A few photos from the Venetian Ball

Found Mother between these two...

New friends :)

TGIF! (Thank God It's Friday)...

Fridays come and go like any other day of the week for me. However, this Friday panned out into something I wasn't sure I would fully survive.

The night before saw the opening of Sitges Carnival 2016, with a parade for the Ice King, music, lights, raining money and crazy makeup and costumes. It signified the extravagance of the week to come, yet nobody is ever really prepared for the lavish celebrations. Having spent 3 years in a slightly less exhilarating part of Spain, I have learnt the art of 'rest'.

Friday morning I awake to the sound of Mother tapping away on the computer (this has not ceased since moving) and I put the kettle on.

"I've got to go ... yes ... no ... exactly, yes it's at 7 tonight ..." I hear Mother on the phone.

I ask what's happening at 7.

"The Venetian Ball of course! Come on darling, I told you!"

"huh?"

"I told you. Now, you'd better hurry up, we've got to find you something to wear haven't we, darling!"

"What? What's happening? Literally I don't know what you're saying... do you want a cup of tea? I'm making tea..."

"No time for tea, darling! Don't be silly, go and get ready!"

My phone rings at this point. It's a lady calling with a potential apartment for us to view. I am not a grumpy morning person but I do need breakfast before I can function like an adult.

"What is she saying, darling?  What is it? Tell mummy."

I have to translate at lightning speed and arrange an appointment. I suggest after lunch, forgetting that Spain goes back to bed in the afternoon for 'siesta' and everything closes. Nobody works, at all. No exceptions. The estate agent reminds me of this and offers the option of 7pm, when she is back at work. This is wildly frustrating and something I will never get used to. Spain want to work when I want to put my pyjamas on.

So, eventually - after crossing off options that collide with their closing times and their fiesta holidays - we confirm a viewing time. Throughout the process I have to simultaneously listen to the Spanish woman and Mother loudly mouthing strange questions at me.

As I put the phone down, I pick up my luke warm tea, only to put it straight back down again as another call comes in. It's another estate agent and a similar scenario ensues.

I am on the verge of 'hangry' and Mother is pestering me to get ready.

"Where are we going?"

"We have to leave! Come on! Go and get ready, we have to meet that woman at 16:30 this afternoon and you have to find out where on earth we're supposed to  go because I can't understand maps or Spanish or Spain."

"Wait, what? I don't remember this arrangement..."

"Yes, I told you. Anyway, we have to find you a dress before all that, the ball starts at 7. What are you going to wear? I packed appropriate ball attire, just in case, which I knew would come in handy! Haha, look at us - already invited to the biggest ball of the year!"

"I didn't think to pack a ball gown, actually..."

"Of course you didn't, which is why we need to go and find you something suitable! It's the Venetian Ball, darling!"

"I've got a stomach ache.... can I just have my tea and breakfast..."

"No, no, no if we don't leave now, all the shops will close! Bloody siesta fiesta thing whatever it's called."

An hour later I find myself in a changing room of an over-heated store, peeling off my layers whilst Mother is hovering outside, handing me things to try on.

It's literally as hot as Nirvana and the sales assistants are sailing around the stores in crop tops whilst customers are wrestling with their scarves and coats.

"I can't stand this noise, it's a bloody disco in here!" Mother shouts at me, cutting through a terrible remix of Enrique Iglesias, "Can you even hear me?! I have to go and tell them to turn it down, come with me darling, I need you to tell them in Spanish!" 

I decline this invitation, on account of me being half naked in a changing room and let her waddle off unsupervised.

Mid-change, I hear howling. I open my curtain and Mother is there, keeled over in a fit of laughter, tears streaming from her face.

"Literally what have you done now?"

"Oh my GOD!" She can't even speak properly, "We have to leave quickly, you won't believe what I've done! -- Oh NO! I think I'm going to have an accident! Hahahahahahahahahaha OH MY GOD!"

Now I'm struggling to contain myself and we both collapse laughing. I ask her what she's done;

"There was a lady leaving the changing room next to you...."

"....yes, what did you do to her, Mother?"

"Well, I forgot what you were wearing today... and I thought she was you...."

"... and....?"

