She means well, but...

Snapshots of fear and uncertainty: 21st Century gargoyles

2012-01-26T10:07:00.001+02:00

There is an air of the medieval lurking in some corners of the Greekcapital these days, and I’m not talking about flagons of mead, twanging lutesor court jesters (though we do have our share of fools, particularly inParliament).

A strange triptych of modern misery and consumer mania greets commutersemerging from the bowels of the Metro into the daylight at Syntagma.

Heralds of the Age of Buy! Buy! Buy! stand at the head of the stepsleading to the Square overlooked by the imposing Parliament building, waiting to thrustflyers from supermarkets and electronics chain stores into unwilling hands.

They are flanked, in almost perfect triangular symmetry, by the slumpedfigures of the desperate. Sitting on the steps, curled semi foetally into themselves,heads bowed with eyes staring unseeingly at the cold marble beneath them, theyhold their arms up offering a plastic cup in supplication and hope of someloose change from passers by.

Their angular limbs and grimy hands are reminiscent of the grotesquefigures that were carved into the walls of European cathedrals hundreds ofyears ago to ward off evil spirits or remind sinners of the torment thatawaited them in the afterlife. But these 21^st Century gargoyles bring no warning for theafterlife, just a reminder of the worst of the here and now.

They’re the ultimate in the disenfranchised.
Many, though not all, areillegal immigrants, who gave their all for a chance to escape extreme povertyor prosecution in their home countries. The grass would surely be greener, theywere told by the traffickers, in Europe. Even in Greece. But while the grass may begreen, their future looks black. Desperation has driven some to crime, drugsand debasement of all kinds. Others simply have given up and planted their bonybodies on the hard station steps, waiting for oblivion.

Discarded flyers litter the Square beyond them, punctuated by knots ofprotesters, the homeless roused from a night in a nearby doorway and the tide of working folk looking resolutely past it all asthey rush to get to their job on time and try desperately to maintain their version of normality.

Meanwhile, in the Big House that looks down on the early morning scene, preparationsare being made for yet another day of bluff and bluster by the privilegedpontificators who created this new face of the country they laughingly claim toserve.

Snapshots of fear and uncertainty: Stefanos, supermarket trolley jockey

2012-01-19T09:11:00.003+02:00

Standing in the metallic glare of the supermarket strip lighting, he stamps his feet to ward off the biting chill and buries his hands in the pockets off his heavy, hand-me-down jacket.

As he tries to shrink into his layers of mismatched clothes, he spots a familiar face coming out. He doesn’t know her name, but she knows his. Everyone who shops regularly at the store knows Stefanos – the friendly wreck of a man on trolley duty in the hope of a few spare coins.

He cracks a toothless smile and greets her “Good evening”, he slurs. “Hello Stefanos, how are you doing?” she replies, immediately feeling foolish for such an inane response. How is he? How does she think he is? It’s freezing cold and this poor man is standing outside the supermarket for more than 12 hours every day to preserve what scrap of dignity he can by helping shoppers with their trolleys in exchange for some spare change. At least it’s not begging.

She waves away his help but puts some coins into his raw cracked palm. “Don’t you have any gloves?” she says. “It’s freezing tonight”. Stefanos dismisses her worries and maintains his pride with the assertion that gloves bother him when he’s working. But his rheumy eyes thank her for still seeing a human being when she looks at him.

The trolleys he helps shoppers with these days are getting lighter. They carry much less meat and gourmet goodies and much more budget food like dried beans or lentils (what he wouldn’t do for a nice hot bowl of lentil soup right now – maybe they’ll have some left over at the supermarket deli when they shut up shop for the night?). The spare change too is getting lighter. People pity him and give what they can, but the austerity measures to get the country back into the international financial world’s good books are tightening purse strings to breaking point.

Most of the time, Stefanos just focuses on getting through each day… each hour… each minute.

He counts himself lucky to have a small room to return to when the day ends, to be tolerated and even protected by the supermarket staff, and that - most days - he manages to avoid a beating from the small group of neighbourhood bullies who love nothing more than to kick a man when he’s down.

But there are times when his thoughts stray to what went wrong. How did he end up here, at the age of 56 but looking more like 80 and feeling older than time itself, standing outside a supermarket in the hope of a little human kindness? Though he never expected riches, he had started out with hopes of a decent life. His parents worked hard to keep a roof over his head and that was all he wanted. But a combination of bad luck, booze and gambling debts started the downward spiral. He hasn’t seen his family for years, and whenever he thinks of them, his eyes well up with tears of shame, regret and loss.

It was his Name Day last month. Around

Greece

, his namesakes gathered in their homes to accept the wishes of his friends and family, and offered them a drink, a sweet, a coffee or even just a smile to mark the day. Not him. He spent St Stephen’s Day, like every other day, standing alone outside the supermarket waiting for shoppers in need of a helping hand with their groceries.

Back home, no warm wishes or Name Day cake from loved ones awaited him – just a battered old book, a small stove on which to warm the food scavenged from the supermarket bins and a pile of worn blankets to wrap himself in.

But he can’t afford to dwell on such things. It takes all his energy to survive. There’s no state help for him and anything he gets from the supermarket is purely under the counter and written off as petty cash. His social security number failed to pack a punch long ago, and if he ever needs to go to hospital he will have to rely on the kindness of doctors willing to turn a blind eye to bureaucracy. Officially, he doesn’t exist.

All that matters, is getting through this day. And then the next.

So, he banishes self-pity, raises his gaze to the shoppers coming out of the store and offers a defeated “Hello, can I help you with your trolley?”…

Isn't it ironic?

2012-01-17T17:43:00.003+02:00

Life has a truly warped sense of humour, doesn’t it?

