"ASK HER TO GET RID OF THE TRAMP, DARLING!"

Hello dear reader! How I have missed writing these blog posts, I am truly sorry that it has been too long since posting. I could ramble on about how busy I've been (albeit very true) but I shan't, because you are not here to read about excuses. You are here to read about how I've been coping with Mother. Perhaps you are here to see if her behaviour has improved. I can put you out of your questioning immediately and tell you that; no, she has not changed at all. She remains a child trapped in a Mother's body and is consistently a high demand on my time.

Last week, Mother and I took ourselves out for a lovely dinner (I had some days off work and treated her to a meal). As you all know, we are certainly not fans of Spanish food, so I chose somewhere we had been once before a long time ago that is a blend of Mediterranean cuisine. Upon entering the restaurant, we were greeted by the lovely Hungarian girl I had reserved a table with and shown to a little table for two. Oh, I had to reserve a table not because it was busy but because Mother wanted to request a specific table "not too close to the door and not too close to the kitchen please and thank you".  So, having been shown to our table, we hear a shriek of laughter coming from a table behind me. As it turns out, there is a mild party of 6 travellers. From Ireland. Speaking in English.  A rush of fear floods over my body as I turn to see Mother's face; it is her "FURIOUS" face. Jaw clenched, eyes bulging, brow furrowed so strongly that I think her face might actually break. Her nostrils, too, are flared so wide they are like little volcanic craters. In fact, she resembles a volcano. A very active volcano. Ready to erupt.

Mother is furious that there may be another diner in her vicinity from the British Isles. This never sits well with her; she doesn't like "Brits" - as she calls them. Anyway, I admit, their voices are rather shrill and they are quite possibly disturbing another table of 2, quiet and demure diners next to us. Mother decides that the young girl of this couple next to us is indeed terribly bothered by the Irish hooligans and makes it her duty to catch her eye, in order to signal that; "yes, I too am bothered by these ignorant idiots, I agree - we should not put up with this should we? I am glad you are on my team." So, eventually the young girl glances over, smiles gently, which surprisingly satisfies Mother enough to stop staring at her. I try to distract Mother from her inner raging by quietly discussing the nice couple; "Oh look, he is wearing a nice watch... and his shoes, look Mother, his shoes are nice, aren't they?" etc etc ... Mother decides he is most definitely American as he is very tall.

As my attempts of distraction last approximately 30 seconds, the roaring from the Irish behind me increases in frequency and volume. Suddenly, one of the buffoons says;

 "Aw, Stacey I gotta tell ye, this squid is f**king FANTASTIC, get it down ye!"

Oh dear. Mother jolts so far in her chair as if a giant gust of wind has thrust her back.

"OH MY GOD, DARLING! DID YOU HEAR THAT?! He swore! This is outrageous, I cannot believe it! Only the bloody Brits would behave so abhorrently, darling!"

"Jesus f**kin' Christ, Mick! Ye right it's cracking! Eh, take some of dat bread there, pal but save some for the rest of us ye' f**kin pig, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" - Stacey responds.

Mother blinks back her tears. Her lips are pursed so tight that a sip of wine would not even pass them.

Speaking of wine, Greta (we shall call her Greta, the Hungarian waitress), comes over - ready to take our order. Only Greta does not realise, at this point, that Mother is not a normal client. Greta does not speak good English and therefore I am employed as the translator, once again.

"Tell the lovely girl that I cannot eat whilst those absolute hogs are sitting there with the big fat mouths. Tell her we are going to have a drink and wait until they leave. I simply cannot eat food with those disgraceful animals in my view. Ask her how long they are going to be, darling."

I translate. Vaguely. Greta seemed to understand the majority of Mothers complaining due to her finger jabbing towards the table behind me and facial expressions.

