The Secret Diary of a Transplanted Brit-Chick, aged 44 & 3/4

Tuesday, 22 September 2009
Caffeine intake: Too much
Alcohol intake: Not enough
Days since stopped smoking: 1,168 (v.good)
Cigarettes smoked: 0 (v.v. good)
Cigarettes craved: 93 (not so good)
Stray hairs plucked: 4
Kilometres walked: 7
Chocolates eaten: 0 (am v. virtuous)
Weight: Don’t even go there – km walked & chocs not scoffed having no effect

Dear Diary,

I know it’s not really the ‘done thing’ to start a diary in September, but I only came across you this week when I ventured into the Black Pit (a.k.a. the spare room, where all manner of junk goes to die – or breed, not sure which) to unearth an exercise book that No.1 (& Only) Son needed for school. There you were, winking at me innocently from atop of a pile of free never-to-be-watched DVDs, silently accusing me of my good intentions back in January.

Well, better late than never.
S'pose I’d better introduce myself first (it’s only polite after all).
I was born in the south of England at the end of 1964, which means I am part of Generation X (sounds much more interesting than “Hello, I’m from Surrey”). In 1989, after a stupid marriage that went pear-shaped and a series of disastrous attempts at relationships, I threw a wobbly about men, Britain, my brilliant career (ha!), etc. and packed it all in to come to Greece for six months.
Or so I thought.
Then I met Nikos – and 20 years later, we’re married with a millstone-like mortgage and a 12-year-old son to show for it.

Thanks to millstone, and habit of a lifetime, I’m a working mum. Since hitting the big 4-0, all illusions of immortality melted away, so I try to eat right, exercise every day and keep off the demon fags. Oh, AND look drop-dead gorgeous at all times and keep my man happy in every room of the house (remember what Jerry Hall had to say about the bedroom, the kitchen, etc?).

Yeah, right…

That’s the Cosmo-inspired dream. Reality bites. I keep thinking about having a mid-life crisis, but I never seem to have the time.

Aaaannnnyway… today.
Erm.
Ignore 7am alarm, crawl out of bed at 7.15, kick No.1 Son out of bed & have argument about breakfast/schoolwear/homework, reject last night’s outfit choice, empty wardrobe in search of perfect emsemble, revert to last night’s choice, slap gloop on face. No.1 ignores my pleas for kiss before leaving, Other Half snores through my parting hug and I stumble out door and head for bus stop. Feel invisible (quite an achievement when you’re 5 ft 10 and unmentionable dress size).

Athens public transport for hour’s trip to office. Sit-down on bus (good, chance to read & look intelligent), stand all the way on train (bad, blisters already bubbling in new shoes). Try to adopt confident, casual and sashaying walk from station to office. Stumble over unseen pothole, lose all credibility, try to slink unnoticed to desk.

Eight hours tapping away, trying to look industrial, bashing out words for other people. Then home-time. Rewind morning commute.

Decide to be virtuous and walk last 20 mins from station to house. Regret decision 5 mins later as new-shoes blisters re-awaken.

Home to OH & No.1. They ignore me. Teenage pursuits and YET MORE shouty Greek party political blah on telly (elections in coupla weeks - hooray!) far more interesting than me. Make tea, ignore messy kitchen, and dive into cyberspace in a sulk.

Tired, time for bed. Bored. Restless. Can’t sleep. Remember washing not done, unironed clothes, bills not paid, zits not squeezed. Get up and shave legs. Hunt for Band Aid to stem gushing flow of blood from nicked ankle. Compromise with toilet paper. Fall back into bed.

(Note to self: Must make future diary entries more interesting – anyone who finds diary will think am most boring middle-aged wimp ever.)

Wednesday, 23 September:
Alarm screams at 7am. Hit the snooze button. 07.05 Bleeping alarm again. OH opens eyes, asks “Why’ve you gone half a loo roll wrapped round your leg?”, goes back to sleep.

Get up, turn on light in No.1’s bedroom, shower, kick No.1 out of bed….

Hey ho! Another day, another Drachma (oops, sorry, Euro).


[THE SECRET DIARY OF A TRANSPLANTED BRIT-CHICK, AGED 44 & 3/4 WILL CONTINUE AT http://transplantedbritchick.blogspot.com/]