 10:10. By quarter past, I am still waiting (zero bother on my part) outside my assigned door. However, another door down the hall opens as a young male doctor steps out and calls "Peter" in as his next patient. Mother clocks this doctor. Twenty-something and 'very good looking' apparently. I can't see long-distance so he's a blurry white jacket to me. This 'Peter' is not here, it would seem. Mother turns to me and says; 

"Raise your hand, quickly!" 

"Pardon?"

"Pretend you're Peter! You can see that doctor, darling!"

"No."

"YES! Look, Peter isn't even here, is he? We're waiting! You're an urgent patient! I bet he'll be very good, darling! He looks like he'll be good, doesn't he?"

"It doesn't work like that. It's not a queue. We're assigned a doctor, Mother."

"No but he won't know! You'll just say you're name is Pieter, pretend you're named after your great grandfather! Come onnnnn!"

N.B. Great Grandfather is Henry. Not Peter.

"Shut up. You're disturbing the other patients. Sit down!"

We are quickly seen by my assigned female doctor and sent straight to back to A&E. Upon arrival, Mother re-introduces herself to all the doctors, nurses and receptionists, feeling extremely proud that she remembers everyone's name. Actually, she even makes friends with a couple of patients by providing light entertainment in the waiting room. I am there (in the wheelchair, in the middle of the room, as an obstructive specimen to be stared at. I quickly learn how to wheel myself around in the end.) Mother has brought some sort of fly swat and her face is graced with an angry-Shrek expression as she growls at this fly circling the room. It lands on her foot and Mother swiftly attacks it with the swat. Loudly. The skater boy opposite is trying hard not to laugh at her, while his father is nodding and chuckling.  Mother optimistically believes they are laughing with her and therefore continues to act out scenes, paying her dues as hospital entertainer.

Soon after, I am ushered in to see a doctor about my knee. I am, yet again, judgemental over these doctors and - as she is a woman - I am a little nervous. She instructs me to lay down on the bed whilst she gathers her helpers and tools. As I lie there, doing my calming breathing, Mother comes over and inspects the cloth I am laying on. It is hospital-blue linen, at which Mother gasps at and says; 

"Darling! It feels like Egyptian cotton! Oh LOOK, there's more over there, how amazing! Look, they're all ironed! You don't get that in England, do you? No, they just use paper and throw it away! What a waste! You see, bless Spain, eco-friendly this is, isn't it?"

Mother continues to investigate the surgical room, touching things she's not supposed to. The doctor re-emerges with her helper and explains what they're going to do. It turns out, they won't be using anaesthetic to drain all of this fluid from my knee. My adrenalin, at this stage, is through the roof (as it usually is in hospitals et al.) and the thought of needles jabbing into this already-painful knee makes me light-headed. I try my best to continue my meditational breathing patterns, focusing. Mother lends a somewhat unhelpful hand by holding me; 

"Learn some French to take your mind off this. What's the French word for 'needle', darling?". 

Twenty minutes later, two huge tubes were full of my extra-leg-stuff and my leg wrapped up very tightly in 5 layers of bandage, tape and cotton. Instant pain relief, thank God, although now a slightly different needle-bruise pain but totally manageable and I am more than ready to get out of the hospital now! Ah, no. Two more doctors have come in and Mother asks the male junior doctor (through enthusiastic charades, obviously) to take a look at my stitches on my other foot as she is worried about the medical work carried out previously by the female doctor. How rude. How embarrassing.

Of course, the work on my foot was totally fine and I am 'healing very well'. 

Here we are at the final stages of The Accident. I am still on somewhat of a rest order, so no swimming in the ocean for a few more days *sob*, however I'm off the meds! Yay! My knee is still significantly larger than the left knee but I'm hoping it will die down. The doctor said she couldn't take any more fluid out because it would traumatize my knee (more traumatising than Mother's behaviour this week? Doubtful) so apparently the extra fluid will disperse through my leg in time. So far, it has dispersed to my ankle and I now have a cankle?!?!

Send prayers for my foot and knee and cankle.

xoxo

 

Accessorizing.

English Lessons or High Tea?

Today's 'event' passed like all the others and I almost forgot that I had a blog - dedicated to documenting such things. I'm glad I remembered, as now I am beginning to fear that Mother's odd behaviour is developing rapidly and I welcome advice on how to sedate her.