Mother then conducts her own observational psychology study of the couple next to us. I have already determined that they are speaking English but managed to convince Mother that they are probably not from Britain. Mother proceeds into a process of not-discreetly leaning into the couple to listen; glancing over several times with beady eyes  and then leaning into me to tell me exactly what her observational skills have uncovered. Not a lot apparently; simply that they have ordered some potatoes (I could see that myself) and that they too are GREATLY offended by the Irish party behind. I do not ask how she knows this.

Greta brings over the wine and is extremely accommodating of Mother's wish to wait until the Irish leave. Personally, I am starving. I have scanned the menu three times and then studied it intensely four times. I know what I'm having. I want all of it, I am that hungry. I am feeling woozy, having drunk all my wine on an empty stomach. Mother orders more wine.

At every moment I look at Mother, I see her glaring at the party of 6. I ask her if it's wise to death stare the drunk Irish hooligans, as I'm sure they wouldn't be scared to start a fight. She ignores me;

"They must be TOLD how to BEHAVE! This is UNACCEPTABLE behaviour. Look at them, darling!  They are eating like PIGS, they need to be eating soap, their language is foul, I can't bear it."

Greta walks by again and Mother calls her over, in order to get across the message that she is still waiting for the Irish to leave. I am fully aware that this is a technique in the hopes that Greta will magically remove them from the restaurant. Of course, Greta smiles apologetically and tells us it's totally fine we can stay as long as we like. My stomach growls in reply.

Mother sees my face; 

"I know you're hungry, darling -  but do you honestly expect me to dine with THOSE?! I am not an animal. I am not used to this. I dine from Prince Albert china and I was really born to dine with royalty at the palace. This is so far removed from my lifestyle, darling. I am so offended. Revolted."

"Oh my GOD. You will not believe what I have just seen. I am almost too embarrassed to tell you. That TART of a woman has actually left the table, walked over to the waitress with her empty wine glass and demanded that she refill her glass! I am going to be sick. I can feel it. This is horrendous."

Greta walks by again a moment later and Mother mouths "sorry!".

Mother means "sorry for those ignorant British morons" but Greta probably understood it as "sorry for sitting here for over an hour without ordering food, I know it's  nearly half past 10."

OLIVES!! Greta has bought some OLIVES! Hallelujah! I literally pour them into my mouth.

A  6-person roar vibrates from the table behind and Mother's over-reaction nearly causes her to fall off her chair and fly back through the window.

"F**KING HELL DEIRDRE! Hahahahahahahaha ye stupid sh*t! Ye spilled some good wine there, ye silly b*tch! Eh, WAITRESS WE NEED ANOTHER BOTTLE POR FAVOR!!!"

Mother instructs me to "call the waitress over again, darling. Try to ask her to throw them out."

I didn't. Obviously.

The loud party remains loud for the next few minutes and Mother's rage is showing violently in her face.

"Darling. Seriously, if they don't stop and leave I am going to be very ill! Oh God... they're going to start off my menopause, darling! I'm having a hot flush and a hot flash, darling! Look at me! They are affecting my hormones!!!"

One of the men stands up to wipe the wine from his Bermuda shorts.

"Good LORD, look at what he is wearing in a restaurant!?"

I must add here that all of Mother's comments are not discreet and whispered. Rather, they are purposefully loud as each comment is thrown in a direct line of fire from Mother's mouth onto the table behind me.

Eventually, they order pudding. I sigh of relief and suggest we order our food, as it is nearly 11pm. I am sure I have lost 3 stone just sitting here.

I have spoken too soon. A party of three have walked in just as I make this suggestion. To my luck, one of the group happens to be Irish and Mother notes that he may well be homeless, due to his clothing choices and long, shaggy hair. Like a magnet, he is pulled towards the party of 6. They exchange loud tales of where in Ireland everyone is from and what they are doing here.

"Oh my GOD. He cannot come in here! This is a restaurant. He looks like a TRAMP! Look at his trampy-ness! This is preposterous! " Mother exclaims.

She says the word "tramp" far too loudly.

