Well, well, well... it might be some kind of message from heaven, something like: “sorry we made you spill the milk this morning, it was a mistake of the administrative team. It was supposed to happen to someone else. You have enough with what you have”. To be honest, they could have chosen a slightly more cheerful bunch. This one looked more suitable for a cemetery, but then again, who am I to question the gods' tastes? So I went in and put it in a glass of water – I don't get flowers often enough to justify buying a vase- before going out again.
Still lost in my thoughts, trying to come up with more plausible explanations for my bunch of flowers, I arrived to the corner of my street, where a team of builders has been working for two weeks without anyone – not even them for that matter- knowing very well what they are supposed to be doing.
And it’s here where I reach the top of mount disbelief: the same six workmen who had completely ignored me for the past fourteen days – to the point that I was wondering whether I unknowingly had a horrible spot on my face- suddenly, start shouting lewd comments at me.
Could it be true what Dave used to say? Might unhappiness suit me? Be that as it may and even though as an intelligent and educated woman I would never admit any correlation between my self-steam and street cat-calls, the truth is that, as I turn round the corner, there's a smile on my face.
Chapter 10
It worked! I saw her smile!
Of course today’s girls would never admit that a wolf-whistle can cheer them up, but I was certain that human kind (at least the female half of it) couldn’t have changed so much since I was young. So here I came this morning, armed with some home-made sponge cake, to ask the nice builders working at the corner of Claire’s street to give her some attention as she passed by. To be fair, at the beginning they were a bit reluctant, understandably. Today you hear so many things about suits and trials for sexual harassment that you can’t be too careful. But a few pieces of my sponge cake later, they agreed to do it. And it worked! It’s only a little victory, I know. But happiness is made up of little things.
Chapter 11
Unfortunately, my peace with the world could not last. Back at the apartment, I’ve got an email from the secretary from the translating agency, a woman I was convinced of having deeply offended without realizing turning her into my biggest enemy. I realized my mistake when, talking to other colleagues from the agency, I discovered that everyone had the same feeling. This hatred seemed to be addressed at anyone taller, blonder, younger or luckier than her, something that, one way or another, we all were.
I open the email preparing for the worst. I don’t know if it’s a consequence of my job or simple snobbism but I can’t stand people who write emails as if they were vomiting words: no “hi” or “good morning” and, of course, not a trace of punctuation or capital letters to give you a clue about how to interpret this maze. The example at hand read something like: “you made a mistake in the last translation word 25 from the second column isn’t translated in english and french in arabic and chinese it is but don’t ever do this again correct it and send it to me straight away”.
Once I’ve managed to work out what she means and still considering whether I should send her a manual such as “How to give constructive criticism” or “The three stages of professional feedback”, I start to download the aforementioned translation to see what this is all about.
While I’m waiting for the document to open, I can’t help thinking that, whether I like it or not, she’s right: leaving a word without translation in the middle of a text is unforgivable. It must be yet another symptom of my 25-year-old crisis and the beginning of the extinction of my brain cells. What was I thinking about? Truth is that I’m disappointed with myself. Always pretending that this job is only temporary and that I can aspire to much more, that this is only the beginning of my career, but what if it wasn’t true? What if this is as far as I’m ever gonna get? Clearly, the downfall has already started: never before had I left a word without translation in the middle of a text.
About to burst out crying again (and now I really can’t afford it since I’m out of tissues and haven’t come round to buying toilet roll yet), I open the translation to face my own incompetence.
Text in Spanish, second column, word 25… “versión". Text in English…”version”, in French…”version”. Phew! Maybe there’s still some hope for my professional future. The bloody moron must have been looking for any mistake to make me look bad and, finding three words that apparently looked the same thought she had got lucky. Think again, bitch! I think I might throw in an orthography guide “The importance of accents in Spanish language” for the secretary… and a bunch of flowers, for the relief I feel now… well, we’ll see about that…
Chapter 12
The crisis overcome, I open the next email entitled “We wanted to share something with you”. It’s from a friend from school I haven’t seen for the last ten years. It appears that she has sent it to all her contacts, assuming clearly that we would all be dying to hear how well she’s doing. Some kind of natural instinct worryingly similar to the one that led to horrors such as Nazism pushes me to obey the “click on the following link” command, even though I know that this is going to end up badly.
