A mummy has to do what a mummy has to do.

First morning in Barcelona.

HOT! Really hot! And that must mean something if a (sub)tropical-born grownup person feels it. I couldn't sleep and the mosquitoes were having a feast on me. I was living far to long in England.

Crawled to the kitchen where my boys were happily expecting me to sort life out. After all I'm the mum here and the only woman in the house. What do they expect? Me to smile, grab my apron, twitch my nose and produce a home? Are we back to the 50''s for goodness sake??

Luckily there's some milk on the fridge (UHT) and some biscuits in a cupboard so I produce a passable breakfast continental style.

I can feel my hormones rising and my temper going haywire so I pull myself together, smile sweetly and sent the guys to the sea to find a beach and with orders to be back at lunch time. I have to remind then were their swimming trucks and beach towels are (they packed their own suitcases back in England so my guess is as good as yours here but... there you go with guys).

Once they're safely out of my way, I venture out in the new city thinking about the old roles of hunters vs. gatherers and I do believe now that probably most of our cave dwelling ancestors were vegetarians. Guys are so hopeless, at least mine are.

Incredibly, there's a supermarket just opposite our building, an amazing fruit and vegs shop next to it, a fishermonger in one corner of the block, a chemist opposite that, an ice cream parlour in the other corner and a sweet-smelling bakery just around the corner. Good grief!! I feel like I'm really living la vida loca!!

So, by the time that my guys are back for lunch there's a lunch on the table and they don't even blink at the marvel of my achievement. They sat there brightly eyed and interrupting each other to tell me how lovely the beach is, how warm the Mediterranean is, how brightly the sun shines without the wisp of a cloud in the sky and that women here have tits. Yeah. That came straight from my dad and everybody stop what we're doing to look at him in amazement. First: he's 82 years old and going blind but even so he didn't miss the topples girls on the beach. Men! His eyesight is better that what I thought and for that I'm pleased... for the rest, well... at least he's not that old as he seems.

We're staying for the whole of August in a flat belonging to some colleague of "the husband". It's really good, 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, kitchen dinner, big dinner living room space, balcony, laundry room and a great location, quietish neibourhood, 3 blocks from the sea and a metro station at the corner. Fully furnished and there's even some food in the kitchen! And we're paying less than half the market prize for this.

And I'm hating it.

It defies reason but I'm utterly miserable. I'm totally PMT and I want to cry. I didn't have time to prepare for this, life is far to fast for me. My great-grandmother has months of time traveling until she reached her new life, while I'm expected to hit the floor running and it's just far too fast. I need time to prepare my soul for this and time is a luxury that I don't have.

I managed the rest of the day and once more, I cried myself to sleep. Now the chemist at the corner seems even more alluring than the ice cream parlour and I'm wondering if I can get prozac without a prescription.