"He cannot come in here..... just look  - OH MY GOD NO! He's taking their leftovers! He's actually eating their leftovers!!!"

After Greta whips away the leftovers, the party of 6 depart. Slowly. With many goodbyes. It would seem they were all too drunk to notice Mother's comments throughout their dining experience. Nobody made any kind of remark to Mother upon leaving.

I am SO RELIEVED. I immediately call Greta over and order literally everything. It is 11:00pm. In fact, I am hungry just writing this; remembering the pure suffering and famine I was put through that evening.

Mother's face went from red to mellow-peach as soon as the Irish left  the premises and their wailing and hollering could no longer be heard as they turned the corner of the street. Mother looks satisfied with herself for some reason and says;

"See. Isn't this better. I can hear the music. I am ready to eat. What shall we have, darling?"

I told her I had ordered the food already but she'd be lucky if she were able to get a fork into any of it, for I will demolish it all rather quickly.

We did, in fact, end up having a nice evening - as the Catalonians eat their dinner from 10pm onwards, so we were accompanied by several nice groups of people. I remain British, however, when it comes to times of eating. I cannot adapt to the 11pm dinners. Evidently.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Right, I am off to find a plethora of snacks, as I am now very hungry. Thank you for reading, my dear friends. I will try to keep writing as often as possible - as you know there is always something to write about!

xoxo

In which we almost found Mother a husband

Having started a job that takes up quite a lot of my time, I find that Mother must occupy herself at certain times during the week. On a recent occasion, I had instructed Mother to shut down her computer and cease working at a normal hour whilst I was at my job. Believe it or not, I succeeded and - upon leaving my shift this particular evening - I received a text that read:

"Hello darling, I am having a lovely  evening and I shall be having a glass of wine at the bar opposite the marina if you'd like to join me?"

Interesting. "Lovely evening". I am not used to such messages. Spending 3 years living in what might be described as a garbage disposal, I frequently received text messages such as:

"HELP! I am in the shopping mall .... what a mistake! I have got to get out of here! Full of fat, red-faced, Northern slobs."

So, as you can imagine, the positive message this time was a pleasant surprise.

Leaving work, I made my way to the bar. The sun had set and I could see only a silhouette of a woman sitting outside. It could only be Mother; outside in the freezing temperatures of January. Determined to "be outside and at one with the ocean".

I greet Mother. She gives a forced smile and nods ungracefully at her glass of wine in her hand. Ah, she does not like it. We have found another wine that has not quite reached Mother's standards of vineyard productions. She also waves her finger in the air, indicating to the music coming from the speakers. Ah, she does not like this either.

"Listen. Listen to this! Honestly, darling, five minutes ago it was a delight! They were playing fab British music. I was very happy singing along to Justin Timberlake but all of a sudden  that arrogant owner changed it all to this Spanish romping music! Listen to this rubbish! I mean, it's all the bloody same isn't it?  Uno, dos, tres and all that! I should have been a DJ. They could have employed me to do the music. I would have done a much better job. Come on, this isn't 'me' anymore, darling."

With that, we leave this bar and head towards a more 'classy' scene closer to home. May I suggest that you bear in mind I had just finished working with noisy, hyper-active 8 year olds and certainly would have preferred not to go on a bar crawl.

As soon as we push open the heavy, wooden double doors to the 'classy' bar, Mother spins around dramatically and says;

"Aha! Much more 'me' darling, don't you see? Of course you do. This is much more upper-class - look at everyone, darling."

We take a seat and order drinks. You won't believe me but Mother entrusted her waitress to choose the brand of whiskey she should have (?!). Very comfortable indeed, apparently.  Whilst waiting for our drinks, Mother gushes over how much more suited she is to a place like this, full of potential aristocrats.

About an hour later, we are in deep conversation when a man approaches us. I look up to see a little old man, hands grasped to the back of an armchair, leaning over to speak to Mother. I quietly observe the situation - letting the gentleman ramble something to Mother in Spanish whilst Mother looks back and forth from me to him, utterly perplexed.