"... Well, I thought you were coming out to show me what you'd tried on.... so when the lady came out of the changing room... I looked at her outfit and said 'no, darling, that looks horrendous!' you know, with my disgusted face... I didn't realise! Then our eyes met and she slid past me very quickly"

We both erupt again and we have to crawl out of the shop unnoticed.

Burning up in winter

Celebrating the end of an assignment, I treated myself with a shopping spree in BCN city this Saturday, bringing Mother along. Unfortunately, Mother had not slept too well the night before, which automatically means a grumpy and irritable companion for at least the first 3 hours of the day. Mother refused to take anything that resembled breakfast-on-the-go (as usual) so I had to handle the 'hangry' side of Mother too. Once on the train, Mother relaxed a little (own body instantly de-tensed itself....  I wasn't aware I was scrunched up in fear of an outburst) and we began to enjoy our 25 minute journey.  As always, I boarded the train well prepared with my breakfast and a book. Mother refused to do similarly, reacting with; 

"we are in BARCELONA, darling! I don't want to stuff my face in a book when there are all these views! You could be enjoying all the pretty seaside towns here... look!" 

For the duration of the journey I managed to read only one short paragraph, for I was frequently jabbed in the ribs by an exasperated Mother telling me how much I'm missing. At one point, I hadn't been bothered for a good 3 minutes, so I nearly dropped my book in shock when Mother suddenly had my thigh in an oddly strong  hand-clamp; "OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. No. No, no, no, no,.... what's going on?!? Look!!!! AHH!!"

Expecting to see a giant green alien aggressively eating away at Mother's window, I turned immediately, prepared to rescue all passengers from such a traumatic event. However, as I followed Mother's frightful glance out of the window, I could only see the crystal blue sky blending with the ocean, framed with beautiful palm trees and Caribbean green hills. Confused, I asked Mother what the issue was. 

"DARLING, WE'RE GOING UP A MOUNTAIN!! WE'RE ON THE EDGE OF THE CLIFF LOOK WE'RE IN THE CLOUDS OH MY GOD!!! THIS IS MY WORST NIGHTMARE WE HAVE TO GET OFF DARLING STOP THE TRAIN, TELL THE MAN TO STOP THE TRAIN MUMMY HAS TO GET OFF IT'S GOING UP HIGHER OH MY GOD OH MY GOD ..... WE'RE GOING TO FALL TO OUR HORRIBLE DEATHS ANY SECOND .. HELP US OH GOD HELLLPPPP!!!"

Slightly concerned, I peered a little closer to see if Mother was dramatising or not. Sure enough, Mother hasn't changed; the train, in fact, was on a slight incline (so slight that it went unnoticed by every other passenger...) and the track ran along the edge of a small hill tracing the outline of the beach for about half a kilometre. 

"Mother, we are not going up a mountain. In fact, we are many miles away from anything resembling a mountain. This is in fact the ocean, look, see? That is a beach. Please calm down and release your grip from my leg because people are starting to move out of our carriage. I think you're scaring them."

"Nope. NO! I can't do it!! There is NO WAY IN HELL we are doing this again. My palms are so sweaty LOOK DARLING this is making me physically ill I CANNOT GO ON!!"

So it went on like this until we arrived.

An enjoyable day out in the city would not be complete without a mortifying moment, at my expense (as usual). Struggling with shopping bags, I decide I have enough arms for one more and so shuffle into a well-known flip-flop store (the sales were on, valid excuse).  Whilst checking out a pair, Mother waltzes up behind me and whispers (loudly); 

"GOSH, darling, I think we're going to have to buy something! Have you seen the sales assistant?!" winking at me, nodding to the young, Brazilian re-stocking. You may wonder how I know he is Brazilian. Mother has already obtained this information, along with the rest of his personal profile, whilst enthusiastically chatting to him about shoe sizes.

As I'm choosing a pair, I ask a different assistant if they have them in my size. He leaves and then returns a few minutes later to disappoint me. However, Mother would not let me leave without purchasing something, of course. So she encourages (forces) me to try the pair on, even though they are a size too big.

"It doesn't matter, darling. They're flip-flops! You need them bigger!"

Despite having been told by the Brazilian that the size must be accurate for this reason and that reason, Mother insists I slide around the shop in these flippers, looking like a lost penguin. At this point, looking like a complete idiot, Mr Brazil saunters over (Mother elbows me hard) and asks if he could be of assistance. I am just about to politely decline (I am British. British people decline shop assistance 100% of the time no matter what the circumstances. This is common knowledge. Alas, not for Mother).