If you don’t believe me, just consider some of these home truths…

Most kids hit the hormonal joys of adolescence just as Mum is dipping a reluctant toe into the menopausal maelstrom and Dad is wondering if a comb-over, a goatee or a convertible will be best for his Mid-Life Crisis (most dream of the car, settle for a goatee and eventually end up with the comb-over).
Brain cells die, but fat cells are immortal.
The phone ALWAYS rings when you can’t wait a moment longer for that important call, and you’re sat on the loo with your knickers round your ankles.
Time is a great healer, but it’s a lousy beautician.
Comfort food is precisely the type of nosh that will land us in a black pool of self-loathing later on.
There are still people that think that exposing as much flesh as possible on a sub-zero night out, and the resulting purple marbling of pasty white thighs, is the path to true love.
Just when you have all the answers, they stop asking the questions.
Wikileaks was hailed as a champion of free speech while the News of the World was (rightly) condemned for phone hacking.
Just as you start to appreciate your parents, you have to come to terms with the reality that they won’t always be there.
The people we most want to see at school reunions are the very ones we spent most of our High School years hiding from in the toilets.
At the precise moment that boys stop saying “Euw! Girls are yuck!” and trying to come across as the answer to every young lady’s dream, the testosterone fairy kicks in and gives them a face like a pepperoni pizza.
Red wine has proven health benefits, and is one of the most common triggers for migraines.
Alzheimer’s has no respect for intellect.
Availability is a turn-off.
Tights only love lithe teenage legs – precisely the ones that need them least. The rest of us have to deal with a crotches round our knees or waistbands you can tuck into your bra.

So, don’t tell me life doesn’t have a sense of humour. It’s just a twisted one which likes its laughs served up with a hefty swig of acid.

Blogging Re-Boot

2012-01-17T13:01:00.007+02:00

It’s time for a kick-start.

It’s been two months to the day since I blogged anything here.
Two. Whole. Months.

In that time, I’ve become a year older, celebrated a fun but frugal Christmas with the people I love, and tried to get my head around the everyday challenge of being a grown-up.

You'd think that something from the past 60 days would have given me food for thought to share online - especially when I've been moved to words in the past by the likes of apostrophe abuse and the humble chickpea.

But no. Not a dicky bird.

That’s not what I had in mind when I started burbling away online. Though I doubted I’d be able to produce something every day like some of the more prolific folk out there, I thought I might make it on a weekly basis. Sometimes it dwindled to one or two a month, but never before had I simply dropped off the radar for two whole months.

Shame on me.

I could churn out a series of excuses ranging from general lack of inspiration, the dampening effect on whatever creativity I may have of the gloom surrounding the daily reality of many folk in Greece, pressure of work (the stuff I actually get paid for), or even the prospect of the menopause and all its joys kicking in now I’ve entered my 48^th year (flippin’ ‘eck, how did THAT happen?).

You’d have thought that the situation in Greece would give me plenty of material, but I've largely steered clear, 'cos (a) I hate blogs that go on and on about the woes of the world - they're boring and depressing after a while, and solve nothing, (b) there are already too many bloggers out there chatting about the crisis, and (c) I’m avoiding dwelling too much on it all, for the sake of my own sanity.

But excuses aside, the simple truth is that I have fallen into a rut, and I need to dig myself out of it pronto.

So, I’m setting myself the task of writing at least one post per week. And when I simply can't think of anything to burble about, I’ll dip into the pages of Fred White’s “The Daily Writer” for a starting point.

I warn you, this may mean that I might start churning out a load of turgid rubbish, but if I do, please forgive me. It’s all for a good cause (I hope) – to try to get me back into the habit of posting regular blogs and back in synch with the groovy rhythm of the online community it connects me to.

So, please, bear with me. And stayed tuned...

Think Small: the art of the achievable

2011-11-17T11:38:00.003+02:00

We’re always being urged to “Think Big”, to stretch our imaginations to see what is possible, to visualise what we want to (and can) become.

It’s stirring stuff. Just the sort of thing to get us fired up at a motivational talk and walk out of the door ready to take on the world and emerge as the ‘next big thing’.

Unfortunately, for most of us, that’s about as far as it goes. With every step we take out of that inspirational talk, that ultimate goal slips further and further from our grasp. The more we focus on those grand ambitions, the harder it gets to imagine achieving them. The chasm between where we are and where we want to be is just too huge. Gradually, the dream fades and we settle back into the status quo.

After all, what you can’t imagine, you can’t achieve.

That’s where “Think Small” has to come in. The road to every grand design is paved with a series of small steps. Small, manageable and - above all - achievable stages.

You might dream of a fulfilling, harmonious home life. One free of petty squabbles about who didn’t change the loo roll, or how you’re going to pay the next pile of bills to drop into your letterbox. Clicking your heels together, a la Dorothy in 'The Wizard of Oz', is not going to make it happen. Transforming the everyday kitchen sink melodramas that populate our mundane lives into an oasis of serenity and warmth seems like Mission Impossible (cue music and Tom Cruise dangling from the ceiling). You cannot imagine it as achievable, so you give up.

But hold on. Rewind. Let’s take another look. Break it down into a series of small stages and maybe we can imagine achieving that coveted dream of a happy home life. Make a conscious decision not to go nuclear every time you reach for the toilet tissue to find the last visitor to the littlest room has left a single ineffectual sheet hanging sadly off the holder. Instead, plan ahead and make sure there is always a back-up of two or three rolls within arm’s reach.

When you want your teen to make their bed/do their homework/clear the table, resist the urge to screech like a banshee on speed. Instead, remind them calmly but firmly to do their bit (just be prepared to say it several times, preferably not through gritted teeth). Credit them with the maturity to make a useful contribution to the household.

