The sun is shining, the flip-flops are on, and we’re all sitting outside a restaurant near Lake Balaton, a huge lake about an hour from Budapest.
“I’m thinking about writing about last Friday.” I say.
“Last Friday?” replies Zsuzsa quizzically.
“Yeah. Hospital Friday. I was…”
“Apply juicy!” demands Mila, throwing me off my stride.
I glance at my sweet little blonde haired, blue eyed angel. She might look all sugar and spice, but I know better. I know that she also has a dark side. A side that would see her rampage through the restaurant, tearing the place apart, leaving a trail of destruction and despair in an apple juice deprived rage. I decide to get her an apple juice. I get up and head inside the restaurant to order.
“I’ll go order.” I announce, before adding “To be continued.” without looking back.
Christ I’m dramatic! Having me as a husband must be so exciting for Zsuzsa. I’d imagine it’s akin to living in some kind of high octane drama like Homeland, Breaking Bad or Game of Thrones. Or at the very least a rejected script for an episode of the Welsh soap opera Pobol y Cwm.
Once inside I order our selection of beverages in almost fluent, toddler Hungarian.
“Mi a neved? (What’s your name?)” asks the waitress.
“Oh. It’s Gareth.” I respond.
“Gavin?” she replies.
Realisation is dawning that this particular rally in this game of name tennis could go on for a while. I make a snap decision.
“Er…yes. Carlos. My name’s Carlos.”
At least this way I can now live out my fantasy of sounding like a Mexican drug lord. Plus it’s better than when some goon in Starbucks, Las Vegas, heard me say ‘Gareth’ and then wrote down ‘Ernie’.
Back outside with my wife and two miniature females, I carry on from where I so dramatically left off.
“Yeah, so last Friday. Think I might write about it.”
“What will you say?” asks Zsuzsa.
“Oh I don’t know. Maybe something about how I was planning a relaxing Friday evening at home but instead, ended up taking you to hospital when you thought you might have lyme disease (she didn’t) and Mila to have a tick removed from her face (she did).”
“Hmmm.” says Zsuzsa. “Is it that blog worthy?”
“I think so. I mean the hospital was basically post apocalyptic.”
“I guess. You could talk about how that man I saw had a green face.”
“I could. I could also talk about the Whatsapp you sent me?”
“The WhatsApp about the naked man farting at you.”
“It wasn’t at me.”
“In my head it was at you. I could also talk about the old woman staggering around in the nappy.”
“You could mention the doctor telling me to keep an eye out for rats.”
“Or the doctor with the big white ponytail. The one who looked like Medicine Man!”
“Or the fact that while I waited for my results I was submerged in ants.”
“Yeah. And I gotta talk about the tick.”
“Are ticks that interesting?”
“I think so. We don’t really get them in the UK.”
“They’re just bugs though.”
“Just bugs!? Just bugs!? Mila had something that resembled a mini spider, with its head burrowed in her face, millimetres from her eyeball, drinking her blood for two days! It was like a low budget face-hugger from Alien! Then she had Medicine Man rub alcohol on her eye while another man came at her with a massive pair of pliers!”
“Carlos!” comes a voice from the distance as a waitress wanders over with a tray of tasty beverages and breaded stuff.”
“Yep! That’s me. Carlos over here!” I say, raising my arm.
Zsuzsa gives me a quizzical look as the waitress places our food in front of our faces, turns and leaves.
I shrug. We tuck in to our food. Mila glugs away at her apple juice. Disaster is averted.
So, yeah. Maybe I’ll write about Hospital Friday some day.