[Bassim]

Please, would you proofread my text.

Soon, between Katarina and me developed a relationship far beyond an ordinary helper-patient attachment. After some weeks, we were like two persons who had known each other for decades. I felt I visited someone who was my second mother. My own mother had been living in Bosnien and I went to see her only during my holiday and probably Katarina filled that empty post.
If I came in the morning we would drink tea or coffee and at some other time she would not let me go without tasting her food. She was an excellent cook and whatever she made tasted delicious. Sometimes, I helped her with chopping and peeling vegetables or carving the chicken. She liked to eat fish and I would follow her to the supermarket which twice a week received fresh fish from the coast. Katarina was born in a little town by the sea and knew everything about fish and other sea species. This town was in the middle of the country and it took hours for a lorry to transport its load from the coast to his final destination. I never understood how she could knew that the fish behind the glass counter was not fresh, but her ability to decide the quality of the fish was extraordinary. Before I had said anything she would raise her walking stick over her head and wave it at a young shop assistant who blushed with embarrassment.
"This fish is too old, isn't it?"
"It is from yesterday," Her face was now deep purple and if she could she would like to disappear into the plughole in front of her and never come back.
"In my home town such fish we do not even give to our pats," Katarina said and demonstrative turned to the exit. This scene repeated in the other shops and the effect was the same. The poor shop assistants were left with deep emotional scars that will take their physical manifestation in the form of profuse sweating, heart racing and body shaking as soon as they saw us entering the shop.
Once, she called the manager himself of a supermarket because fish stench was unmistakable. It was a hot summer and probably a device in control of the cooling system did not function well. The manager was a tall, lanky and blond middle age Swede who looked like a basketball player who had decided to become a businessman. The sleeves of his suit was too short for his long arms. He had probably already heard about a certain woman with her walking stick who was causing havoc in the shops and he was blushing even before Katarina uttered a word. When she raised her walking stick just a few centimetres from the ground he winced and stretched out his hands if front of him as if saying, "Please, do not hit me. I am innocent!"

Katrina used the upper register or her voice and her actress experience to express her utter disgust for selling such old fish. I looked through the glass and I saw a few cods, salmons and mackerels lying on the pieces of broken ice like cadavers and I noticed that the manager's face and the salmon's fillets had the same nuance of the pink colour.
The man apologized deeply and promised that similar thing would never occur again. I had already seen him in my imagination calling his psychotherapist the same day and requesting an emergency appointment. He would need at least some hours of discussions to get rid of this unpleasant encounter.
"Don't you think sometimes 'these bloody Swedes,' they are so mean?" Katarina asked me when we were on our way back to her flat.
"I do," I answered, "but I do not dare to criticize because whatever I say they answer, "If you don't like it here why don't you go back where you came from?"

To be continued....