Olive Oil

"Every time I have a shower I put olive oil all over my body", so said Rosalia, my Spanish neighbour, who is a font of knowledge into which I dip whenever something ails me. Hmmm, I said as I imagined reeking of the cooking oil instead of a lavender balm but worth a try for all that. I decided that Extra Virgin was not a requirement for my parched skin so purchased a large bottle of bog-standard oil of the grape in my local supermarket that I quickly secreted in the bathroom cabinet, unseen, I hoped. After a nice hot shower the next morning I uncorked said bottle, slathered palmfulls of the stuff over every reachable part of my body, massaging it in to all the nooks and crannies and surprise, surprise, I didn’t smell like I’d just been marinated in a tasty French dressing; my skin soaked it all up leaving not a trace of grease (as I had feared) to seep through and ruin my clothes!

This morning I bumped into Rosalia and as we were chatting I put out my silky arms to show the wonderful effects of freshly oiled skin only to see a look of total confusion on her face: "You said that you used olive oil on your skin, remember? And I’m really pleased that it works so well." I was in the middle of saying how I didn’t waste my money on Extra Virgin and how it was a bit cheaper this way but good all the same when she interrupted to say: "No, no, I use baby oil, not olive oil, are you crazy?" Well, no, she didn’t say, are you crazy? But the look on her face implied as much.

Rosalia has lived in Ireland for over twenty years and has not lost one iota of her Spanish accent: if she’s not on the phone to her mother, she's blathering to one of her five sisters or her only brother. Her children will answer, if they answer at all, to whatever language is spoken i.e. English, Spanish or slang. So, it’s no surprise then that when she said baby oil, I heard olive oil. Over the years we have had many hilarious misunderstandings but not once has our friendship been strained or even compromised for a single minute. She is like a breath of fresh air and seems not to be bound by the mysteries of convention. I remember sitting in bed, late one evening, suffering from some ache or pain in my right leg that prevented me from going asleep. I suddenly realised that an anti-inflammatory to take down the swelling would be just the job but I hadn’t a single tablet in the house. Undaunted, I rang Rosalia who keeps Mediterranean hours and would be nearer her ironing board than her pillow, and once I’d communicated my problem she said, "I’ll be over in a minute" before slamming down the phone. My daughter answered the door to Rosalia who swept up the stairs, into my bedroom handing me the pill and glass of water as she proceeded sit beside me on the bed and rub the offending limb all the while talking seriously about this and that, most of which I understood. I can tell you this much: I was feeling much better by the time Nurse Rosalia left and I slept like a baby.

Back to the olive oil, well, I reckon, if this gets out, my name may well become Olive Oyl! But if this new nickname produces a veritable spinach guzzling Popeye performing feats requiring superhuman strength at every available opportunity, I for one, won’t mind.