And when the latest demand for your hard-earned cash lands on the doormat, don’t turn on your Other Half shouting accusations of profligacy, citing those new killer heels or that latest gadget as evidence. No-one reacts well to a harpy, and playing the victim just invites more abuse. Instead, take a deep breath, sit down and work out the solution. Together.

The same small stuff thinking applies to the world of work. If you dream of achieving something great in your professional life, don’t make a mental leap straight to the ultimate prize. You must have the vision, for sure, but if you don’t plot the steps that will get you there, you are doomed to disappointment.

Steve Jobs may have been one of those rare human beings to make huge mental leaps to something extraordinary, but even he took Apple through a series of steps that led to the must-have latest gadget to reshape our world. Back in the mid-90s, the company was in disarray and looked doomed to failure. Step by step, it was revamped, a new corporate vision was imagined and a series of small achievable stages were made to make it one of the world’s best-known brands. According to reports, Jobs’ legacy includes a list of thousands more innovations, yet more goals to be achieved after his demise.

So, next time you look up at your Grand Design and take a gulp of self-doubt, just stop and take a deep breath. Re-imagine it, with a pathway of small achievable steps that will eventually take you where you want to be.

Kicking against the cliché

2011-11-04T09:47:00.006+02:00

We all love a good stereotype, don’t we?

They serve as a kind of mental shorthand that save us the trouble of actually thinking or examining something before we make up our mind. They save time and effort, easily find supporters, and are an absolute Godsend for tabloid headline writers.

Trouble is, though there’s often a seed of truth in most stereotypes, the cliché rarely tells the whole story. Like a caricature, they simply zoom in on a single characteristic and magnify it so much that it eclipses every other feature.

I’ve been battling the clichéd ideas of many folk for years, especially since moving to Greece more than 20 years ago. I quickly revised my ideas about all Greeks being consistently loud, flamboyant and prone to smashing plates. And contrary to their expectations, many Greeks I met were surprised to learn I don’t like beer, am bored to distraction by football, couldn’t make a dainty cucumber sandwich to save my life, have never had a hangover, and – until the Family Tree fanatics uncover evidence to the contrary – I am not related to the Queen.

I do, however, like Marmite.

I am undeniably English in many ways. It’s a simple matter of fact. I’m me, I’m English, I’m happy with who I am but I have no reason to consider myself superior or inferior to anyone by virtue of my accident of birth.

I am not responsible for the highs and lows of my mother nation (Note the Greek friends: Blame Lord Elgin for the looted Marbles, not me!).

I have as much in common with David Cameron and the Milliband of Brothers as I do with a small furry creature from Outer Centauri.

Sad to say, elected representatives rarely mirror the lives and outlooks of the people who vote them in. They are almost always way more privileged than the hoi polloi they claim to represent. Many have never had a real job outside politics. Few have any real concept of the daily kitchen sink dramas that punctuate our mundane lives.

When I first arrived, Margaret Thatcher was still in residence at No.10 Downing Street (yes, I’ve been here THAT long) and the response of many when they learned where I’d arrived from was “Ah! Maggie Thatcher!” with varying degrees of admiration or disgust, depending on their political allegancies. Lord knows how much saliva I wasted trying in vain to explain just how NOT like the Iron Lady I was.

So, I have a vested interest in trying to smash clichés that inevitably raise their ugly heads.

Over the past few months, the Greeks have received a very, VERY bad press internationally. And this week, the actions of politicians have made them seem like Drama Queens of the worst kind.

But don’t fall into the cliché, I beg you. Contrary to the message perpetuated by headlines in publications like the Daily Mail, most Greeks are not lazy, dissolute, donkey jockeys who are good for nothing but a bit of local colour when you’re on your annual hols on one of their islands. Most are hard-working, highly educated, ambitious people who just want to pay their dues, raise their families and live a decent life.

Yes, there have been explosions of violence amid the mostly peaceful (if noisy) demonstrations outside Parliament. But can you honestly say they were more horrifying that the outbreaks of feral looting and destruction in London and other English cities this summer? Despite the high passions you see on show on your TV screens, statistically violent crime in Greece is (still) at much lower levels than in many other countries.

Yes, there is corruption and tax evasion. Isn’t there everywhere? Most Greeks DO pay their way – it’s the privileged few who have the influence and resources to wiggle their way out of their obligations that have landed the country in the current mess they’re in. Just think of the UK MPs’ expenses scandal – does that mean every Brit is a crook?

Yes, there has been endemic mismanagement of many elements of many aspects of Greek public life for years. But can you honestly say that everything where you live is run as it should be?

Yes, some Greeks are chancers who will take every chance to cheat the system or pull a fast one for financial gain. Have you forgotten good old Del Boy and his like, those lovable rogues that can be found on any British High Street?

Despite our differences, there’s more that unites us than divides us.
So next time you see the bi-polar antics of Greece’s politicians or the anger of the crowds in Syntagma Square in front of Parliament, bear in mind the ordinary families that are just trying to make the best of things as their lives are dragged along in the wake of high drama.

All they really want is to sit down and relax in the company of people they love, and perhaps share a laugh over a cup of coffee.

As for me, well when it comes to beverages I DO fit the cliché.
When the going gets tough, I put the kettle on.

May we live in interesting times (?)

2011-11-03T12:36:00.003+02:00

Well, these certainly are interesting times, aren’t they?
At least, they are if you define “interesting” as “unpredictable, subject to wild mood swings, uncertain and teetering of the brink of an abyss” rather than “engaging and worthy of further study”.

I guess there’s a reason why the phrase is considered a curse rather than a blessing.

Turmoil has been a key characteristic of life in Greece for at least a year now. Crippling austerity is being imposed on the majority of simple hard-working, working and middle class people, who are understandably peeved when they see the country’s fat cats continuing to enjoy most of the privileges that have contributed to the dire state of the national economy. The overpowering mood of the country is one of frustration, disillusionment and powerlessness in the face of the overwhelming odds that are casting a huge black cloud over everything.