I realise that the point has come where I must intervene. I bend his attention around to me, with difficulty, so that I am able to explain that Mother (still) knows zero Spanish. She doesn't have a clue what you've said. Sadly I have instantly volunteered myself to be the translator, again.

"Ah - this is your Mother?" The gentleman says in Spanish.

"Yes."

"So beautiful."

"Yes."

"What is her name?"

"Mother - do you want me to tell this man your name?"

"Uhhh... what? Uhhh.... Hola! I am Stephanie!" Mother juts her hand out urgently towards the gentleman's protruding stomach and the gentleman takes it and kisses it.

For God's sake I am stuck in between a potential flirting situation. Mortifying.

"Does she have a partner? Is she married? Boyfriend?" The man asks me.

"Do you want me to tell him your relationship status?"

"Uhhhhmmmmmmm......................... ye-- ..... I don't .... ok....?"

"She doesn't have a partner." I bleakly reply to the man.

"Oh! A beautiful lady like her, no partner? Can I take her to dance?"

Jesus.

"He wants to take you out dancing. What shall I tell him?"

"Oh! Haha!" Mother awkwardly laughs and pretends to be flattered (note: she is revolted, I can tell). "Ha, uhmmm, well ..... I mean ..... when?"

"When?" I reply to the gentleman.

"Saturday night! Here, at this bar! We can dance together" The man demonstrates a feeble and swift jig of his hips.

I try to keep a straight face.

"He says here. Saturday night."

"OH NO I can't Saturday night what a shame!" Mother is a fabulous actress.

"Oh no, she can't Saturday night. Shame." I translate back to him.

"Ah okay well .... maybe I can take her for lunch one day?" Bless him, he is punching way above his weight.

I continue the translation duty.

Mother reaches in her purse and pulls out her business card.

"Tell him to send me a message.... it is easier. Tell him I'm a very busy person. Texting is better?"

"Right, maybe send her a text?" I suggest to Jose.

N.B. I do not know (remember) his name but it's probably going to be Jose. Safe assumption.

"Does she have WhatsApp?"

"Yes, she does. Ok.... see you later! Good evening...!" I make an attempt to end this encounter.

He does not want to leave just yet. Although - awkwardly - he cannot conjure up another topic of discussion, so he is just standing there, with his arms resting on the chair, staring at Mother wistfully.

This is creepy. He is a grandpa. As we all know; Mother hunts for the prey of 20-30 year olds. Grandpa has not caught his prey tonight. Bless him, silly man.

Eventually he starts leaving. At this point, Mother becomes more enthusiastic; smiling greater and waving more aggressively. She believes that this translates to;

"THIS IS ME FEELING ENTHUSIASTIC ABOUT YOU LEAVING, YAY!"

When actually it is received as;

"THIS IS ME FEELING ENTHUSIASTIC ABOUT YOU'RE DATE PROPOSALS, YAY!"

I know this because for the last two weeks Mother has been inundated with missed calls and text messages from Grandpa. He is very excited to take her out dancing. She is very insistent that I create a polite 'decline' message. Of which I shall indeed do. Of course. Soon. I promise.

xoxo

An uncooperative patient

It is three minutes to 8 in the evening and I have just returned from an eventful visit to the doctor. Mother's doctor. Yet again, I played the ever-important role of the translator (Mother's ability in Spanish still only extends to a small variety of fruit).

Over the last three days it has become ridiculously cold here. So, wrapped up suitably, we walk to the clinic. This clinic was the final choice. The winner, if you will, from 10  other clinics in town that were not up to Mother's standards after spending an afternoon interviewing the receptionists of each one. So, here we are at the clinic. Mother no longer attempts to communicate and instead just points at me. We register and are directed downstairs to the Optician department.

"Downstairs? What - in the basement?!" Mother expresses her worries quite freely.

I usher her into the elevator. 

