Looking for a lost African lady

For those of you who haven't read the previous Italy post... I strongly advise you do! It's alright, this one will still be here afterwards.

For those of you who did read the previous post; welcome back! I'm sure you're all wondering what happened to Mother's sausage-feet after disembarking from the plane. Well, I imagine by now that you all regard me as the caretaker of Mother - an accurate assumption indeed. Upon arriving at the baggage claim, I suggest that Mother opens her suitcase and changes out of Ke$ha's shoes and into some appropriate, tourist shoes. Anything would be better, really.

"Okay darling. I don't remember what I packed though...." Mother looks a little sheepish.

"Right. Well, let's have a look" - I say, as Mother releases the tight string encasing the swollen cankles - "Flip flops might be a wise choice. Give your feet a bit of freedom. Where are they?" 

I am raiding her suitcase (sweeping aside the multiple kaftans and Hawaiian-print sarongs).

Right.  I have practically emptied her suitcase on the floor now. Only two shoes are among the pile of colourful clothing.

"What are these, Mother?" I say, holding up a seemingly brand new pair of Barbie-pink, suede heels with about 80 large pearls encrusted all over the top. Fantastic.

Mother pulls out her justifications; "Well, what on earth did you think I was going to walk around in? I mean, we are in two of the most romantic cities, darling! I highly doubt a handsome sailor will approach me if I'm in sloppy flip-flops, will he?!"

We will have to go shopping.

Upon arrival at our hotel in Venice, Mother begins her ritual. She is completely incapable of giving up DIY and therefore the hotel room suffers a bit of 'feng shui'. The window has been tied up, strategically, with a plastic bag - so as to allow the correct amount of fresh air and city noise in. Mother has also installed a fire alarm within approximately 4 minutes of arriving.  Interestingly, Mother also 'fixed' the kettle (by wedging a piece of paper in the lid to keep it down), however Mother had less than zero interest in tea or coffee...

"Wine, darling!! Let's go and find somewhere to have some wine!"

"Um - what about.... food?" I am concerned that the concept of 'dinner' has flown out of the (strategically-sized-gap) window.

After a good TripAdvisor hunt for a great pasta place, Mother and I topple into a typical Italian bistro and are shown  to our seat. Only to be re-seated to a 'better' table upon Mother's firm request, of course. Wine is instantly ordered and arrives within seconds, to Mother's delight! Down it goes! ..... Oh. Oh, dear. No it doesn't, actually. In fact, it nearly comes back up in a very dramatic fashion.

"OH!!!! Oh, no! No no no no no no no ..... darling, it's .... it's cold!" Mother looks at her glass of wine as if it were poison. In fact, she can barely hold it. She puts it down and clasps her hands together to reheat them.

"Is it? It looks pretty normal to me..."

Mother ignores me and calls over the (lovely) waiter, who immediately asks what's wrong.

"In England, darling, we don't drink cold wine. Sweetie. Darling." Mother tries to be some form of 'nice' but it proves difficult. You know, due to the shock of the 'cold wine'.

"Oh really? Ah - ha! Here we have it in Italy this temperature when it is the summer"

"Mmmm." Mother, again, nods sympathetically. "Yes. Well, I'm English actually..."

Duh.

Mother continues; "Is it possible, sweetie, to find a warm wine? Or... warmer? Please, darling? What's your name?"

Oh here we go. Mother establishes a very intense relationship with every waiter in every restaurant/cafe/take away etc. This is no exception. In fact, as we are in Italy, the effort Mother puts into relationship-building is far stronger.

Speaking of relationships and non-existent boundaries, I must also tell you about our departure from Italy. Don't worry - I have vlogged every day of the Italian trip on my YouTube channel, so be sure to keep your eyes on that.

Regardless of the successful shoe-buying in Italy, Mother still opted for her Ke$ha-cages as footwear for the flight home. I am not sure why she doesn't remember the absolute fiasco on the outbound flight revolving around these shoes but there we go.  Another downfall of these ridiculous shoes is that the tassel that ties up does not do a very good job of remaining tied (as you may recall from the previous blog post) and therefore, during the short security check, they untied themselves. I say 'short' security check... I mean short for me. It is a lengthy process for Mother, who refuses to travel with minimal jewellery. Instead, she prefers to be scanned by an airport security guard as the alarm goes off. The people at security ask her to remove her bangles but Mother insists they are 'stuck on forever'. So personal scanning is inevitable. Mother is released, eventually, and slides over to me, signalling to her untied tassels grazing the floor.

"I need to re-tie these, hold on, darling" Mother spins around in order to locate a seat to perch on.