So, you might think that some would welcome Prime Minister George Papandreou's announcement of a referendum to ask the Greek people to vote on whether they want the austerity measures.

The same austerity measures that have been announced as non-negotiable and have already started to be implemented over the past months.

The measures that have cut salaries, raised taxes and put a stranglehold on the country’s commercial life.

If we were going to have a referendum, wouldn’t it have been a good idea to do so BEFORE the measures we’re to be asked about started raining down on the heads of common people? Or before extra funds were devoted to printing and sending out of demands for extra taxes to households around the country? Or before assuring our creditors that Greece is committed to the changes they demand to secure a bail-out?

If Angela Merkel and Nicola Sarkozy were gob-smacked by the Monday evening's bombshell, you should see how it hit us. The first reaction was disbelief and “What the ...?”.

Then, we started to think through the likely consequences of the shock announcement and we were left angry, bemused and utterly at a loss at what could possibly be gained from such action at this late stage in the game.

Personally, I wonder if the PM simply had a brain fart.

I’m no political Svengali but from where I’m sitting the PM's apparent attempt to throw responsibility for the fate of the country to its people – basically telling them “give me the mandate or on your own heads be it” – looks like political suicide.

Actually, it looks like a political suicide bombing - as it’s certainly set to take a lot of folk with him.

Maybe it’s all part of a complex conspiracy to destroy the Euro Zone or establish a New World Order? Who knows?

I do know is that these are the kind of interesting times I could do without.

I also know that I am powerless to do anything about it.

All I can do is hang on and grit my teeth, along with everyone else, as history takes us on a crazy ride with an unknown destination. And as the autumn evenings close in on us, I’ll be curling up on my sofa (as long as it’s still mine), wrapped in an old blanket, sipping my tea and thinking about what soup I can make from the dregs at the bottom of my fridge.

Some don’t have it so good.

Silent Sunday: ManChild and The Love Spud

2011-10-09T11:03:00.003+03:00

The word-nerd's hit list

2011-10-06T16:09:00.006+03:00

As I've said before, I'm a sucker for words.

Put in the right order, that can move mountains, melt the stoniest of hearts and even change the world. But that doesn't mean they can't be abused - and sad to tell, they often are.

My pet hates are the latest buzz words used by all and sundry, without caring if they're understood - even by the word criminal using them.

Some are old chestnuts, some of new offenders that taunt me through the airwaves (yes, even Auntie Beeb!). But every time I hear or read them they have my Inner Word-Nerd gnashing her teeth, spewing malodourous smoke out her ears and scrabbling around to find an Editor's extra sharp scalpel to cut them out of existence.

So here, for your delight and delectation, I present you (not in order of preference) with the Top Ten in my hit list:

Segway (verb):

These days a frequent visitor to places that really should know better (like Radio 4 recording studios), this isn't a word at all. It's a brand-name. And while the Marketing bods at the company that makes those peculiar-looking, eco-friendly contraptions for those too lazy to walk are probably thrilled about its use as a verb (to make a transition, change tack or direction), it's WRONG!. The correct word (which no-one but students of musicology knows, uses or understands) is segue, and it's not pronounced Segway.

Ring-fence (verb):

Another noun that's morphed into a verb, much abused and over-used recent times, largely by economist types on the news in these financially-frightened times. I understand what it means, but every time I think of it, a mental picture of a black and white Border Collie herding a pack of angst-ridden sheep into a pen leaps to mind.

-self (as suffix to personal pronouns):

Why does everyone on the box insist of adding this seemingly harmless ending bastardise the perfectly good you, me (OK, my), she, her, it, etc? You know the sort of thing: "There are several options open for yourself" or "They suggested they give myself a Ronseal spray tan". 90% of the time, it adds nothing. 100% of the time, when misused, it makes you sound like an idiot. Making words longer does not make you sound more educated, sunshine.

invaluable (adjective):

This is NOT the same as "valuable", any more than "infamous" is the same as "famous". It either means something is without or beyond value. Just sticking 'in' in front of an adjective either changes its meaning - or declares the user as a self-made moron.

24/7:

Enough already! We get it! You mean 'all the time', 'constantly', 'day and night', 'round the clock'. For a start, you can bet your bottom dollar that the person using this would not be too thrilled to live up to his or her 'open all hours' blag if you call him at 5am on a Sunday morning. And secondly - Hello! The 80s are over, deary. Gordon Ghecko went to jail and is now a sad old man quaking behind his trust fund. All that Yuppie jargon is now just seriously uncool.

Outside the box:

The cliche is so overused that it's not only back in the box, it superglued to the bottom and has a five-inch nail driven through it to the ground beneath.

genuinely (usually at the start of a sentence spoken in an earnest Neil the Hippy whine):

This is just superfluous. It is not an alternative to "really". And if you use it for half your sentences, should we be suspicious of the other half as likely lies? If you're genuinely genuine, you genuinely don't need to say so!

sans- (poncey alternative to "without'):

OK, so you did French at school (who didn't?), but really is this necessary? It sounds like a straight steal from "Pseuds' Corner" in Private Eye a couple of decades ago, but these days it's everywhere. You can't move for people - usually women, it saddens me to say - who talk about being "sans make-up", "sans sunscreen", "sans shades" or what-not. Really, saying you're "sans knickers" doesn't make you sound classy and vaguely Gallic, though it might just announce that you're "sans a clue".

Let's say (presumably used just to boost word count):

Another pointless addition. I tell you what, instead of saying "Let's say" every other sentence, let's NOT say and just get on with it and say what you're saying. OK?