We are in the waiting room for a few minutes before Mother inhales and dramatically rises her wrist to see her watch.

"Three minutes past. Three minutes late! I'm paying for this service, you know. And if you think I'm waiting for all this lot to go before me, you've got another thing coming! I shall be writing to the CEO of Catalonian health service and complaining! We can't be having ---"

At this moment, a tall lanky man comes into the waiting room and calls out Mother's name.

Upon entering, Mother directs me (with her pointy finger) to communicate the fact that she is unable to learn any Spanish at all and will not be able to understand anything and will be relying on me, yet again, to translate all the medical jargon.

"Tell the man --- wait, ask him what his name is first --- and then tell the man I've got three problems. The first one is that a mosquito attacked me last week and I was left with a very damaged eye. There's probably something really wrong with it. It bit my eyebrow! It was all inflamed --- tell him, darling. Tell the doctor while I'm telling you --- go on --- and the second problem is that my left eye is in SO MUCH pain every June and July and I don't know why but it streams and STREAMS and I can't bear it! Tell him --- have you told him, darling?! That's the most important thing, make sure you tell him! Now, the third problem is my eyes in general, darling. They're deteriorating. There's probably something seriously wrong with them. I might be going blind. Things are getting worse every day. You remember me telling you all about it this morning, don't you darling? Well - tell the doctor."

I attempt to relay the first issue to the doctor and just as I finish briefing him, he spins around and talks to Mother in Spanish.

"Wait! No - no! Wait, there's more. You didn't tell him all THREE, did you?" Mother is leaning around Dr to speak to me; "Excuse me, Dr, there are MORE PROBLEMS. More."

 

The doctor has pulled out those scary glasses Opticians have that hold multiple, interchangeable lenses. He proceeds to place them onto Mother's nose.

"OUCH!!!! No!!! I don't need these bloody glasses! I know how far I can see! OUCH! They're hurting, darling! Tell the man!! They're squashing my nose! Nope..." Mother takes them straight off, much to Dr's astonishment.

I relay Mother's message. Mildly.

Dr places them back on. 

"OWWwWwww..... God, they don't fit me properly! They haven't been adjusted especially for me. This is bloody useless - we'll be leaving in a minute! If he doesn't listen to my other health problems, we'll be walking out, darling!"

The Dr asks me to ask Mother to read the letters appearing on the wall and Mother does surprisingly well.

Dr then removes the glasses and I manage to slip in the details of the other two eye problems. He and I then discuss further between ourselves whilst Mother's head is poking around the side of the equipment trying to understand the conversation.

"Tell him I want a photograph of my eye!"

I do. He tells me she doesn't need one.

"YES I DO! I am not paying for this kind of service! I AM THE CUSTOMER! I am right!"

I ignore her and translate the doctor's instructions to place her head on a part of the apparatus.

"DO. NOT. MOVE. QUIET. QUIET. DO. NOT. MOVE. QUIET. QUIET."

Ah. So the doctor speaks English. Perfect.

I don't know why Spanish people do this - but I am assuming it is a cheap thrill; watching a foreigner aggressively rant away, thinking they cannot be understood. 

Anyway. I don't think Mother recognises the fact that he speaks English because she continues mumbling at me whilst the doctor examines her eyes.

"I won't be coming back to this one, you know. I don't like it. This is nonsense. Look at all this equipment. It's ANTIQUATED! Darling, this won't do. This is old! Oh my God... I put my head on that thing... he didn't even clean it! Ask him if he sanitised it!!"

I do not.

Dr grabs some eye drops and gushes them into Mother's eyes before I could finish blinking.

He does provide some sort of explanation for her 'problems', which I translate as best as I can --- although bear in mind that 60% of the words he used were medical jargon, in which I am not fluent. Either in English or Spanish. I do, however, pick up the fact that he thinks Mother's 'June / July allergy problem' is nothing to worry about if it's only happening for two months of the year. This infuriates Mother more than I anticipated.

