Pain

It turns out my mum’s been walking around Barcelona with a broken tail bone all week. She fell a few days before her trip, apparently, but didn’t think it was a big deal. Until two days ago, when she could hardly walk. After a day spent crying in bed –partly due to pain, and partly because we were laughing so hard trying to get her into a comfortable position– I managed to convince her to see the local chiropractor. He happened to be a tall, sweet talking Italian, who ummed and aahed over her symptoms, and tut tutted over the fact that this should happen to her while on holiday in Spain. Yes, my mum replied in English, heaving a sigh. It’s a real pain in the ass.

Can’t take her anywhere, I swear…

Apocalypto

Now I know I’m a sensitive soul, but when it comes to fiction I can stand some hard hitting stuff. But what was the deal with Apocalyto?! A bunch of us started watching it and I was doing ok, though I started looking away when the violence became a bit too gruesome, thinking that things would quiet down and we’d get back to the story soon. But about twenty minutes into the film I realized two things: that things were definitely not about to quiet down, and that I was literally shaking. So I left the others to watch the rest and retreated to my room to do some work. For the next hour and a half or so, all I could hear were the sounds of groans and screams and people generally dying on screen, and gasps and cringes from the mini audience in my living room. One of them even managed to bump his head against the wall at one point, shrinking back from yet another killing…

Is it just me, or does Mel Gibson have some issues to address with a therapist?

Green

In the car with my mum, who’s visiting for a few days:

me: mum, it’s green.

she:…a frog?

Family Reunion

This post is part of the November collab project over at RBJ:

I remember the reunions of my dad’s side of the family the most. Not because they were particularly exciting, but because they were big. Six siblings with their wives and kids, and countless uncles and aunts and cousins I don’t know how many times removed. A serious bunch, the lot of them. And they would have happily sat around being serious all day if it hadn’t been for Aunt I. She’s my dad’s great aunt and a seasoned prankster. She must be well into her nineties now and I wonder if she’s started recycling some of her more successful pranks. But in those days, she always managed to take everyone by surprise.

One New Year’s Day –we don’t do Thanksgiving– she manoeuvred my youngest uncle into the kitchen for a chat. He came out the accomplice in that year’s upcoming prank, wearing an old tie Aunt I. had picked from her late husband’s cupboard. Once everyone was seated, Aunt I. declared we’d start off by playing a game, since she wasn’t in the mood for another boring family party. Predictably, a bunch of the older uncles started to grumble. Uncle N. in particular wasn’t at all sold on the idea. Not that that surprised anyone because he never participated in anything. But Aunt I. sought him out especially: you too, N., she said. But of course, Uncle N. didn’t move a muscle. And neither did my youngest uncle K.

The rest of us played a few rounds of the game –an extremely silly game, involving shouting and clapping and flapping your arms like a chicken– and everything went well until Aunt I. ostensibly lost her temper. Right, she said to the two uncles in the corner, I’ve had it with you two. Whoever doesn’t participate in the next round is really going to regret it. She started off another round and when neither uncles stood up to join us, she walked over to Uncle K. and, in one decisive move, snipped off his tie with a great big pair of scissors. There was a collective gasp, followed ever so quickly by a chair scraping against the tiled floor, and Uncle N. rushing over to clap and shout and flap his arms for all he was worth. She didn’t exactly manage to convert Uncle N. into a barrel of laughs for life, but we did have a lot of fun with him that day…

Living La Vida Alto

I was sitting up in bed at around 3pm (this is the nicest room of the house, I felt cold, and I work better when I can hold on to the illusion that I’m not really working but just sitting around in bed, and why am I trying to justify myself? I like being in bed, dammit!), when all of a sudden a volcano erupted next door. Talk about Spanish fury! Man…the shouting went on forever, despite his repeated declarations that he wasn’t going to say anything else (no hablo más! basta! et cetera et cetera…). He even left the apartment twice so that he could slam the door again for real effect. Finally he stomped down the stairs and all was quiet…

Now it’s 5am and, again, I’m sitting up in bed. I was woken by what sounded like a pack of elephants trudging up the stairs. And, as luck (the bitch) would have it, they were headed for the top floor. So, by the time they all made it up here, ms. rose was wide awake. It was the people next door again, apparently coming home from a night out with a bunch of friends. I wonder what happened in the end? Did they make up or did she decide life was too short and hooked up with some friends alone? Not that it matters, really. It just keeps baffling me how Spanish people cannot do anything quietly. But I must admit I was expecting make up sounds of an entirely different nature.

Wouldn’t you just love living next door to me, by the way? I wonder if the days of my life are ending up in some blog as well.