Sure enough, the fateful link takes me to a youtube video where, with The Bodyguard’s soundtrack as background music, I have the honour of watching a 1500-image photomontage of the couple snogging in front of the Eiffel Tower, the Tower of Pisa, the Parthenon, Sleeping Beauty’s Palace at Eurodisney, the Millennium Eye, the Pyramids of Gizet, St. Sophia (St. Sophia! Bitch! I’ve been dying to go to Istanbul for years!), Buckingham Palace, Charles Bridge in Prague… all reaching the climax of romanticism with a photo of the happy couple covered in pigeons in St. Mark’s Square in Venice, the boy kneeling in front of the girl and handing her an engagement ring… and aaaaaaaaaaaaah eeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaah, wil aaaaaaaalways love youuuuuu uuuuuuuu… Of course, we are all invited to share their happiness at the wedding ceremony which will take place on the 15th of August in Palma de Mallorca’s Cathedral. Before turning 25, the whole thing would have made me sick; now, the itching at the back of my throat feels more like jealousy that I’m not the girl being shitted on by the bunch of pigeons. Where did my pride go?
Chapter 13
I think I’m going to have to leave checking my email for some other time. I’d better water the plants. They need it badly. Another one of my frustrations and a constant reminder that I’m not ‘a proper housewife’ (leaving aside the fact that I’m not even married). No matter what I do, the best I can hope for is delaying their death. From the moment it arrives to my house, every plant starts a slow agony, looking more and more miserable, until I can’t pretend anymore and I have to put it in the bin. My only consolation is that, at least, I’m not alone in this failure. It appears to be some kind of generational dysfunction. Every mother, grandmother, aunt or mother in law of a girl of my generation has green fingers. It’s as if they had been born with a green gene, a sixth sense for plants. A gene that clearly got lost somewhere along the evolution between our mothers’ generation and ours. And, yet, I can’t just accept it, I keep buying plants for my window, at least for as long as the protection society doesn’t report me…
So here I come, with my glass of water, prepared to face the sad situation of my plants with a smile (in case it is true they can sense our moods) and a few words of encouragement. I can hardly believe my eyes when I find that not only my "solanum pseudocapsicum" (species recommended by the florist for their sturdiness) aren’t dead but they have sprouted a few little new leaves. Maybe I was wrong after all and having green fingers is not the result of an innate gene but a revelation that happens at a certain age, some kind of consolation prize for all the negative symptoms of the 25-year-old crisis. Well, we should be grateful for small mercies…
Chapter 14
Things are getting more and more difficult. This morning I almost fell off the neighbour’s balcony
while I was attending to Claire’s plants. Looking at her window trying to make sure she didn’t jump off it, I couldn’t help notice that her plant seemed to share the general sadness of the place and they looked all withered and unhappy.
To be honest, I’ve never understood why these young girls are incapable of keeping a plant alive. It’s not so difficult. My daughter in law is the same. And then she complains because I sometimes forget to charge my mobile phone and it goes off. At least I don’t let it die!
Anyway, I figured that if Claire had passed her unhappiness onto the plants, the system might also work the other way around. Her neighbour turned out to be a student who opened the door looking sleepy and wrapped up in a towel at eleven in the morning. He didn’t seem particularly bothered by the explanation I had so carefully prepared to ask him for permission to use his balcony. He just muttered some “yeah, yeah, whatever. Just close the door when you leave” and disappeared again in his bedroom.
He didn’t look like he was planning on getting up soon, so I leisurely spent an hour on a stool in his balcony, reaching out to water and trim the plants in the one next door.
I must say the Pilates classes from the senior citizens centre are paying off. I haven’t been this supple since I was twenty! Although I should probably not mention my little excursion to our trainer. He’s a dear, but he used to work at a nursery and, by the way he asks us questions in the third person, such as “how are my girls today? have they slept well?” and gives us biscuits (admittedly without sugar) when we do an exercise correctly, I suspect he still hasn’t noticed the change. I don’t think he would approve of my stretching technique on the edge of the abyss.
Chapter 15
I've lost my faith. It's official. Before, when I saw an interesting job offer, I would send my CV straight away and, for days and even weeks, would check my email hourly to see if I had a reply, fantasizing about what it'd be like to do that job. After a while not receiving any answers, I started to be grateful to those companies which at least sent the standard “sorry but not this time, we will keep your CV in our data base” type of email. Now, when I see a good job offer I can't help thinking it must be some kind of scam.