"IT IS SOMETHING TO WORRY ABOUT BECAUSE I AM WORRIED ABOUT IT OH MY GOD!" 

I reassure Mother that everything else is fine and there's nothing to worry about. This is not the answer she wanted, apparently.

"Nope. No. Tell him he is WRONG. Wrong-o. Not right." Mother shakes her head and wags her finger dramatically. "He is not right! I know my EYES! I don't need to know about what bloody glasses to wear! He is not qualified - is he? Ask him what qualifications he has because he certainly has not fixed my problems!!! This is an outrage. I will be talking to that lady upstairs and complaining. Just you wait and see."

 

The doctor looks at me, confused. I make up something short and also start up a conversation about something totally irrelevant to diffuse the awkward situation.

I am successful in the diffusion and we leave on quite good terms. Shaking hands etc. It turns out that the doctor does not really speak English very well. Only those few choice words. Probably a blessing. 

Arriving upstairs, back at the reception, Mother took it upon herself to loudly educate the clinic in their employment of a useless doctor. The staffs' apologies earned themselves very little with Mother - as she insisted to be re-assigned to a different doctor. This was done in a matter of seconds, actually, as Mother was invited to speak with a very jolly 'Jose' (oh hey, what an unusual name) - who happened to be wearing a flamboyant cravat. Naturally, they got on supremely well (despite the language barrier) and they nearly cheek-kissed when saying goodbye. 

Mother has instructed the receptionists to allocate Jose as her personal doctor for all future appointments, regardless of the appropriate medical category.

xoxo

Sunday runs with Mother: Ep.1

My friend has just started 'couch to 5k' - which is apparently an attempt by the NHS to get people moving as we approach the hibernation season. An interval training approach to fitness.
Having told Mother of my friend's new goal, she has decided to join in. Although Mother prefers her version; "Sofa to 1k". 

I intend to force Mother to stick to this activity every Sunday - partially so that I can document any mishaps. You may think a light Sunday exercise should not create a blog-worthy post - but you are wrong. 

As I approach Mother's bedroom to collect her, I see this:

 
























That is indeed Mother in my Halloween costume. 

She informs me that she actually has no "running gear". Apparently my Grease Pink Ladies jacket was a suitable substitution. 

We all look forward to the next one. xoxo

P.S. I demanded the jacket back before the running commenced. By 'running' I mean 'light prance for 1 minute and then a lengthy break on a bench'.

A very unplanned day

There is an ongoing battle in my brain, in which I cannot decide which mantra to live. 1) lower your expectations and reduce disappointment or 2) expect greatness, receive greatness. 

This particular day required the very tiny expectation that one might have of a city; to be functioning. 

Mother has an upcoming important business meeting with a fancy Lord and, of course, shopping for appropriate attire became the top priority. She cannot rock up in her Hawaiian sarong and curlers (the 'everyday' fashion choice). So, on Saturday, I appointed myself 'personal shopper' for the day and took Mother shopping in Barcelona. The ease of public transport remains and, twenty five minutes later, we arrive on Passeig de Gracia. I notice Philipp Plein is closed. Prada, a few doors down is also seemingly closed. As is Mango. Interesting. I don't mention this to Mother, as she may erupt into a violent panic. Unfortunately, Mother spots Tommy Hilfiger and tries to walk in. 

"Darling! Where's the doorman? There's no doorman! What is one supposed to do in these situations?" Mother's face crinkles.

She has not noticed that the door is locked. There are also no lights.

Suddenly, a voice comes from the ground below us. There is a handsome, homeless man (albeit in shiny brown loafers that may or may not have been by an Italian designer) who is speaking to us... along with a Chinese couple holding a large camera and looking equally perplexed.

"Yes, the shops are closed - it is a fiesta today."

"WHAT?! You're joking, aren't you. You ARE joking?"

"Yes, it is the fiesta of Barcelona today. There is a Nike shop down there that is open...."

