Today I wiped a bum. It went as smoothly as wiping a bum can go. No complaints from the three year old, not even a slight hesitation when yelling my name and pointing towards the toilet paper. I forgot someone wipes your butt when you’re three, and I guess that privilege is only returned when you have lived eighty years and senility has well and truly found you. You’ve undoubtedly had some pretty rough times if you’ve made it that far, so it seems only fitting you have the same perks at the end that you had at the beginning. I wonder what else is the same. Anyhow, I’m deciding that this officially makes me an Au Pair.
It’s taken a week, but I know my way around a small part of Granada now. If you were to look at a map it would be the southeast quadrant of Granada, more or less. Or maybe you’re one of those people who don’t need a map. In any case, it’s still the same place. I take my Spanish classes near la Catedral de Granada, which is a pretty phenomenal structure. I haven’t been inside, but from the outside you would assume there is a lot going on inside. A gypsy grabbed my arm when I was circling it to take pictures, and I didn’t like that at all. If I hadn’t just withdrawn a large amount of euros from an ATM, I probably wouldn’t have screamed as loud. But I had. So I screamed pretty loud, more from shock than fear. The gypsy didn’t like that, so she let go of my arm. Then we did this sort of thing where you look at one an another for a long time and everything feels super intense, and then she flicked the back of her wrist towards me in a shooing motion and turned her head as if to say, ‘you aren’t worth my time.’ I was strangely offended after that. It’s unexpected how people you don’t know, don’t want to know, can make you feel bad about yourself just by being who they are.
There is someone beeping a car horn off in the distance. It’s very irritating. He’s been doing it since I typed the first paragraph. I’m assuming it’s a he because it has that obnoxious, stubborn cadence that reminds me of a man. I wish I could do something to make it stop, but from my balcony all I can do is wish ill of him. And I am. Wishing lots of ill. Every time I think he’s stopped, he starts up again. Like a three year old throwing a tantrum.
I forget who wiped my bum last, but it was probably Mum. Thanks, Mum. I’ll return the favour later on down the track.