Like today; every lamp-post in my street has a sticker saying “Female interpreter of Spanish, French, Italian and Arabic required to accompany respectable woman in a trip around the world. Good salary and all expenses covered”. Too good to be true. I haven't even taken the number. I don't think I could cope with another disappointment.
Chapter 16
This time I'm sure this thing has battery. I had it charging all night the way my son told me and, in the morning, the girl at the newsagent's assured me that I had “three bars”, which would last for the whole day. And yet, the bloody thing won't ring. I get it out of my pocket for the hundredth time and press the button to unlock it (because I don't trust it when the screen is all black) and yes, the thing is on and appears to be functioning and yet... it won't ring! What's this girl doing?
According to what I've found out through her friends – pretending I was Claire's grandmother, deeply concerned about her lack of motivation – this would be a once in a life time opportunity for her. And, to be honest, so it would be for me. Why doesn't she call? I've been sitting on this bench for eight hours and it's starting to get dark...
At last! The phone is ringing! Relax! Or I might press the wrong key by mistake and hang up on her.
- Hello?
- Mum? Where the hell are you? Charlotte and I went round to your place after work and you weren’t there. We phoned Harry and he didn't know where you were either. We were worried sick!
- Yeah, well, I went out for a walk...
- For a walk?! Just like that, without telling anyone?! And at this time at night! What if you fall over or have an attack or... I don't know what? At your age anything could happen!
- Well, Steve, let's not exaggerate...
- Exaggerate! So I'm exaggerating, am I?! Seriously mum! I can't believe you! Don't you ever think of us and how much we worry about you? You're seventy-six, you're not a child!
Exactly, I'm not a child. But there's no point in arguing, the fact that they're my children and not the other way around seems to go completely unnoticed. According to my friends from the senior citizens centre I should be grateful that my family care so much about me. “We should take mum here or there. We should get her this or that.” Hello! I'm here! Why don't you ask me what I think? Because, to be perfectly honest, I have no interest in your trips to the zoo with the kids, I don't like that horrendous flowery night-gown and I don't need a remote control with extra-large keys. I'm seventy-six, which means that – taking into account the longevity of women in my family- I could live for another fifteen years. I'm awfully sorry but, if you ask me, fifteen years is too long to spend feeding the pigeons.
Chapter 17
- Rubbish! That's too good to be true! You're going to end up not only unemployed but scammed! Why don't you take an exam to be a civil servant, honey? Look at Connie's daughter! She got that administrative position and there she is, nine to two, tidying the letters in the tax office complaints box, with the assurance that it's for life!
I suddenly feel claustrophobia, but years of having this same conversation with my mother have taught me that she is incapable of understanding that such a life might not be the highest ambition of any normal human being. I don't even know why we're discussing it again. It all started when my mother asked: 'So? Have you found a job yet?' I've got tired of saying: “well, actually, I already have a job”, because after two years it still hasn't registered. So I decided to try a shock strategy this time and answered: “In fact, I was thinking of applying for a job as interpreter travelling around the world”.
Not true. I didn't believe myself that the job could be for real and, if it were, that I had the slightest chance of getting it, but I found myself defending it whole-heartedly just to contradict my mother. And now I don't know what I think any more. It might be worth trying. I even found the advert in my letterbox this morning. In an envelope with my name! What if destiny is knocking on my door and I'm too busy translating “maximum pleasure” into five languages to go and open it. True, the fortune teller told me I was going to get a kicking, not the job of my life, but even the weather man is always wrong... and one would think meteorology is more scientific than chiromancy!
Chapter 18
I've been to the travel agent's. After a half an hour discussion, I managed to convince the lady that I didn't want a package holiday to Benidorm and neither was I interested in a cruise for OAPs. It wasn’t easy, but here they are: two eastbound around the world tickets! This is going to be my gap year. When I was young those things didn't exist. The trouble is that, in my case, it won't be my parents I'll have to confront, but my children. God knows what they'll say when they find out. But well, wasn't that the reason they bought me this mobile thing in the first place? So that – quote- “I could be in touch wherever I was”?
If only Claire phoned...
Hello?
Good morning. My name is Claire Robinson and I was calling about the interpreting job. I suppose it's already taken, but...
It's yours!
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