I recruited Mother to join me on my annual bikini hunt (side note: this is the time of year I despise the most. Not because I'm self-conscious of my body at all but simply because I never find anything remotely nice and end up in tears in the changing room whilst Mother is in hysterics at my suddenly-distorted figure). Having saved our trip until the end of the day (when all the shops open. Spain.), we walk through the streets as the sun sets and the much needed breeze picks up. In the summer in Spain, I learned yesterday, the children finish school at 1pm and never return until the following day because it's "too hot" to learn. Which consequently means that any activities / errands I have to do must be infested with extremely ill-behaved children darting around at my feet on their scooters with their bl**dy bread and cakes smothered all over their faces (sorry, I am not a 'children' kind of girl but I won't rant. I shall also stop while I'm ahead regarding my rants on food... "Oh, how lovely you live in Spain - all that lovely Mediterranean food at your fingertips!" .... SORRY CAN I JUST BUTT IN HERE AND CONFIRM, KNOWLEDGEABLY, THAT THERE IS NO LOVELY MEDITERRANEAN CUISINE TO BE FOUND ANYWHERE IN THIS COUNTRY BECAUSE ALL THEY EAT IS BREAD AND FRIED THINGS AND PASTRY AND BREAD AND CAKES AND BREAD AND BAGUETTES AND HAM IF YOU'RE LUCKY AND BREAD!)

Okay so now we all understand that Spanish food is the only thing that gets me a tad agitated. Back to zen-me.

So, Mother and I are browsing the lanes. Mother stops at the cash point and I observe a group of 12-ish year old school children in the plaza; they're evidently trying to practice their English amongst each other - which I find quite sweet. They're doing some kind of project together as they have a clipboard with supposed questions like "do you know the way to the station" etc. As we are leaving, Mother looks at the children and I explain what I think is going on. Just as I turn to continue up the street, Mother announces; 

"Hey, let's go and t---" 

... and with that, she quickly becomes out of earshot as I turn back around to see Mother walking over to the group of children! How great. I strain to hear her say; 

"HELLO! HOLA! HOW ARE YOU?" as she bends down to their level.

I immediately adopt 100% concern for myself - believing that any second I will hear a shrill "DARLING! DARLING COME HERE I NEED YOUR HELP TALK TO THESE GIRLS AND BOYS IN SPANISH QUICKLY DARLING!!" 

So, with this terrifying (and quite likely) presumption in my head, I literally run down the street. Honestly, I run so I can blend in with the crowd - so as not to be associated with Mother at the present moment. I head into a large store and hide at the back, making sure I can see out of the window. I pretend to be somewhat interested in the vile mixture of colours displayed on the plus size mannequins as I try hard to rid my mind of the awkward scene that's playing in my head;

Mother approaches children. Children look quite terrified (Mother is wearing a rather large African hat and bountiful dress, speaking stern, plum-in-mouth English). A few children scuttle away. A few stay, intrigued. Mother says; 

"Hello. Do. You. Speak. English." in a Spanish accent. A child looks perplexed as he/she tries to decipher what Mother is saying. Mother continues; 

"You. Are. Learning. English. Yes?" 

It clicks, with one child, as he/she perks up, saying; 

"Do you know way to station? Where is scooter in the sea?" 

Mother claps excitedly. Mother jumps a little with glee. Mother says; 

"EXCELLENTE! Mucho bien, children!" 

and  then; "What scooter in the sea, darlings?" 

The children try to have a hand-gesture conversation to convey what they mean and Mother eventually decides they mean to say 'groin' ; 

"Ah! Oui! Si! The groin. We say groin. It is the groin you are looking for! In the sea!" 

The children are very confused and look at Mother; 

"groy? grin? oin?" 

Mother gets a little closer and enunciates even more; 

"GROIN! Groin!" 

Eventually, the children and Mother complete their understanding of each other and Mother ceases the English lesson as the children run off.

This imaginary scene, playing in my head whilst I hide behind an orange kaftan, is actually not so imaginary after all. In fact, I see Mother peering into the window of the shop I'm in as she spots me and waves violently for me to come out. I obey - first checking that it is not resembling the Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck; Mother leading a trail of smaller children in a line behind her.