I'm not racist/sexist/bigoted, but...:

You know that whenever someone starts a sentence this way, they're going to follow it up with something so outrageously offensive that you have to strap your hand to the doorknob to stop it forming a first and thumping them in the mouth. If you're a bigot, please don't try and persuade me you're not immediately before proving you are. Honestly, I WILL work it out for myself.

There are more. I could go on and on (really, I could). But then you'd have to shoot me.

So, over to you.

What linguistic gems and abuse of English make YOUR teeth itch and braincells rage?

Silent Sunday (slurp!)

2011-10-02T11:01:00.002+03:00

Dear So and So – The body and soul edition

2011-09-30T11:00:00.007+03:00

Dear hormones,

We need to have a good old sit-down and have the dreaded ‘Where are we going?’ talk. You’ve been toying with me for long enough. A girl wants to know where she stands, you know.

It’s the uncertainty I can’t stand. And boy, are you sending me mixed messages!

Earlier this year, you stubbornly refused to make an appearance a couple of months, and then just turned up unannounced whenever the mood took you until you got the subtle message from my snarly looks and barking retorts and settled back into our good old routine.

One minute, I’m breaking out in zits that would make a teen testosterone machine flinch and the next I’m slapping enough salves, soothes and ointments to sink an oil slick onto a mysterious patch of reptilian skin that appeared on my jaw line.

And enough already with the Winnie the Pooh mood swings! While I love bouncy, manic Tigger and the melancholy philosophy of Eeyore in equal measure, I’d quite like to have a few days where I get to be level-headed Kanga, sensible Christopher Robin, or even eternally optimistic Winnie (though we can give needy Piglet a miss, if that’s OK with you).

I’m sick of being reduced to a soggy blubbering pile of tears… by a cereal ad.

I get the message. A change is coming. I’ll be 47 in a couple of months. But we’ve been fine as we are, haven’t we? Quite frankly, I don’t have time for an upheaval right now, so if you don’t mind, can we just carry on as we were for a little while yet?

Go on. I’ll make it worth your while.

With love - or hate - or utter confusion,
Crazy-faced and sweat-bound of Athens.

Dear Boobs,

I love you guys. You are consistently ‘Best in Class’ in my bod.

OK, so you’ve grown (who hasn’t?), and maybe you’re not quite a firm and perky as you used to be, but you’re still luscious and reliable (and believe me, that’s a rare trick to pull off!).

I feel I need to reward you somehow, just to show you how much I appreciate you. But sadly now is not a time for satin and lace, so let’s just hang on in with the clean cotton old faithful undies for now, OK?

In appreciation,
Your loving owner.

Dear legs,

What is it with you and me? I know you’re strong, I know you’re dependable, but would it hurt you to make a little effort to look nice now and then?

Yours, in eager anticipation of smooth, toned calves,
Madame Thunder Thighs.

Dear brain,

You’re too hard on yourself, you know. I know you think you’re the one thing that keeps this whole shebang going (well, yes, actually you are) but that doesn’t mean you can’t take a wee break now and then.

It might even do you some good to switch off completely now and then – like when I'm desperately trying to get some shut-eye instead of staring into the darkness at 4am, or when we’re watching a Jennifer Aniston movie.

Really, your participation is not essential at times. Even Olympic athletes need a break now and then (and you’re no Math-lete, sunshine!).

Yawningly yours,
Sleepless.

Dear psyche,

Now and again you just have to take the advice of some tried and tested comedy catch-phrases.

“Don’t panic!” would be a good one right now.

The end of the world is not nigh, yet. And there’s still stuff to be enjoyed and appreciated before you have to say “So long and thanks for all the fish”.

Oh, and something else…
….don't forget to breathe!

Desperately seeking serenity,
A very non-Ohm 40-something.

Dear Blogosphere,

You guys are awesome!

Whenever I start heading for meltdown, you’re there to listen to my silent screaming over the ether and to reach out with words of encouragement and optimism. I can almost feel the positive vibes flowing out of my laptop whenever I commit some of my angst to my blog.

This week, you came up trumps again. I had a moment where I flipped out, fearing the worst before it arrives at our doorstep. And yet, there you were, waiting to give me cyber cuddles and pats on the shoulder, boost my sagging ego and restore my default Pollyanna mode (without the annoying pigtails).

I've never met most of you, and probably never will, but I just want to reach my arms into the Internet and give you all a big, fat, grateful hug.

Thanks a zillion,
Me.

Home: Much more than walls and a roof

2011-09-28T13:17:00.007+03:00

Home is where the heart is. It’s where I hang my hat. It’s the people I love, not bricks and mortar.

All true…. BUT

When you are facing the very real possibility that the place you’ve scrimped, saved and sacrificed for may be wrenched from you, you can get seriously materialistic.

Our home is nice, but modest. It’s a two-bed flat with a spare room in a middle class suburb of Athens. It’s pleasant and airy and its décor reflects our characters and interests. And as a couple of educated professionals (though perhaps not quite Yuppies), we never thought that buying it 13 years ago was stretching beyond our means.

To get onto the Greek property ladder, we lived with my In-Laws for three years so we could save up the deposit (no 100% mortgages from Greek banks). So, when we finally moved in, it was with a feeling of excitement, satisfaction and belonging that we gradually furnished, painted and primped it to our taste.

We didn’t go for excesses. The house still has just one TV. Most of the furniture is from our friendly neighbourhood IKEA store. And most of the jobs in the place have been given the DIY treatment. Fancy brand-name clothes have been scorned, holidays not taken and left-overs have become a regular feature on our weekly family menu.

And yet, there is a real possibility that we might lose our home.

The Ovver Arf lost his job in February 2010, just as the Greek Economy was falling into a maelstrom leading to a black hole. Jobs are being cut, not created. My man swallowed his not inconsiderable Mediterranean male pride and tried to reconcile himself to swapping his Sales Director persona for an existence as a reluctant house husband – at least until he found another job.

