Questionable fashion choices extend beyond Mother.

Amongst many other delights, Barcelona holds the great benefit of being a 'city by the sea'. This means that you could, if you wanted to, have a light breakfast outside Gaudi's house before walking to one of the many shopping streets - aligned with Chanel and Prada - for lunch with friends, followed by a stroll through the rustic 'Borne' quarter to reach the Barceloneta beaches for a swim and a spot of volleyball pre-cocktail hour! Possibilities are endless, apparently.

Mother and I had planned somewhat of a similar arrangement for our final day, however Mother had left the hotel sporting an outfit only appropriate for the lunchtime events. Diamante pumps and the dress she wore to the formal wedding we attended a few months ago. I recall the packing process back at home the night before;

"Mummy, do you have space in your case for my shoes? I'm wearing my trainers and taking one pair of heels and one pair of flats.... but I have no room for them"

(The ever-growing dissimilarities between Mother and I - I do not pack lightly)

"Of course, darling!  Look! I'm only taking two dresses!" *points to the 2 silk garments laid out on her bed* "And I'm wearing this one on the train" *holds up a tight-fitting, silky, floral-yet-winter-appropriate dress*

"Right, okay - what about shoes? Have you packed your sneakers?"

"Pardon? Darling, what on earth would I need those for? I'm wearing my diamante pumps - obviously! They go with everything!"

- N.B. They do not go with everything. They go with everything Mother has packed.

"Underwear?"

"Oh yes. I better pop that in."

As you may presume, I did attempt to re-pack her some suitable attire but was told off.

So, back to the trip. As we leave the hotel we get caught in a light shower. We did actually purchase ponchos but Mother refused to wear hers. Instead, she spends the next twenty minutes extraordinarily frustrated that the tiny puddles are destroying her trusty beige diamante pumps.

"Darling, shall we sit down and have a spritzer?"

"Urm... no. We've only walked down this street, we've got a while to go. It's also 11am. So perhaps you can hold on?"

Mother huffs and declares that she most definitely cannot wait any longer, she is having a breakdown over her now-papier-mâché shoes.  As we find ourselves a nice spot for a morning snack (me) and wine (Mother), the skies brighten and the sun beams down. Mother sticks her leg out into the rush of oncoming tourists in a grand attempt to speed the process of drying her water-marked suede pumps. A combination of the wine and the sun puts Mother in a better mood as we continue our leisurely journey down towards the beach.

Mother looks a little worse for wear as we find ourselves approaching the beach.

"I think we ought to sit down again, I'm starving! Let's find ourselves a nice-" 

Mother breaks off as her eyes land upon a tall, dark and handsome Spanish waiter smiling at her, offering a menu "Never mind! I've found just the place!"

I, myself, am continuously hungry. Even if I had just shovelled a Thanksgiving dinner down me, I'd probably still accept more food. I suggest to Mother that we stroll along the promenade just to have a little 'restaurant-browse', however somehow we still end up at Mother's first choice.

"I want nachos, darling. Do they have nachos? I definitely fancy nachos. They better have nachos! Isn't that a regular thing on menu's here, darling? Check for mummy, do they have nachos on the menu here? Ask that nice waiter over there...  he's coming over, darling! Quick, or you'll miss him! Ask him to bring mummy some nachos! Do you want nachos too, darling? You want nachos as well, we'll have two... or do you want to share?"

"I don't want nachos but thank you for the offer. Also, they don't have them. They had them at all the places we passed though. Why don't you open your menu and see what you fancy?"

Mother's face drops in the same way it does every time she chooses her meal before looking at the menu. Also, the same way it drops when she heavily designs a dress in her head, sets out to a few shops to find this specific dress and returns home unsuccessful.

Instead of opening her menu, Mother orders a large piña colada and then decides to fork around my food. Fifteen minutes later, we're strolling along the promenade again, watching the beach activities and being offered Segway rides (tempting - for me, not so much for Mother).

"I'm hungry. I haven't had my nachos yet."

"I see. No, you haven't. Do you really need them now? It'll be dinner time soon."

"YES I NEED THEM! I NEED MY NACHOS!  I WANT MY NACHOS! Do you think they have them over there??? What about over there?? What about in that ice cream parlour, will they give me some nachos?"

The beach is full of exciting eateries, big and small, that provide nachos. I advise Mother of this and we peer at the people in these places. Specifically those who appear to have nachos in front of them.