"Where were you?? I needed your help with Spanish!"

"Mhmm. Come on, let's go before they catch up with us."

"What? What are you talking about, I had a wonderful conversation! Very sweet. One of them ran away but the shy tomboy spoke to me in English! I said "mucho bien", darling - what does that mean? Is that right?"

"No. It means 'much good'."

"Oh. Well, anyway they asked me to help them with their school work! I think they understood me because I speak like the Queen, darling and that's how they learn English, isn't it?"

Mother continues to recite the details of her adventure - which matched exactly with what I had imagined.

I manage to persuade Mother to resume to the errands we had to do; not yet having found a bikini. Five minutes later we're coming out of a shop and face a boy and a girl with clipboards. Mother immediately shoves her hand inches from the girl's face, waves frantically and loudly shouts; 

"HOLA! HOLA!!"

I am staring at her. So is the girl.

"Uhh.... hola..." The girl replies, looking at the boy.

"REMEMBER ME??!  DO YOU LEARN ENGLISH? YOU ARE LEARNING ENGLISH - HELLO!"

"No... uhh..." The girl is terrified.

"No English...." The girl continues as she bends her whole body back - away - from Mother.

"YES! NO? YES!" Mother continues the awkward conversation whilst I try to observe the window of another shop.

The two children scuttle off as soon as Mother looks away and the boy nervously waves goodbye. Bless him, so very confused by this British asylum escapee.

I quickly pan the area to check that there's no other children running around - waiting to be victimised. All clear. I continue my quest whilst Mother says;

 "Oh darling, they must have thought I was very important. I mean, look at me; I'm wearing a dress fit for tea with royalty - they probably thought I was royalty to be honest, darling. I've even got an occasional hat, it's straw! Don't you think, darling? Bless them - so shy in front of royalty. It's quite understandable."

My French Antique Mother

Having moved into our new place (much excite) just over a week ago, naturally we have unpacked everything; repainted the walls; fixed and fitted extra necessities and sold half of our belongings. Mother is impatient and doesn't like to hoard. 

The day after moving in, Mother decided she wanted extra plug sockets and several contraptions to cover the wires dangling from the ceiling (Spain don't provide any kind of lighting in new houses and you're lucky if you get an oven). So, Mother asked a friend of hers to recommend an electrician to take a look at the work but unfortunately he was Spanish and evidently had NO clue what to charge for the work and gave us a ludicrous quote. So, our English friends sent us the electrician they use on their boat and thankfully he had a commercial brain and experience.

Fast forward a few days (whilst Mother impatiently panicked that the electricians might break her new home) and the lads from South East London rock up ("late!" - as Mother exclaimed  to me when they hadn't arrived 5 minutes past the ETA).

"FINALLY! Someone I can trust to get the job done! Thank you - now here let me remind you what you're doing." 

Mother leads them through the hallway, 

"Mind that! That's my French antique armoire! It's lovely, isn't it? Careful! It's antique! From France! Do you know, I had to have that shipped to me all the way from France! I've had it for years and now I have to sell it because bl**dy Spain and their stupid architectural designs aren't accurate and now I have to sell it because it doesn't bl**dy fit in here!!! I am furious! Did you know? I am. I am furious! Anyway, be careful, don't damage that while you're here, the man's coming to take it away tomorrow. Well, he said he would call but he hasn't - has he darling?" 

Mother looks at me and I peer over my book to smile and shake my head. She continues; 

"No, well, he's probably sitting drinking beer, bl**dy Spanish siestas getting on my nerves."

Lad 1 and 2 are standing in the hallway, staring at Mother and slowly nodding. 

"Yeah, they're lazy sods aren't they, love. Anyway, we gotta be off at 'bout six so best be telling us what ya want, darlin'."

"What?? Well, you have to get it all done today, I don't want to be disturbed again - you won't believe all the mess we've had with the Spanish technicians in here ... look!" 

Mother exclaims and points at our laundry room door that's been battered to pieces.

"Crikey, what'd they do 'ere?" 

Lad 2 looks perplexed.

"Yes, I know! The 'locksmith' came to fix the broken lock but his 'tool kit' was a pouch with a hammer! He just ran at the door! Like this..." Mother demonstrates.