At least I was still working, we told ourselves. Something will come up.

So far, it hasn’t. And as the Ovver Arf is now out of work for more than a year, he gets no welfare benefits from the State.

Meanwhile, our few savings and some help from generous family members helped us keep up with our mortgage payments for a while. But when your family income is slashed by more than half at a time when prices are rising and the Government imposes new taxes every day in a bid to appease the IMF and European Finance Ministers, the gap between ‘have’ and ‘need’ soon becomes a gaping chasm.

And now we face yet more ‘emergency taxes’ on my income and our home. The unemployed are not exempt, though the Church is.

With news of the Greek economy getting grimmer every day, we are facing the real possibility that we might lose our humble home. And that makes me want to sit tight, stroking the walls and hugging the furniture.

I’ve always been a home bunny, preferring to have friends round for a meal accompanied by a bottle of plonk and few laughs to a fancy night out at a swank nightclub. But now, I just want to stay snuggled up on our (slightly worn) sofa.

If the worst does come to the worse, we WILL manage somehow – even if it means moving back in with the In-Laws.
Our family will stay together.
Our heart will find a home with each other.

Our home has always been full of love and laughter, food and friends, and it’s become a regular haunt for our teenage son’s army of friends. It can be noisy and is often messy. But I’m proud of it. I love it. I don’t want to lose it.

So, if there is someone or something out there that can talk the Universe into giving us a break just big enough to keep it, I would really REALLY appreciate it.

[This post was inspired by The Gallery - for more home-inspired blogs, click below]

Back to school - (ish)

2011-09-16T12:53:00.006+03:00

So this week, they’re finally back where they should be.
After THREE WHOLE MONTHS off (you hear that, Brit Mums who tear their hair out at the thought of 6 weeks of summer hols?), Greek schoolkids returned to their classrooms this week.
Well, sort of.

Sure, they’re turning up at the school gate at 8am and reporting for registration. But that’s about the size of it. Some lessons have started – the ManChild has had homework for Maths, Ancient Greek and Biology so far – but it’s without the benefit of text books.

Yes, dear reader, you heard me right.

For, as the Ministry of Education announced when the long Greek summer drew to a close, the school books are not ready to be distributed to pupils in September. And if what the school told our son this week is true, they won’t be until Christmas.

So, that means three months of lessons without text books then?
Alrighty. Cue a load of grinning kids. And an army of anxious adults.

The good news is that the material IS available on a CD which the kids have been given to upload to their computers. But even if every Greek household had a PC (they don’t), the success of this Plan B depends largely on the ability and willingness of the teaching staff to use virtual teaching materials.

I, for one, have my doubts.

Much as I revere and admire the best of the teaching profession (and I really do, believe me), the truth is that it contains at least as many lumps of coal as it does diamonds. And in Greece, many are conditioned to resist change no matter what.

Two years ago, amid much glorious fanfare, it was announced that all children entering their first year of Lower High School would be given a notebook PC, which would be loaded up with the teaching materials for the three years to see them through to the start of Upper High School. My son was one of those to benefit from this Brave New World initiative.

Great! You might say (as indeed, did I). Now, that’s progress.

Only it wasn’t. Most teachers spurned the online teaching material and just carried on doing what they’d always done. I think the only lesson my son used the virtual textbook for was…. (wait for it)….. History. Everything else was taught from the book, in the old school fashion - including Technology.

In the end, a year of High School students were given a free PC on which to play online games and up-date their FaceBook status. OK, as a result they’re all much more Internet-savvy – an essential for whatever future awaits them, I suppose – but not much cop in terms of schoolwork.

The following year, the programme was discontinued and no more notebooks were issued to the nation’s 12 & 13-year-olds.

OK, so the credit crunch and the agonising bite of the crisis probably would have put paid to it anyway. BUT even the kids who got their free notebooks haven’t seen the educational benefit – cos most teachers simply didn’t put it into action...
...and now it’s just a matter of time before the strikes start.

Things are better in the paid education sector – hardly surprising, when there’s a profit to be made. In Greece, like it or not, every family pays for at least part of their kids’ education, even if they attend State school, for the frontistirio (evening school) is as much a part of Greek life as ouzo and the Acropolis.

This week, after-hours English lessons started with a vengeance, rapidly draining parents’ pockets of hard-earned dosh to pay annual registration fees, monthly tutorage and the cost of the hugely over-priced text books (75 Euros for two books? Are you kidding me? One is less than a quarter-inch thick and a state curriculum tome of the same size would cost a tenth of the price. Gee, don’t you just love a monopoly?).

We also have to cough up for music lessons, any extra-curricular sports the ManChild will dive into - and now he’s asking about Spanish lessons.

So, yes, school’s in. But don’t worry. The kids are alright.

It’s the parents I worry about.

Mid-Life Lessons: Acting your age

2011-09-14T14:32:00.010+03:00

You know how it is.

You're in your 'Fabulous Forties' (that Samantha from 'Sex and the City' has a LOT to answer for!), full of vim and vigour, comfortable in your own (slightly saggy) skin and as sure of yourself as you're ever likely to get...

...and then your offspring will trample all over your ego with a reality check.

They don't necessarily mean to, but they do it nonetheless.

That "you're middle-aged, woman!" wake-up call can come in a variety of forms - anything from a "Did they have electricity in the olden days, Mum?" to the sight of the rapidly sharpening features and sprouting whiskers on what was once your baby boy's oh-so-sweet and chubby face.

You try to take it in your stride - but the truth is it hurts as much as being whacked around the chops with a prize trout, fresh from the freezer.

It takes your breath away and squeezes a barely audible whimper between your thinning (and to date un-Botoxed) lips as you fight the urge not to burst into floods of hormonal tears.