"Oh GOD!?! The cheese on those! That's not real cheese!! It's FAKE cheese, darling! I don't want that?! It's SQUEEZY-CHEESE!!! It's powdered cheese?! I can't put myself through that, darling. I can't. I cannot. I want real cheese on my nachos, preferably stilton but I'll settle for cheddar. I'm not fussy, darling."

I can tell this is not going to be a quick fuel-stop. We are now on a nacho-hunt. Which sounds easy, I know. However, now, we are looking for 'real-cheese-topped nachos' - lest you forget. Making it significantly more challenging.

A little while later, still unsuccessful with finding suitable nachos, I glance over at the beach. Admiring the low sun glinting on the ocean my eyes land upon a gentleman sunbathing. Not in his prime, he resembled an animal of sorts. I don't want to say 'beached-whale' but he certainly wasn't a majestic  merman.   I notice, past his rather round tummy, he appears to be wearing nude Speedo's. How amusing!  He also appears to have taken a little picnic with him as I spot a croquettes potato placed just at his crotch and... oh. That is not a croquettes potato. And those are not Speedo's. Mother has followed my gaze and I now sense that the Great Nacho Search is instantly called off.

xoxo

Just a quick announcement regarding Mother's mental state.

Having spent all her life in absolute fear of birds (of any kind),  Mother has kindly transferred her phobia on to me and I now live in fear of these creatures also.  However, with every cloud comes a silver lining and my developed fear of birds has somehow eradicated Mother's fear. 'Mother's instinct' has meant that the protective part of her has flown into action and therefore must face my fear by ignoring her own. Anyway, the point is, Mother has (obviously) over-corrected and now is not only fearless of birds and accepting of them, she frequently speaks to them. Not a problem in itself, of course. However, the last couple of days we have had the presence of a blackbird in the garden. Of course there is no evidence of it being the same bird. Mother has taken it upon herself to befriend this bird, name her Belinda and discuss with me the pros and cons of fashioning a little skirt for Belinda. Mockingly I suggest scouting out a lead and collar while she's at it, of which she is now considering whole-heartedly.

N.B. Jane - I will ensure the well-being of Belinda, do not worry.

xoxo

6 Hours of On-Board Entertainment

Well hello there again, loyal readers. I am rather chuffed with myself that the time gap between my previous post and this one hasn't been witheringly long! This time, Mother and I took our second trip to Barcelona for some business and other things and after the ten hour journey by car we had to endure last time, I persuaded Mother that literally ANY other form of transport would be an improvement.  Naturally, I was thinking of a 45 minute plane journey. As are you, probably. Unsurprisingly, Mother booked a 6 hour train journey instead.

I myself have no problem with early starts, so long as they are for a good reason. Anything that comes under the bracket of 'holiday' is a good enough reason for a 4:45am alarm. Mother has the 'grumpy in the mornings' stereotype down to a T but manages to dress herself (again, not in the appropriate traveling attire but in diamante pumps). Equipped with our luggage and food for the journey (YES! I eventually managed to persuade Mother to pack homemade sandwiches?! Very pleased with myself) we head on our way to the train station.

Mother has a strictly timed schedule so we don't miss the train; I jump out of the car before we park, grab the large suitcase and power-walk to the station's entrance whilst Mother parks the car and runs (haha) to meet me before boarding. In theory, this is sensible as it means I get a head start with the heavy case. However, in reality, it means that I end up waiting at the station for quite a while as I spot a figure stumbling slowly in my direction. Mother did not anticipate the difficulty of a morning run in diamante pumps.

We are now in our seats on the train, preparing ourselves for the 6 hour journey (what are we going to do for six hours?!). Mother is already seated  by the window and is holding up her Chanel compact for shiny-face-checks (post-run worries, obviously) whilst I try desperately to haul the large suitcase onto the overhead rack. I am quite petite and perhaps my strength lies in my mind and soul, rather than in my little arms. I feel a prod; 

"Stop! Look, look... wait for..." 

Mother's eyes are not-so-subtly squinting (and winking) from me to the young man sitting on the other side of the aisle. As I turn to look at him, he kindly stands up and gestures to help me.  With one swoop he gently places the case above our heads, smiles and retreats back to his movie. Mother does not wish to retreat in a similar fashion and instead leans over me, waves at the young man until she catches his attention and dramatically mouths "Thank you!" with a broad smile. She then turns to me and mouths again; 

"Can we switch places, darling?"