"Oh my God. Oh my GOD. Oh my God! I can't believe it. I can't BELIEVE IT! No. No. NO!  They can't be serious. They cannot be serious. Another fiesta? Another fiesta?!"

Mother erupts in the street, to the homeless man's surprise (he is not used to the British outcry). 

sad and empty

I thank the gentleman on the floor and guide Mother anywhere else. I, too am upset about this inconvenience .... as there couldn't really be anything more inconvenient on this particular day. Nonetheless, after a few moments of breathing, Mother and I decide to "embrace the situation". Sort of. There is one store open round the corner and Mother waltzes in and makes a direct path towards the shop assistant. 

"Hello! Now, I want to buy something in here because I want to CONGRATULATE you on the fact that you're open!"

N.B. Mother enunciates the word 'congratulate' quite aggressively with her mouth. I worry, again, that her jaw may dislocate.

Two minutes later, I see Mother in deep conversation with a woman browsing through the cardigans. I can hear her.

"You know, Spain complain about their financial difficulties but this is why there's a crisis here! THIS IS WHY!"

The woman is from Canada and slowly nods; "Yes... I was wondering why the shops are closed. Why are they closed? They don't close on a Saturday in Vancouver... there'd be a riot!"

"Yes, I know! Well, it's another damn fiesta, isn't it! As if they need another one! This is why there's a crisis in Spain, you know. It's Sunday tomorrow - they close anyway! Why wouldn't they just move the fiesta day onto tomorrow? They are losing millions of euros, let me tell you! The amount of money Chanel would have made today! Saturday, of all days! I mean really!"

After another ten minutes of telling the entire store why Spain is having a financial crisis, I drag Mother out and make our way towards a different part of town. A shred of hope remains within us that there may be shops open in the quieter part of town.

As we head towards the other end of town, a swarm of over 300 humans are flying in our direction and we soon realise that the fiesta is happening everywhere. All over the city. Our last shred of hope dissolves into the giant bobbing Queen's head as it passes us in the crowd. 

Right, so quite clearly any kind of shopping is out of the window. 

As afternoon brews, it is time to find somewhere to eat lunch. Mother's mantra of "embracing the situation" returns (briefly) and decides we ought to bask in the fiesta spirit and relax over some food. Neither of us realised how difficult it could be to find a table anywhere on this particular day. 

Eventually, after much fluster, we find an organic, non-Spanish cafe. In fact, Mother finds it whilst I wait a few blocks away (I avoided the trek of restaurant-hunting because of my knee situation) and, when I arrive at the restaurant 30 minutes later, I see Mother waiting outside with a glass of cava in her hand. Of course.

As I browse the menu, I see Mother is not. Instead, Mother is transfixed by a waiter and immediately calls him over. For what, I am not sure - as she has not seen the menu yet. 

"Darling, could we possibly move to that table over there, please?" Mother bats her eyelashes expectantly.

I am a little sceptical at this request, considering we have waited a long time for an available table - so an instant relocation may not be as easily accommodated as Mother thinks. 

I am proven wrong as the waiter happily moves us to the table near the window. I notice Mother is cava-less. This is odd and as I look at her I see her struggling to recall what is missing.

"Darling I d--- OH! My cava! He must have taken it away... Wait uh---"

Mother proceeds to hail the waiter down again;

"Darling, sorry - you took my cava away, darling!" She pulls a sort of sad-puppy face.

"Oh... I- I- I'm sorry yes, yes I bring you another one don't worry" Lovely waiter says.

As he brings Mother a fresh glass of cava (may I add here that the previous glass that was taken away was very nearly finished...), Mother gently grabs the waiter's forearm, before he can escape, to ask him his name.

"Luis Miguel but it's Luisimi for short"

"How beautiful! Oh how wonderful!! Luisimity? Loosemiti? Louis? Oh anyway it's gorgeous where are you from? Are you Spanish?"