I too look but - as this is security at a rather small airport - there is no seating available.

"There'll be some through here, in Duty Free, come on" I say, starting to move on.

"No, wait, darling. I'll just sit here." Mother signals to a large and in-charge black leather spinny-chair that has just this second been vacated by the head security guard, as he carries his guns on his hip. There is a very important machine by this chair and it is clearly forbidden to be anywhere near it unless you are an authorized member of airport security. This does not phase Mother (despite my best efforts to dissuade her) and she immediately plonks down. I am on edge for the duration of the shoe-lace-tying, hoping desperately not to be arrested. By contrast, Mother reclines and spins around happily before eventually leaving the area.

Now, we are waiting at the gate. Ready to board the plane. Mother does her usual scan so as to locate who she would most like to be seated next to. She selects approximately seven inappropriately-aged 'men'. The boarding process seems to be taking quite a while (ie nobody is moving and we are supposed to be taking off in 4 minutes...) As we are waiting, Mother sighs in a majestic, know-it-all way and says;

"OH! I see why we're running late - we are waiting for somebody! See, we're waiting for Ultimah Chumata, see? That name up on the screen, flashing, darling? They're calling for her."

I look up and see the words "Ultima Chiamata".

"She must be African. Oh, poor lady! She's going to miss this plane if she doesn't hurry up, I wonder where she is...." Mother frantically looks around for this poor, late African woman."

There is no African lady, speedily jogging towards the gate. In fact, she doesn't exist, considering Ultima Chiamata is Italian for 'Last Call'.

We finally board. Thank goodness, no more disasters. Oh no... wait. I hear Mother behind me as we head onto the plane. She seems to be huffing and puffing to someone.

"God! I was here first! NO, no - wait! I was here first!!!"


Mother is cross. Her arms are flailed to the side in a bodyguard style so as not to allow this imbecile to jump the queue.


As I turn around, I see who the imbecile is. Oh, it's the pilot. He is trying desperately to slide past Mother and into the cockpit. Thankfully, Mother had no neighbour-passenger on this flight.

xoxo

P.S. Stay tuned to the YouTube channel for videos of our Italy trip! Teaser: Mother got extremely sloshed on our last afternoon and it was rather amusing.    

GLOBE TROTTING WITH TROTTER-FEET

Hello wonderful friends around the world! Such a globetrotter I do feel! Mother and I have just returned from ITALIA! Yes, the land of gorgeous pasta, gorgeous pizza, gorgeous gelato and gorgeous... men! Well, according to Mother - although I do agree with the first three gorgeous-es.

A 2pm flight means a relaxed morning, am I right, ladies and gents? Uh, well no. Not when Mother is involved. The alarm rang aggressively at 7am (earlyyyyy!) in order to alert Mother to all the household safety precautions that were necessary to set up before leaving. I used this extra morning time to make green smoothies, which I'm sure you'll agree is the appropriate preparation for a flight. Mother used this valuable time to stuff hangers into the window blinds.

"What is that you're doing, dear?" I say, with caution as I enter the kitchen (early-morning-Mother is not sensationally rational)

"What does it look like, darling?!" ..... (told you) Mother replies, as she is perched on a stool.

"Urm, well I couldn't really say... to be honest...."

"I'm obviously using these clothes hangers that I've sawn in half to wedge between the window and the blinds so that nobody can break in!" Mother says, looking at me as if I'm stupid.

"Right. Of course. I see it now, yes. Indeed. Makes sense. Sensible. Mhmm."

As Mother dismounts the wooden stool, I offer to put it back.

"I haven't finished yet!"

I glance at my watch; it is precisely the time that Mother said we would be leaving. Yet, she has returned to the kitchen with a mop.

"Oh.... what.... what's that for?" I am looking for the spillage.

"I'll show you, sweetie!"

As she says this, the mop is whipped up in the air and Mother glides it between the handle of the window and wedges it into an alcove of the wall.

"There, see! Now, if the burglar does manage to break through the hanger-wedge, he won't be able to open the window anyway, you see, darling? Mummy's very clever, isn't she?" Mother is a tad flushed but evidently very pleased with herself.

I am concerned that Mother thinks we live in the ghetto.

We are finally ready to leave the house. It is half past ten in the morning and about 52 degrees centigrade. A 15 minute walk to the station actually took 30 minutes due to Mother's choice in footwear. Again. For those of you wondering, I am wearing a sports bra, running vest, jogging bottoms and sneakers. Backpack, water bottle and suitcase in tow.  Mother, in high contrast, is wearing a silk dress (with a crossover flap that flies open during a breeze, exposing more than we all bargained for) and... oh, no, not the famous diamante pumps this time! Instead, Mother has beige, suede heels with a very long tassel that ties up from her ankles to her calves. Much frill. Much tassel. She is channeling some strong Coachella vibes. So, this explains the time it takes to reach the station; as we had to stop every 7 minutes in order to re-tie her tassels (they were untying themselves in an attempted escape perhaps).