Having settled into our journey for a couple of hours, we decide to read a couple of my old blog posts to pass the time. We are halfway through one about a previous flight experience and suddenly Mother exclaims; 

"DARLING! WE'RE GOING UP! We're flying!! Are we flying? Look! The front of the carriage is lifting, can you feel that?! Look, can't you see that? The tops of the seats... look! They're rising!"

"Nope. We are most definitely still on a train. Still on train tracks. Definitely not in the sky, sorry."

Mother ignores me and proceeds to cry out; 

"BUT I CAN FEEL THE FLATULENCE!!!"

".... urm...?"

"Oh. No. No, wait. No, I don't think- TURBULENCE! I meant turbulence, darling! Hahahahaha!"

The next twenty minutes are spent composing ourselves.

As we enter the second half of the journey, Mother tells me she is going off in pursuit of the restaurant. I had to inform her for the third time that it is unlikely she'll find a restaurant on this train but she insists she's going to have as close an experience to the Orient Express as possible. After telling her the bar is in the first carriage and asking for some hot water (for my peppermint tea... which either makes me a grandma or very new-age and health-conscious), she clambers over me and I'm left to read my book in peace. Not for long enough though, as I can hear her jangling jewellery making it's way back down the train and into our carriage.  

"I didn't get you any agua caliente, darling, because I wanted you to get it yourself so you can meet Leon! I've told him you'll be coming along any moment so he's expecting you!" Great.

Of course. She's made a friend. I should have prepared myself.

"Now, sweetie, when you go, don't just lower your head and speed through. Embrace the scenes in each carriage! Do you know, darling, they must have put perfume through the air conditioning in the carriage ahead of us, it smells gorgeous! Anyway, Leon..."

Mother then educates me on each groomed facial feature of Leon, possibly so I don't miss him. The fact that there will only be one bar attendant clearly didn't enter her mind. Also, upon my meeting Leon, I notice that - yes, he is very well groomed. He is also very gay. And very young. I frequently have the task of breaking the news of gentlemen's ages to Mother as I fear she may pounce at any given moment. Much of the time, age still does not discourage her.

Back in the safety of my seat with my tea and trying to position myself to be able to watch the movie the man over the aisle is playing (subtitles are useful after all) I notice the tranquility of our carriage. Compared to the disasters of the UK's national railway, Spain has provided a pleasant traveling experience, complete with headphones and TV screens for passengers. Each passenger is silent, no phone conversations, no pungent KFC buckets rolling around the floor. 

The carriage was totally silent. Except, suddenly, for the mini-explosion coming from my right as Mother bursts open her bottle of Cava (smuggled on board, not to my prior knowledge). I jump and turn to glare at her, along with several other passengers who are disturbed by the bang, as Mother smiles back at me and proffers the bottle towards me.

"No thank you, Mother. It's 09:53am. Can you pass me the water please?"

"I didn't bring any water, darling?!"

"What? Wait, so... you're saying... you didn't remember to bring the water bottles?!"

"Water? No! I remembered the Cava though, didn't I darling!"

xoxo

Mother meets her match

Well, this is awkward. I am very aware that my last post was... okay, a while ago. I can't even excuse myself by saying nothing entertaining has occurred since August, as we all know how untrue that is. Yet here we are, many months later with bundles of stories hovering somewhere in my brain.

My most recent trip away, in the company of Mother, brought plenty of tales - of course. Unfortunately, many of these events seem to take place mid-flight. Within the tight confines of a plane. No escape to rid myself of embarrassment.  Having now accomplished the title of 'frequent flyer', I have mastered the best system for in-flight comfort. I am equipped with my neck pillow; pyjama-style clothing; perfume (to lightly spritz in my personal space bubble in the event that a nearby passenger decides to drench herself in  100 year old toxic body spray); a book; at least two magazines and my iPod. Most importantly, I make sure we arrive at the airport with sufficient time to purchase food and drink (because, from experience, I know I will be disappointed with the in-flight over-priced 'menu').  A large bottle of water and healthy snacks to last the journey. 

At the airport, I walk alongside Mother, who is dressed in a rather lovely  silk cocktail dress, high patent heels and an array of jewellery. Obviously, I address the problematic jewellery before leaving the house, however Mother protests and proceeds to bleep as she goes through security check.  Every time she is stopped and scanned. I try to communicate telepathically to the security, apologising for Mother's stupidity, only to be overridden by Mother declaring loudly; "OH GOD, this happens every time, you know! Hahahaha, SO sorry!" 