No-one else may hear it, but it echoes loudly as it clatters around your psyche over and over and over again. "Admit defeat and start acting your age."

Now, this is where I have a bit of a problem.

At 46 and three-quarters, I can no longer claim to be in my mid-40s, so I suppose I should at least START to think about acting appropriately for an old dear hurtling headlong towards the Big 5-0, shouldn't I?

Thing is, I don't really know what exactly constitutes that 'appropriate behaviour'.

Should I burn my lived-in jeans and invest in a range of sensible trouser-suits in muted neutrals as prescribed by my "Colour Me Beautiful" consultant at Debenhams?

Do I have to choose between a sensible but severe bob, or a weekly set at the local salon?

Should I grimace like I've just sucked a lemon and shake my head sadly at loud music while longing for the soporific snooze of middle-of-the-road muzak as wallpaper for my ears?

Must I start looking askance and muttering under my breath about "The Youth of Today!" every time I see someone with a nose stud or a neck tattoo?

Do I have to (sob) surrender my beloved bare feet to the sweaty security of a pair of fluffy mule slippers?

Should I stop laughing at dirty jokes and start tutting at things that don't fit neatly into the little compartments I have arranged my mind into?

Do I have to hand in my preferred sci-fi and thriller reading and reach for the more suitable and escapist pages of the 21st century answer to Mills & Boon - or simply give up on books and start studying knitting patterns in "Woman's Own"?

(Maybe I should just do a Charlie Sheen and run screaming and whooping into the sunset, instead?)

OK, so maybe that's what it takes.

But if I do any of those things - with the possible exception of the last - I suspect I shall simply blink out of existence.

Mandi, as we know her, will cease to be.

I will be an ex-Mandi.

Throughout every stage of my life - from carefree childhood, through early adulthood, to responsible grown-up who-really-should-know-better-by-now - I have basically been the same. A little loud, a little quirky, tinged with a touch of 'bolshy', a little too exuberant for my own good at times, occasionally dancing to a totally different tune to everyone else. It's as if I've coloured myself in, in a hurry, without worrying too much about going over the lines, though the end result is reasonably pleasing (if you like that sort of thing) - in a kind of Jackson Pollockesque fashion.

So how, pray tell me, am I expected to change all that and suddenly 'act my age'?

It could be worse, I s'pose. I could throw myself into mid-life denial and try every trick in the book (and make a truckload of sacrifices my Inner Hedonist simply won't allow) to pull, cut, freeze, nip, paralyse, trim and sandblast evidence of the years away?

But I don't think so.
Sounds like WAY too much work for me - and, in its extreme, it smacks slightly of desperation.

So, you may ask, how do I plan to age gracefully?

Answer: I don't.

I'm planning on growing old thoroughly disgracefully.

I'm going to carry on wearing my scruffy old jeans (and not just inside the house).

I'm gonna keep my hair short, red and spiky (when the Gods of gel are on my side).

I'm going keep on reading books with rude words in them.

I'm gonna carry on singing VERY LOUDLY in the car, with the windows wound all the way down. Even when I have to stop at traffic lights.

I'm going keep on arguing loudly when someone offends my sense of right and wrong.

I may even continue to screech like a demented she-gorilla on speed at rock concerts - especially when it's the fruit of my own loins is up there on stage looking all moody and giving it his all on his white guitar.

I may even give him a big sweaty kiss when he comes off stage to show how proud I am of him.

After all, if there's an up-side to the march of the years, it's the fact that I've now earned the right to embarrass my teenager in public, haven't I?

Write! said Fred

2011-09-13T13:09:00.007+03:00

It's been way, way too long.

This summer, I gave myself permission for a small hiatus from blogging, but it ended up as an extended period of stagnation fueled by sweaty weather, general stress and strain, the joys of living as a multi-generational family in a smallish summer house (with just one TV - shock! horror!) and simply not enough hours in the day.

But you'll be pleased to hear (won't you?) that I'm about to kick-start myself back into action once and for all.

That resolution to climb back on the blogging wagon has made me stop and think why exactly I do it.

Is it vanity?

Is it therapy?

Is it delusion?

The truth probably lies slap in the middle of all three. But it's also something else. For me - even before the Internet was a twinkle in Tim Berners-Lee's brain cells - writing always served a similar purpose to dreaming: a safety valve for my hopes and fears, and a way to empty out all the dross that gathers in my sub-conscious every day and try to make sense of it all.

And for a life-long on-and-off insomniac that can only be a good thing.

Whenever I have found myself facing a dilemma, standing helplessly in front of a tough decision, or utterly bewildered by the maelstrom of thoughts doing the fandango round my head, I turned to words.

Words were my friends, they helped me order those rampant thoughts and finally reach some kind of conclusion about what I want. They even helped me say a proper goodbye to my father, even though the 'plane I jumped on when I heard he'd collapsed didn't get me to his bedside in time to say it in person.

And when I've been unable to say out loud what I really feel in the midst of a blazing row, putting it down on paper, handing it over and then disappearing for an hour's walk usually does the job.

Blogging is just an extension of the same.
Yes, I want to be read, commented on, admired and adulated (hey, who doesn't?), but more than anything, it's a way of sharing myself with people, airing my cobwebby grey matter, and occasionally sourcing the wisdom of the (admittedly small) crowd of people who might read it.

Of course, not all those who read what I write are anonymous. Some of them are my nearest and dearest and - if I'm honest - that does sometimes inhibit me in what I write about. So there are some things I never have blogged about - and probably never will. But that's OK, isn't it?

I mostly blog to share my world with people I've never met, but wish I had or will some day.

Someone once said Twitter can make you love those you've never met - and it's true.