Eventually, we arrive at the airport (in just enough time) and navigated to the correct terminal (a slight rigmarole) and arrived at the gate. Judgy-Judgersons (us) were in full swing as we (not-so-quietly) discussed the family in front of us. A family of four; two little boys and their parents, dressed immaculately.  I immediately spot the mother's Louis Vuitton handbag, Levi jeans, Prada sunglasses and a new Burberry purchase (looking at her grand shopping bag over her shoulder). The children have slicked back hair, brand new Nike's and Porsche polo shirts. HOWEVER, they are not obnoxious fancy-pants. Actually, they look very approachable and the mother is talking quietly in Italian to the boys. Mother and I stand discussing the beauty of Italian fashion and ... "oh, her hair is so lovely!" .... etc. We stop instantly when the father spins around and tells us, in a very English accent, that we are going to board now. Oh. Whoops. It could have been so much worse!

Right. On the plane! I whip out my spelt crackers and sesame snacks (wow I'm so annoying) and settle down with my podcast and neck pillow. I'm very anti-social on flights, usually - as you may remember. Mother, on the other hand, is very excited to find out who will sit next to her.

"Ooooh, darling! Do you think it will be him, he looks like he's travelling alone, doesn't he, sweetie?"

"Oh, what about him? He's a little bit old but he looks like he might own a yacht,  darling!"

"OH! GOODNESS ME! I hope it's him, I hope it's him!" (Mother is pointing at a 16 year old Italian boy, boarding the plane with the rest of his class as the teacher follows behind).

Alas, no bachelor is seated next to Mother. What a shame. Instead, however, is a lovely lady from America with her three children (two boys and a girl ranging from about 10-21 years old). She is apologising profusely for bringing McDonalds onto the plane, assuring us that this is a very unusual meal for them, despite being American!

Anyway, Mother - of course - engages "friendship" mode and for the rest of the flight they got along like a house on fire. Nattering and showing each other pictures of their respective children.... which I found most odd, considering we were literally all there, sitting within three metres of each other but anyway.  I even engaged a little 'socialising' with one of the older children, discussing high school and university, which was a rather exotic experience for me and my neck pillow (it ceased fairly soon after we took off as he fell asleep and I returned to my crackers and tomato juice).

2 hours later, we land. We are all trying to collect our hand luggage and may I just say what an absolute nightmare this process is. It always has been. Everyone stands up as we pull into the little 'parking spot' for the plane as if the first person to stand up is the first person off the plane. Idiots. You can hear everyone's mobile phone switching on and messages zooming in (before we're officially allowed to even turn our phones on WHAT ARE YOU DOING, PEOPLE?). At this point, three people on each row simultaneously struggle and fight to whip their elephant-weighted luggage from the cabin part... above everyone's head. Upon successfully squeezing it out, they then have nowhere to put it. Nowhere to even turn around due to the other six people surrounding them tightly. Everyone is now standing, holding their luggage above their heads like morons, waiting for the doors to open (which is never within fifteen minutes). I, however, remain seated. I really do not mind being the last one off the plane. What is the rush?!

Anyway - I sidetrack. Whilst everyone is fanning about, Mother and her new bestie are exchanging multiple contact details (business cards, twitter handles, emails, addresses, twelve phone numbers etc) and are still chatting as the new BFF's children and I glide down the aisle and off the plane. We are about to say our goodbyes and separate when we look back to our mothers. My mother is not able to glide down the aisle quite so swiftly as her nimble daughter. Instead, she is unsteadily sliding. Dragging. She gives me a worried glance. It seems as though her weight has trippled during the flight, as she seems unable to carry herself (or it might have been the gin and tonic she had....). Oh no, I see it now. As I glance downwards, towards Mothers feet, I see the problem. Mother's feet have swollen to the size of baby hippopotamuses. Her trotters have, in fact, trippled in size. They are trying desperately to escape the confines of the tassels wrapped ever so tightly around her ankles. The purple pastry puffs have indeed risen within these utterly unsuitable shoes. Mother has managed to restrict all blood flow to her feet by dressing like Ke$ha at Glastonbury and her bff and I have to help her and her hippo-feet off the plane.

Suitable shoes...