"YES! Yes, por favor, now I know you don't have these in the right size... they're too big ... but... they're nice, aren't they!"

He peers down at my size 4 foot drowning in the beautifully grand rubber shoe. He starts to bend down and I want to die. After the whole 'moving house' thing, I haven't had a chance to get a pedicure. I am very meticulous about beauty maintenance so, to me, 2 weeks pedicure-free leaves me extremely conscious that eyes should stay at least two metres away from my feet. As he bends even closer to my chipped nail polish, Mother decides to make this uncomfortable situation harrowingly dire. 

"Oh! You should give her a foot massage while you're down there! She's got lovely feet, she should be a foot model, don't you think? Go on, give her a foot ma-- ooof!"

I jabbed her, hard, in the ribs and she managed to bounce back a step or two.

Mr Brazil looks up from examining shoe-to-foot ratio; "Que?"

"Nothing! Nothing... don't worry" I manage to mutter, out of my beetroot face. I am sweating, my hair is stuck to my face.

Recognising my glare, Mother has been silenced. Mr Brazil discourages me from buying the giant flip-flops but offers some other options, which we speak about briefly whilst Mother is made to stand shamefully by the entrance. 

Finally back on the cool January city streets and my red face is going back to its normal shade as I escort Mother and I home (with the oversized flip-flops in my bag, of course). 

NEW YEAR, NEW PLACE!

Hello dear readers!

So, my last post was from our trip to Sitges. Guess where I am now? Aha, yes - Sitges! As many of you already know, Mother and I have moved, rather swiftly, upstream to Sitges, Barcelona for business and uni *balloons and party poppers* and no longer live in the Costa Blanca. Yes, I shall miss a few things about dear C.B. (very few) but I'd like to say here that I am very grateful for this opportunity and can't wait to see what 2016 brings! Mother and I have each made some great friends already and we are currently embarking on house-hunting. A struggle but we'll get there. I shall record any shenanigans of the process and keep you updated but for now, I'd like to tell you about the fun times prior to arriving in Sitges.

I insisted we plan a halfway stop for the night in Valencia, which was a blessing as the removal men didn't leave our apartment in C.B. until around 9pm. LORD KNOWS why it took them over 9 hours but, with Mother's persistent nagging that all her antique mirrors be carefully wrapped in fluffy clouds and protected in a force field, I understand how it could have dragged on a bit. Upon arrival, Mother offers the two men tea. She offers and then delegates the job of actually making the tea onto me.

"We have tea-tea, like PG Tips or peppermint tea. Oh, we don't have any milk though. Well, we do have milk but it's not regular milk. You know, the milk you would normally put in tea. So... I mean, we have a different milk. What is it called, darling?"

"Almond milk"

"Yes, almond milk *makes sick face* it's an acquired taste..."

Tony is feeling brave; "Oh, that sounds fine for me thanks love, I'll try a bit of that - live life on the edge!"

"... are you sure? *grimaces*" Mother tries to dissuade him

"Yeah I'll give that a go! No sugar though love, ta"

"Right. Okay then. Now, Michael, I think you look like you need a good mint tea. Mint tea? Would you like peppermint tea? I tell you, it's great if you're thirsty! You look thirsty! You ought to have a mint tea. I'll make you a mint tea. See if you like it. You'll like it, I'm sure! Darling, show Michael the mint tea box.."

"urm... oka- ok... yep, I better have a mint tea then, thank you..."

"Great! Jolly good! Darling, go and make the tea!" Mother gestures towards me.

_  _  _  _  _  _  _  _  _  _  _  _  _  _  _  _  _  _  _  _  _  _  _ 

Finally, we manage to leave C.B. and, a couple of hours later, arrive at our hotel in Valencia. It is now 1am, Mother and I are giggling like teenagers, attempting to wheel in six suitcases into reception. In the dead of night, with the poor receptionist startled by the new arrivals, Mother and I cannot control our giggles. I will admit that we had a bottle of Malibu balancing somewhere between these cases which may have looked a little suspicious but nonetheless the receptionist clarifies that we were only staying for the one night.

"Of course! One night, thank you Sergio!"