"I am from Argentina, actually"

"OHHH!!" She literally shouts "OF COURSE YOU ARE! Ohhh how lovely, that's why you are so SMILEY!!!! You know, all the people from Argentina are just SOOOO lovely!"

It continues.

As Luisimi brings me my calming lavender tea (N.B. some might call me a grandma but you do not realise the necessity of calming tea when you are with Mother) I offer Mother to taste it. She does. 

"Hmmm.... lovely, darling! Yes... what is that?" Her face grimaces.

"It's calming lavender tea, Mother"

"Yes. I see. What sort of alcohol is infused? Because it's quite subtle, isn't it? Is it vodka, darling? Or perhaps gin because that would go with lavender, surely."

"Uh.... it's just tea, Mother. There isn't actually alcohol in it..."

"What do you mean, NO alcohol? What are you drinking then, darling?"

"What? Tea.... the tea? I'm drinking tea. See?"

Mother's confusion fades as the food arrives and her attention is diverted towards Luisimi and his bright smile. 

quintessentially 'us'.

"Barcelona is lovely but it's always so much better with cava, don't you think, darling?"

"Mhmm."

As we eat, an older gentleman is seated at the table behind Mother. Instantly I am uplifted (I love old people) and even more so now that I see he is dining alone. My heart swells and Mother whips around to see what's going on, with great fear of missing out on any restaurant antics that may be happening behind her. The man does not realise that this restaurant is a vegetarian restaurant and is perplexed when the waitress tells him there is no meat. Bless his heart, he hesitantly orders the risotto and waits patiently.

It arrives and he looks quite pleased as he powers through it. Mother frequently and not subtly spins around to check his satisfaction levels. As if she were the chef seeking approval. 

As the man leaves after his meal, he walks past our table. He does not get very far, however, as Mother suddenly launches herself at him and clenches her hand around his jacketed arm. He jumps and looks around, ever so startled, to see Mother grinning up at him. Her hand still tightly secured around him.

"It's good, isn't it? Did you like it?" Mother attempts to get across her questions in a bizarre Danish accent.

He responds timidly, still shocked; "Please?" as if to say "Please let go of me you crazy woman".

" It's good, no? You like?" Mother's accent remains.

"Yes.... uh- yes you are right.. yes. Ok." He says, nodding and trying to pry Mothers grip from his arm.

"Bye!" Mother shouts at him excitedly.

The man scuttles off and, soon after, we do too. 

In the lovely sunny afternoon, Mother and I are walking through some back streets of Barcelona (often where one might find a little hidden treasure of a store) with the mild plan of heading towards the beach. As we are strolling along the wide, empty street looking at the buildings, I am jolted forward. Literally. Something very heavy has just been smacked into my ankle and a human force has pushed me. Instant fear... I think I'm being mugged. Panic strikes me as my horrified face turns to Mother. She grabs me and we both turn around to see a haggard, dirty old woman that strongly resembles the Evil Witch from Snow White, proffering the apple. She doesn't say anything - only grunts and mutters something like "MOVE" at me whilst struggling with a large 5 litre bucket of water as she continues to push past me until she gets to her porch. I remain in shock as I am being physically shooed out of the way. Another encounter with a crazy woman fuels Mother to react quite aggressively;

"HEY! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!" She shouts at Evil Witch.

Evil Witch responds, grimly; "Move faster!" with a surprising American accent.

Mother is taken aback and says; "NO!   NO MOVE FASTER!    NO!   NO MOVE FASTER THANK YOU VERY MUCH!!!"

The old hag scuttles into her hole with her bucket of water. (Sorry, I wouldn't normally be so rude with my descriptive words but there were a number of ways for that woman to handle the situation with consideration. She just bulldozed me instead).

Those of you who may be concerned that Mother is to attend her business meeting in a sarong and coconut bra; we plan to return to the city of shops next weekend. Pray for us that there will not be another fiesta. Or another crazy woman.

xoxo