More Italian anecdotes coming soon, stay tuned!  

xoxo

I'm in rehab.

Ok, so you may be shocked to hear - but yes, I'm in rehab. I should clarify, however, that 'rehab' does not only treat drug and alcohol related problems here in Spain. It also treats physiological problems - which is the reason I have been admitted. Upon being "sentenced to 5 weeks of rehab", Mother soared to the floor in horror; disgraced with her sudden alcoholic daughter. I had to explain to her that it was for my neck injury instead, which took a good 15 minutes.

My first appointment goes smoothly; just an initiation with my doctor, Francisco. Oh - how fortunate; he is 30-something and strikingly good looking (according to Mother), with the typical 'tall, dark and handsome' traits. Mother insists on asking numerous, insignificant questions about anything at all (I am translator again... yay) and finds it quite the struggle when his assistant nurse tries to usher her out before his next appointment.

"I don't like to be rushed!" Mother quips.

My next appointment, a few weeks later, is to begin the therapy. As we arrive, I register at the desk (which takes around 3 hours as the wonderful Spanish female receptionists are not exactly the most efficient, swift workers I know). I am then told to wait in the waiting room with the others. Mother is still here beside me for moral support upon my first visit, dressed as if she were attending a royal garden party (sunglasses still on and the diamante pumps making yet another outing).

"Where is he, darling?" Mother asks.

"Where is who?"

"Francisco, sweetie! Obviously!" Mother looks around, urgently. She also gets off her chair and saunters down the corridor, nonchalantly, peering into the offices!

I urge her to sit back down and she does, reluctantly.

Five minutes later, my female therapist appears with her clipboard and calls out a few names, including mine. She then proceeds to explain the process for today's session and asks us to follow her. I am quickly translating the information for Mother - as she is demanding to know what is happening. I reiterate what my therapist told us; that we would have some kind of electrotherapy thing and then go into the gym for physiotherapy exercise.

"Ooooh! Fantastic, a gym! So it's like a retreat, marvellous! I wonder where the swimming pool is, I didn't see one outside. Perhaps they only have an indoor pool..." Mother is now very excited about rehab.

Mother is edging forward with me and our small group as the therapist looks at her with suspicion. I presume it is because we, the patients, are all dressed in gym gear. Mother is evidently dressed quite the opposite. Then someone says something and the therapist explains that Mother cannot come further than this door we are hovering at because it's 'treatment time' (and of course we are not allowed 'observers' etc during the process). I steadily translate this to Mother and she does not take it very well.

"Why?" She asks, with an aggressive confidence.

"Que?" The therapist asks.

I see I am going to have to be the translator again.

Mother is not accepting any of the very reasonable explanations.

"I am her Mother!" Seems to be her only counter-argument. It does not do well in altering the rules of the rehab centre, funnily enough. So Mother withdraws her glare and spins around.

Right at this moment, Francisco appears from around the corner and Mother finds herself a few centimetres from his presumably toned torso.

"Ah! Francisco! Hola, darling!  I am going to have to wait for Charlotte-Elizabeth whilst she has her therapy, that's right isn't it? So - where is the spa?"

"Uhh.... sorry, what, Madam?" Francisco, bless him, is struggling to understand Mother. Not only due to the language, mind you.

"The spa, darling? Can you tell me where it is? So I can relax by the pool with a magazine. Do they serve cava there? Ooooh, are the magazines all in Spanish or do you have 'Hello' magazines? I usually read 'The Lady', actually....." Mother trails off as she sees Francisco's confused expression not changing in the slightest.

I smile apologetically at Francisco and tell him not to worry; I will explain the reality of this situation to her.

"Mother, this is not a spa. This is a rehab centre. I am not an A-list celebrity overcoming drug addiction. There are no detox juices or masseurs. This is a hospital. I suggest you wait outside on a bench. Please try to stay outside, okay? Francisco is definitely busy, he won't have time to join you either." I say, a little stressed that my fellow physio group have already been ushered through and I am stuck here bringing my deluded Mother back down to earth.

Mother shuffles off, a little disgruntled. Eventually I catch up to my group and I begin my therapy session.

One hour later, I emerge from the centre to find a lady of leisure spread out, legs up, on a bench in the sun. It is Mother; her posh summer dress has been hiked up above her knees - for more efficient tanning purposes. She has obtained a straw hat from somewhere, which is perched on her head. Beneath which are her sunglasses over the top of her reading glasses. She has a book in one hand and an ice cream in the other. It looks as though she is a resident at a top spa in Hampshire, if it weren't for the cement-churning lorry behind her.

xoxo

Ready for the luxury spa.

"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