With our room key, we try our best to be quiet as we found our room. Rather difficult actually, as our suitcases of multiple sizes are not cooperating. I have to hook the handles of the case onto my ankle to slide along the floor. Mother has collapsed halfway out of the elevator and is laughing her head off. This sets me off and we cry-laugh our way to our room. Our cases are in a sprawling mess along the hotel hallway as we have to take them one by one (we realise, at this late stage, that this is the best method).

Thirty minutes after showering and settling into our room with wine (Mother made me call ahead from the car journey to request a glass of wine to be waiting upon arrival), Mother gasps dramatically. I choke on my mini pretzel and look at her in shock; "WHAT?!!"

"Oh NO! Oh Gordon Bennett!!!! You'll never guess what's in the bloody car?! We've left the safe in there! NO! Quick!!! We have to go and get it!!!"

Mother jumps out of bed.

The safe she is referring to contains 'important' memorabilia etc that she deemed too risky to leave in the hands of the removal firm. So she carries it with her. Most places.

"Come on, you have to come with me! I'm not going down to that scary car park all alone at 2am, darling! QUICK!"

I am extremely inconvenienced. After my hot shower and nice new sheets and pretzels I do NOT want to wander down to a dark dirty car park at 2am in freezing January to get a damn box.

However, I am rather nice. I get dressed. I am ready to go, coat and trainers on. Hat on.

Mother has taken a different approach. Mother has decided not to get dressed. Mother does not feel it is necessary to dress for this excursion.

"What are you doing, Mother?"

Mother is out of the door and hobbling halfway down the hallway. She has half-shoved her bare feet into her trainers and thrown on a poncho with fur trim. There is nothing else. Mother is wearing nothing else. There are some large knickers visible as the poncho swings around the corner and I catch up with her before the elevator doors close.

"Mother, you can't leave your hotel room with no pants on. I think it's illegal..."

"My safe! What if someone steals it!? Everything is in there, darling!!"

"Nobody will want to steal a box of photographs, Mother."

The elevator doors open and Bridget Jones runs out, past the receptionist (who is staring at her as she races outside) and continues running until she reaches the car. I catch up with her again and see she has been reunited with the box (sorry, safe). At this point, Mother's consciousness kicks back in and she realises what she's wearing. Or rather, what she's not wearing.

I attempt to escort Mother to our room through the back of the hotel, avoiding the worried receptionist and attempting to avoid any other guests. Not quite such luck as we snuck up the stairs. Mother, hunched over to cover her exposed self, hid behind me as we passed a confused family of five (what are they doing at 2am?!) and safely made it back to our room.

Luckily, there were no mentions of a Bridget Jones / Yeti sighting overheard during breakfast the next morning and Mother and I were able to check-out fairly smoothly.

Tony and the antiques

Mother confuses Spain with France again.

Hello and welcome once again to another blog post! As some of you may know, Mother and I recently took a trip to Sitges for business at the Film Festival. As soon as our train pulled into the station, Mother hopped off and skipped down the road; "Darling! I love it here!"

I struggled to mirror the excitement at this precise moment; 

".... we've literally just left the station... we don't even know where we are... how do you know y-..."

"Darling, look at the narrow, hilly streets! It's so ME, darling! SO French!"

So, we begin our long walk to the hotel with our suitcases, along the promenade by the ocean. As we pass people, Mother turns to me and says; "they're all looking at us up and down..."

"Yes, I know - I wouldn't worry, it's probably just-..."

"No, darling! They're looking at us, making judgement, darling! That's good, it's a sign of upper class!"

Mother instantly feels at home and glides along.

We then pass a father at a cafe holding a baby at the exact moment his pram topples over. Mother flies at it, heroically, and catches the pram before the handles hit the ground. Her own suitcase has wheeled off down the hill. The father (a dashing, tanned gentleman) stands up to retrieve the pram from Mother's hands and thanks her.

Honestly, Mother will find any way, anytime, to interact with a potential suitor.

____________________________________________________________________

On our second night, the light soon faded and it became evening, so we headed out for a small supper.  We found a little Italian rather close to where we were staying with lovely interiors and amazing food, as it turned out.

However, upon arrival, Mother tries to persuade me she is merely observing (not complaining) when she nearly keels over at the lighting. 

"Hmm..." she says, squinting, "this is lovely, darling, really but it's just FAR too bright in here. I like it more dimmed, you see."