Mother also refuses to bring anything for the journey, claiming it defeats the purpose of 'light-packing'.  So, she is consistently frustrated when she has read the in-flight magazine and safety card twice and begins annoying fellow passengers instead. This time, she made a friend for the journey which was much to my delight; peace and quiet for me! Also, even though I offer and persuade Mother to PLEASE purchase something to eat at the airport, she does not.  She "just wants to get there" and fears that stopping to buy provisions at the airport will somehow delay the arrival at the other end.

So, here we are on the plane. Mother immediately picks up the menu, exclaiming her starvation loudly (in an attempt to catch the attention of the small stewardess who is far too busy struggling with a large cabin bag in the overhead lockers) and runs through the sandwiches offered. 

"Look darling! Smoked salmon! How lovely! OOOOH and they have rosemary focaccia!"

She continues; "Oh WOW! They even do flatbread, that sounds healthier doesn't it darling? Gosh, you know, eating healthier just makes me feel so superior, doesn't it you darling?" ..... "Oooooh, they have something that says 'Milano' - that must be fresh from Italy, do you think it's fresh from Italy, darling? Italians always know what they're doing, maybe I should have that one, whatever it is. Hmm..."

So, we are just taking off and Mother is already beginning to shift around in her seat. Impatience setting in early as usual. As soon as the seat belt signs are switched off, Mother immediately spins around, rather violently, in pursuit of the air stewards.

"Why aren't they coming yet?! What are they waiting for?! I'm hungry! For God's sake, what are they doing back there? Why do they have to close that curtain? What are they hiding?"

I can sense that the passengers behind are slightly disturbed by Mother's aggression as they have all gone quiet, intently focusing on anything else. 

Five minutes later and Mother has chosen her final three. Sandwich-choices, I mean. Not victims. 

Another ten minutes pass, with a fidgety Mother beside me and the stewards appear with their trolleys at either end of the plane.

"FINALLY!!!!!" Mother rests back in her seat and rolls her eyes to the passenger beside her. What she hasn't quite figured out yet is that I can hear what they are saying to the passengers.

"Any duty-free items for you, sir? The Lancôme gift set is on offer, madam."

What I failed to mention earlier, is that Mother and I seem to always be allocated seats right in the middle of the plane. Mother is both contented by this (being near the wing means easier escape path, therefore higher on the safety spectrum) and yet also annoyed by this as it means we are last to be served. 

Eventually they reach our row (I bow my head into my book) and Mother whips up the menu, ready to order her Italian, freshly-imported gourmet sandwich (on this budget airline) and then her eyes land upon the teddy bears and cigarette multipacks.

  

"...I want... a ... sandwich... what's that? Hmmmmmm?? What??"

"Yes madam, we'll be coming along with the food shortly, don't worry. This is duty-free, can I offer you anything from duty-free madam"

"No! I DON'T WANT ANY DUTY FREE!!!! I'VE JUST SPENT TWO HOURS IN DUTY FREE WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?!?! I'M STARVING I WANT SOME BREAKFAST DAMMIT!  Oh for God's sake! Go and get the other trolley!"

Mother's voice has risen. So has my iPod's volume.

"Madam, we shall be bringing refreshments soon, don't worry"

Mother looks a little... red. She huffs back into her seat and, again, turns to the passenger next to her and rolls her eyes.

Unfortunately, the refreshments trolley does not soar out right away and Mother's impatience grows. We are almost an hour into the flight and Mother is peering at my snacks. I offer some to her, in the hopes it will keep her quiet for a while (to mirror the faulty-parenting techniques for the fellow bratty children on board).

"NO! I DON'T WANT THAT I WANT MY ITALIAN SANDWICH!!"

I attempt persuasion; "Right, okay. Are you sure? I don't think they'll be getting to our row for a little whi--"

"THEY BETTER BLOODY WELL SERVE ME FIRST OR I'LL BE TALKING TO THE BLOODY PILOT!!!! BLOODY STUPID SYSTEM."

For the next ten minutes, Mother's head whips around every thirty seconds, scans intently with a frown and devil-eyes (passengers in the front line of her view sharply bow their heads and avoid eye contact) and then swivels back with a huff (each time more obnoxious than the last).

Eventually, upon her thousandth whip, Mother spots the refreshment trolleys emerging. One from the front of the plane. One from the back. Mother pushes the 'assistance' light. Followed by waving her arms above her head, as though she were experiencing trouble at sea.

A young stewardess approaches;  "Yes madam? What can I help you with?"