"Yeah, sounds like he ain't got no trainin'."

Mother continues the house tour of disastrous Spanish engineering before offering them tea. Actually, she reels off the exotic list of Fortnum & Mason teas we have and then delegates the tea-making to me. As usual.

"Right, in here" 

Mother points to the ceiling wires where the lights should be, 

"I want to cover these up - remember I told you, so I bought some nice little boxes like you told me to. Well, actually I chose the round ones with the pretty nodules. [N.B. 'nodules' is such a hideous word! Where did it even come from? Does anyone even know what I mean by 'nodules'? Those little in-and-out decoration-y bits...?] I think they'll go with my French antique table below, don't you? They've got character, you see. Just like that French antique armoire I'm forced to sell." 

Mother slumps into the sofa as she says this.

"Right, love" 

Lad 1 replies, looking at the boxes, 

"yeah, they'll do fine. We'll get started on those then, yeah? See how quick we can get 'em done"

 "Ooooh, nah mate...." 

Lad 2 chimes in with one of those British inhale-sighs, 

"nah, won't be able to drill through that ceiling mate, that's like flour  - it won't hold nuthin' - ceilin' gonna come down, innit mate, nah - can't get a drill through summink like that"

Mother purses her lips and says, 

"Yes, you will. Of course you will - how else will lights get up there? Go on, give it a go - I bet you it'll work. Come on boys - here, use this masking tape..." 

Mother hands the lads the masking tape along with detailed instructions on how to do their job.

A few minutes later and they've successfully installed two out of seven.

Just as lad 2 is preparing the next box, I notice him whip Mother's precious wooden chair from under the piano to stand on. His foot is about an inch from the seat before I hear a shriek...

"NOOOOOOOO!!!!! NO NO NO! STOP! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?!? NO, no, no, no, no, no, no, no! THAT'S MY FRENCH ANTIQUE CHAIR!!! IT'S FRENCH ANTIQUE! GOOD LORD, CAN YOU IMAGINE ..... THAT'S FRENCH ANTIQUE! IT COULD SHATTER INTO A MILLION PIECES, WHAT WOULD HAPPEN.... THAT'S ANTIQUE!! "

Lad 2 leaps backwards, 

"ah, sorry love. You ain't got any ladders 'av ya?"

Mother recovers and hands him some ladders. She begins to tell the story of how she obtained the French antique chair. From France. Shipped. Of course. Very antique. Very French. Very sentimental. Probably worth a fortune. Probably from an old writer's chateau. Possibly owned by the royal family at some point. Blah blah blah.

Having exhausted the possibilities of standing on any more fragile furniture, Mother relaxes. By this, I mean she continues to follow the lads around the house, hovering over them, constantly asking a wide variety of technical questions and being on hand to offer tools. Meanwhile, I resume to my tea and book in the corner.

I am often very confused when it comes to technicians / electricians / plumbers etc in your home. Are you supposed to stand and make small talk to be friendly and polite? Are you supposed to stay out of their way and let them get on with their work? What is the protocol here? I think I followed the correct etiquette.

So mortified I had to hide in the bathroom for 5 minutes

At this stage, I'm sure you're all feeling extremely sympathetic towards my ongoing situation. You know, the whole "I have to spend my life restraining Mother" situation. I had hoped that we could reside here in this city - as new citizens - without Mother immediately creating a name for herself but unfortunately I am not so lucky. The huge downfall of Mother is that I am involuntarily associated with her and - considering her memorable hair colour and unique sense of style - she is not one to blend into the crowd (meaning every time we are in public together, people will wave to her as if to say "ah yes, the crazy woman from last night that kept sending food back" or "oh it's the woman who spent 45 minutes trying to untie a distressed pigeon from a net" and so on).

A relaxing Sunday for our fellow citizens was interrupted by a destructive Mother, once again.   Sitting down midday for a coffee on the main street (this is important; the main street is the street I walk down several times every day) we order our drinks and are considering a snack when Mother's shrill voice interrupts my menu-browsing;

"What is that?!!"

"What now, Mother dearest?"

"DRUGS! I can smell drugs!!! Can you smell it? Can you smell that? OH MY GOD......"

At this moment, Mother whips her head around to the table of vibrant 20-somethings 2 feet behind us and they all look back at her...