"Yes, Mother. I know."

"Yes, well, all of these lights are not as warm as they ought to be. It's rather uncomfortable actually."

With this statement, Mother proceeds to delve into her handbag, retrieve a black leather pouch and pull out her Ray-bans.  She puts them on. Excellent. A few heads turn, whilst Mother purses her lips and attempts to read the menu.

"I'm not sure that's normal behaviour, Mother..."

"Well, darling. I shall ask the waiter to dim the lights!" she says, as she waves at the waiter (sunglasses still on).

The waiter approaches our table, ready to take our order, as Mother says; "hello, do you think you could turn the lights down? Or off?"

"Off, madam?"

"Well... it's just... it's very bright in here. Can you dim the lights? Or turn the ones over here off?"

"I don't think so, madam, I think they are all... just a moment, let me check for you madam..."

Off he pops, talking into his headset.

A few moments later, he returns with an apologetic explanation that the lights are all controlled by one single operator and therefore cannot be 'customised' to preference.

Mother accepts this with a smile (I know, odd. Sitges must have something in the air) and she proceeds to count the lights in the restaurant. Only, it's not the lights she is counting...

"51 plus 14 bulbs, darling! Look at all of these lights!"

I push the wine list towards Mother in an attempt to distract her.

After sharing a light but AMAZING meal (one of the best Italian meals I've ever had), Mother wants to know as much as possible about the chef. Naturally. So Mother calls over another waiter to interview him.

"So, where is the chef from? Italy, obviously but whereabouts? Because that was amazing!"

"Oh, thank you! Well, actually he is Spanish. Our chef is Spanish"

"No. I mean where is your chef from? He is not Spanish"

"Yes, I understand. He is Spanish, madam" the waiter replies, with a smile "he is from Argentina"

"He can't be... he is not Spanish! Spain cannot cook!"

I really thought Mother had offended the entire restaurant until the waiter replies; "Ah but madam, this is Catalunya!"

The conversation continues as Mother gets more and more confused as to how exactly the chef is not Italian. She honestly tries to persuade the waiter that the chef is Italian.

An hour later, Mother practically has the recipes for every item on the menu along with their origins.

____________________________________________________________________

 A few nights into our stay and we are awoken at 3am by a howling group of British women returning to the hotel after one too many. Mother does not settle for improper hotel guests, of course, and aggressively jumps out of bed and hurries to the door. Flinging it open (with minimal clothing...) I hear her shouting at other human beings.  She is telling them off, like school children.

"Hello? Hello! Excuse me, are you British??"

A woman replies with a strong Northern accent; "...yeah...."

"Of course you are, for God's sake, it was perfectly pleasant before you all arrived!"

"eh?"

"Do you think you could have some respect for all of the other hotel guests, you're not the only ones staying here you know! We are trying to sleep!!!"

"riiiight, aww-keh. sorreh"

Mother returns to bed as I am hit with the realisation that, for the rest of the stay, Mother and I will be leaving the hotel together each morning and, therefore, these women will know I am associated with the lady who shouted at them, ruining their drunken splendour.

To make matters worse, the next evening Mother hears more squealing women in the corridor. It is about 8pm and we are getting ready for dinner when Mother decides to pre-warn these women. She whips open the door to find a gay gentleman (I think this is where the squealing was coming from) on the arm of another Northern hen-party woman.

" You're not thinking of coming in again at 3, are you?" Mother blurts out. There is no filter.

"What?"

"Last night, perhaps it was you who was making all the atrocious noise..."

"No, nope. Wasn't us." The woman replies.

"Well.... there are other guests here too!"

"Yeah, no. Hmm. Wasn't us."

Hearing this conversation from behind the door (I had zero time to hide in the bathroom so ran behind the door and tried to conceal my breathing) made me cringe and pray for it to be over. There was more than one awkward silence.

I decided to leave the room a few minutes before Mother was ready and wait for her outside the hotel.

__________________________________________________________________

Disclaimer:

Mother did not spend the whole time complaining and shouting at strangers. In fact, for the majority of time, she was joyfully bouncing around the town, embracing the French patisseries; 

"everything is SO French, darling!!"

and enjoying multiple glasses of wine. We made friends on our travels and Mother has sowed her business seeds everywhere, which made the trip even more productive. 

xoxo