Y mi mama tambien ...
The high-speed wireless Internet connection in our Beverly Hills style holiday home only reaches the first terrace. What a drag. My first family holiday of the year and unavoidable, since it is my mother's 60th birthday. The Kosher Nostra of North London...
The high-speed wireless Internet connection in our Beverly Hills style holiday home only reaches the first terrace. What a drag. My first family holiday of the year and unavoidable, since it is my mother's 60th birthday.
The Kosher Nostra of North London gathered here in Spain to celebrate Altakuka-hood. Between them there were a gaggle of psychotherapist's, a gynaecologist, one dentist, two property developers, a splattering of doctors, a lawyer or two, one accountant, and a women with fizzy hair who claimed to be a Dee Jay; enough to start their own utopian dream where everyone speaks with a South African accent and has good teeth.
The altakakas drink and dance all night. The alcohol had the unusual affect of making all the South African exiles speak in fluent Yiddish. They made a lot more sense.
The first part of the holiday was domestic. We spent four days buying light fixtures, sawing trestles, assembling ping pong tables and cooling Cava (my father assured me it tastes as good as champers. He pulled the same trick at my Batmitzvah.).
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I finally broke down and bought myself an outfit from Alfedo Demingzo (a nautical style navy skirt and thin light blue cashmere v-neck).
It matches my new debutante fringe. Unfortunately the clothes are perhaps a little light for March in London ... perhaps I should stay out here longer. I have a terrible weakness for pleasant surroundings.
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Whilst we got on with party preparations one of the guests disappeared into the pantry. Several days later we found her nestled between the Campari bottle and sparkling water.
Then a few hours before the party she had a nervous breakdown over a bowl of gazpacho. When I refused to make her a cup of tea (sometimes I even surprise myself at my cruelty and selfishness) she burst into tears. Luckily Campari seems to take the edge off the hysteria (she has been through a bottle and a half since we arrived).
Mother is happiest in the garden where she is waging war against our new neighbours. For legal reasons I cannot divulge exactly what she is up to but suffice to say their conifers are not looking as healthy as they should for this time of year.
As for my Dad, I've always admired his understated demeanour; an ashamed capitalist if you like.
When he was an art student a couple of years ago he bought a secondhand Renault Five to look the part. But all that has now changed.
He is in love with his new Mercedes and if my mother hadn't locked the keys in the boot of the car he would have spent the whole holiday caressing the dashboard.
My brother crippled himself opening the garage door and spent two days paralysed in bed. Maria, the masseur was duly sent for. I wasn't sure if she gave him a 'happy ending'. He certainly looked more relaxed but as he is canoodling my best friend at the moment he hasn't divulged the details.
Every evening I go for a power walk to the lighthouse with my sister who is looking beautiful since she broke up with the love of her life.
Sometimes I find a broken heart is a great way to lose weight. We went out for dinner. My sister flirted unashamedly with the Spanish waiter, Ivan, who she had kissed when she was 14 (her first kiss). While she told him about her allergy to fresh tomatoes (her conversation skills still need work after nine years of monogamy) I looked down at my plate and tried to calculate the calorie content of my Greek salad. And also the number of mosquito bites on my left arm.
But apart from that, I myself am fine. Nothing unusual to report, nothing whatsoever.