"Yes, thank you. I've been waiting for hours! What have you been DOING?! Anyway, yes, I'd like one these sandwiches--"

"Oh, yes madam of course we'll be getting your row shortly. We must go from the back to the centre and my colleagues up there will also be working their way up, don't worry you will get served madam"

"Pardon?" Mother is a little taken aback. "You mean to tell me that just because of my unfortunate seat that I DID NOT choose, I am served LAST!? Unacceptable. Unacceptable."

"I'm very sorry madam but we must serve this way. Either myself or my colleagues will reach you soon and you will be served, don't worry madam, we'll go as fast as we can"

With this, the stewardess scuttles away before Mother can protest any more.

Sorry to say,  the stewards did not put their full efforts into going as fast as they could. By the time they reached our row, Mother was almost purple.

"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?!" Mother addresses an orange girl in her late twenties.

"We've been going as fast as we can, madam" 

Oh dear. The stewardess is a little sassy. This is most definitely not going to go smoothly.

"NO YOU HAVEN'T! I've had my eyes on you all. You've been chatting. Moving very slowly with no sense of urgency at all! You know, I spoke to that lady down there.." Mother jabs her finger at the timid stewardess down the aisle, "and she informed me that I would be served soon. SOON?! This is not soon. This is appalling--"

Sassy cuts her off; "Madam, don't shout at us. We have done our best to get to your row as quickly as possible. There's only two of us madam." She smacks her gum against her cheek.

"Well you better stop talking and give me some food because I've been waiting the whole flight and we'll be landing any minute!"

"No madam, we have another hour and half in the air."

Mother forcefully opens her menu, shaking with fury, and points to the Milano; "Can I have that one please. With some vodka."

I watch the two stewardesses exchange glances before Sassy looks at Mother. I can see it already. The news is about the hit and I am ready to silently slide under the seat in front of me.

"Sorry, madam. We don't have that, madam. You'll have to choose something else."

"WHAT?!?!?!??!? What are you saying?! PARDON????? Are you honestly telling me that I have waiting ALL THIS TIME and you don't even have what I want?!?! WHY??"

Sassy purses her lips; "Madam, you'll have to lower your voice, you're disturbing the other passengers. We've been flying this aircraft all morning and there hasn't been a chance to restock. We can't be expected to carry all the sandwiches on board, madam."

Mother is boiling and doesn't verbally respond. Instead she jabs her finger at her second option (prepared Mother) and gives the stewardess a look that says "Well? What about that one? Have you got that one? Or have I asked for too much? Is that too difficult? GIVE ME THIS ITALIAN SANDWICH NOW OR I WILL SHOVE A MINIATURE GIN BOTTLE UP YOUR NOSE!!"

Sassy is now smirking; "I do apologise, madam, we only have a ham and cheese sandwich left..."

"I DON'T WANT A HAM AND CHEESE SANDWICH! I AM NOT TYPICALLY BRITISH! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?! Of course you have the sandwich that nobody wants, we all want ITALIAN FOOD THAT WAS ADVERTISED IN YOUR MAGAZINE!!!!! Anyway, of course that's all you've got left! You've been dawdling! No urgency at all!"

"You don't have to take that attitude, madam. As I told you, we've done our best to get to you."

"No you have not!"

"Yes we have, madam"

"No."

"Yes."

"NO!"

"...Yes, madam. We have."

"You haven't and you're the one with an attitude! I know the CEO of this company..." here, Mother makes an obvious glare at Sassy's name badge; "and I am speaking to her tomorrow. We are friends and I am going to tell her of the APPALLING service displayed on today's flight."

Sassy retaliates again ( I wish she'd cease); "You're being very rude madam. Would you like the ham and cheese sandwich?"

"Well I suppose I'll have to if that's all you've got!"

"Right, madam."

"Don't forget my vodka!!"

"Yes, madam"

At this point, Mother leans over to me and says; "Do you want any rubbish they're serving, darling?"

This was a low point in the journey for me, personally, as I had been pretending to be unrelated to Mother entirely. Completely invisible and definitely not a part of the crazy lady's party. Alas, I am now clearly an acquaintance at best and force myself to shake my head and bury my head in my book even further (nearly suffocating myself). 

The ordeal comes to a close as Sassy's terrified colleague reaches out, shaking, for the money Mother is handing to her and they both roll away as Mother unscrews the vodka and fingers the plastic protecting her rather soggy sandwich.

As we disembarked the plane, I shuffled along behind Mother and greeted the stewardesses with an apologetic grimace, which I remain hopeful they understood as; "please do accept my apologies for this lady in front of me here as I'm sure she suffers from Tourettes and other forgivable syndromes"