"Not really..." I reply

Mother's face is about 40% livid. For comparison, I can tell you that this is about a 120% level of anger on a regular person.

"Right, that's it. I honestly put up with so much [I raise my eyebrows automatically] but this just pushes it too far! Smoking drugs at a restaurant?!?! [n.b. it is a bar / cafe] I can't eat here with that going on! Honestly, I'm inhaling that! If I wanted to go and smoke bl**dy drugs I'd go and buy some wouldn't I! I don't want that shoved down my throat!!!"

Before I know it, Mother ushers over the kind waitress to explain her dire dining conditions;

"Are they smoking drugs????" Mother darts her finger at the table behind.

"Que?"

"Oh right, darling..." Mother looks at me, 

"She doesn't speak English - tell her, sweetie"

"No thank you Mother"

"TELL HER WHAT I'M SAYING WHAT IS THE WORD FOR DRUGS????"

"I don't know"

The waitress looks expectantly from Mother to myself... waiting.

"DROGS... drogs.... drugas... DRUGS!"

The waitress is evidently confused.

Mother then hand signals the 'smoking' gesture, followed by a disgusted facial expression and another finger-jab at the youths. Unfortunately, I am facing them, directly, meaning that my face is the only focal point of this commotion for them.

The waitress has picked up on the hand gesture and says; 

"Ah! Yes, we have machine inside! We sell inside"

"What?!?!?!" Mother exclaims, terrifying the waitress, "You sell the drugs inside?!? Oh my GOD, darling, they're selling them!"

I offer the idea that perhaps the waitress is talking about regular cigarettes, not marijuana.

Mother pings upright; "marijuana!"

This translates well and the waitress understands. Sort of.

"Ah! Yes, no, you want marijuana?? I don't .... I don't know where you can... buy... what?"

"NO! Them!" Another jab, "are they smoking it?? They are, they are smoking the drogs! The marijuana! Yes!"

The waitress has made several attempts to subtly look at the group behind us but they seem to have caught on and have now stopped their conversation and are all looking over in our direction to see what's going on.

The waitress then understands a little more accurately and says;

"Oh, you don't like... the smell.. the smoking....?"

Immediately, the waitress steps over to the fun group of friends and whispers something to them and comes back to tell us that, no - in fact they are not smoking any 'drogs'.

Mother does not accept this and violently nods her head to say; 'no waitress you are wrong and I am right and they are smoking drugs I can smell it and I will not put up with it, it is ILLEGAL'.

Instead Mother just says ; "Yes, they are" and fake-coughs forcefully.

At this moment, I see the table behind all jeer loudly - laughing - saying in Spanish; 

"eh, no we have no drugs! But you want some?? YOU WANT SOME DRUGS, MISS?"

Mother's back is still facing them so I have to either awkwardly smile at them in the hopes that they translate this as; 'I'm so sorry for this crazy woman's behaviour, I don't know where she came from, I am not related to her but I'll keep her out of public spaces in future' or run to the bathroom with humiliation and stay there for a while. I chose the latter.

Upon leaving, the young adults at the table all stand up and gestured the 'smoking' hand signal, laughing and smiling and not letting me escape without feeling like a total disaster.

I tried my best to carefully explain to Mother that this behaviour was not acceptable. If she did not like what was happening, we could have silently moved to another table or cafe. Alas, she was appalled that I was not 100% supportive of her actions and took no notice of my desperate attempt to quieten her opinions whilst in public.

Several hours later, we had to walk past the same cafe to get home. My heart sank as I saw the same group of guys and girls sitting outside. I spotted them early on and tried to haul Mother to the other side of the street in attempts to go unnoticed, however the 'leader of the pack' spotted Mother (obviously, you see? The red hair? This is such a problem;  the more I am seen with Mother, the more they are going to recognise me when I'm alone and put me in the same boat!) and the crew of friends stopped drinking and stood up to smile and wave (I feel like this was not a friendly acknowledgement but more of a taunt). I couldn't look in that direction and marched past like a stern and boring Brit, dragging Mother along with me.

Mother is in no way apologetic of her behaviour and stated  that she would - and will - be behaving similarly if the situation presents itself.

If any of you have any advice on how to react in such a mortifying situation, please comment.

xoxo