I've connected with some real diamonds out their in the good old Interwebby thing - some of whom I now truly consider my cyber soul sistahs (and bruvvers, of course, it just lacks the same pleasing alliteration).

I think I have built up a small but friendly group of readers and I hope I haven't alienated them with my recent radio silence.

The problem is that unlike your classic tortured artist toiling away in a garret, stress and emotional turmoil does not oil the cogs of my creative process. Oh no, it chucks a whole sackful of spanners into it.

This summer has been a tough one. Despite our best efforts and economy drives, money worries persist and anxiety about the future never goes away, no matter how brightly the sun sparkles on the Mediterranean waves.

We're trying to bring a little of the good old English "Stay calm and keep going" phlegm to the Greek reality we live in, but it takes a lot of effort - and sometimes that effort steals from my blogging reserves.

So, dear readers, I hope you'll forgive me.

But now that the school year is underway, I know that I 'must do better' and that's just what I plan to do.

Just watch this space...

Silent Sunday: Without a parachute?

2011-08-14T20:27:00.002+03:00

The Gallery: Like a duck to water

2011-08-10T13:20:00.010+03:00

Growing up in England, water was everywhere - even where we didn't want it.

It was also at the heart of much of our childhood joy, the basic element of much of our play - and our occasional downfall when a puddle proved deeper than we thought or a lakeside footpath more slippery than it looked.

No sunny day in June was complete without an inpromptu water fight with the garden hose when you're supposed to be saving Dad's hydraengas and snapdragons from dehydration (the best part was putting your thumb over the end of the hose to produce and fine but powerful spray, then aim it skywards and delight in your own man-made shower surrounded by a million mini-rainbows).

Exploring the woods felt so much closer to a Famous Five adventure (Gawd bless dear old Enid Blyton - she hasn't aged well, as I found out when I started reading her to my young son) when there was a stream to ford, bridge or flop about in.

The 'drought' of 1976 was made more exciting (for us kids anyway) by the necessity of trundling down the street to fill up canisters, kettles and bowls with water from the stand-pipe manned by the neighbourhood jobs-worth.

And then there was the thrill of feeding the ducks.

Even on the rawest of winter days, we would gather together all those rock-hard discarded bread crusts and nag Mum or Dad until they agreed to take us to The Priory in Reigate or Tilgate Park near Crawley.

Once there, we would flap our arms like mad and make deranged noises at the local wildlife until they came waddling across the lake so we could chuck our dough-based missiles at them.

We'd been thoroughly briefed on how aggressive swans could be, thanks to Nannie's dire warnings ("They can put your eye out, or beat you to death with their wings"), so we tried our best not to aim the crusts at their stately noggins.

The same couldn't be said for the poor old coots and moorhens.

They didn't seem to mind, though. So long as they got their fair share of Mother's pride drenched in pondwater.

It was cheap, simple, outdoors and we loved it.

I wonder if today's youngsters get the joy from it that we did?

I hope so.

Dear So and So: The London's Burning edition

2011-08-09T12:01:00.006+03:00

Dear Looters,

I took the weekend off from this ole Interwebby thing so it's only been in the past day or two that I realised what you have been up to.

Yesterday, I shook my head sadly, but hoped that it would all blow over soon.

Today, I realised I was over-optimistic.

You will note that I am not calling you rioters, and certainly not protestors. That is intentional.

What we've seen over the past three days is not rioting - it is pure and simple smash, grab and burn mob rule.

It's not driven by political outrage or social decay (though I'm not denying such things exist - they're just not the cause of your moronic behaviour).

We have seen our share of rioting here in Greece, especially this year, but the driving force has never been the urge to go on an anarchic, free spending spree.

When I see you running rampage, faces covered to fool the CCTV, destroying your own communities, attacking fire crews, journalists and innocent by-standers, smashing family businesses, burning cars, buses, shops and homes, and raiding big brand name stores for designer sports wear, high tech plasma TV screens and the latest must-have Smart Phones and apps, I'm sure the cause is nothing more than good old fashioned greed and an utter lack of respect for the society you live in.

There is so much in the world worth protesting about, and so many ways you can make your voices heard. If you're going to take to the streets, make it worthwhile, not just another example that perpetuates the negative stereotypes others have of you.

Do something positive - prove the nay-sayers wrong, for heaven's sake.

Don't give me the old "there is nothing for us" chestnut. There's plenty to keep you occupied. It's not my fault that you prefer mindless destruction and theft to joining in with a local arts group, sports team, community project or voluntary organisation. If you did, you might even realise that your worth much more in your own right than the latest must-have-at-any-price piece of designer tat.

You have betrayed yourselves, your families, your communities - any rightful grievance you may have is automatically wiped out by your behaviour. I hope that anyone who sees you parading around with your newly ill-gotten gains, will see you for the scum-sucker you really are and not the Big Man or Woman you so clearly are desperate to be.

Today, you have achieved something that's never be done before. You have made me ashamed to be English.

Just stop it, grow up and get real.

Yours, in sadness and disgust,

former Croydon Reporter.

Dear Riot Clean-uppers,

Thank goodness for you. You have restored my faith in humanity and made me proud to be English again. Your positive community-minded response to the horrors of the past few days is an inspiration to all and a true reflection of what really is the Best of Britain.

If I was in the UK, I'd join you in your efforts.
But as I'm not, all I can do is encourage others to follow you on http://www.riotcleanup.co.uk , @riotcleanup and www.facebook.com/riotcleanup

Yours, in utmost admiration,

Transplanted in Athens.

Dear Davey-boy,

Such a shame you had to cut your hols short. Bloody typical, eh?

But at least we know that you found time to make your peace with the waitress who made your carry your own cappuccino to the table is that Italian cafe. That's alright then, eh? Man of the people and all that.

Oh well, never mind, after you've had your COBRA meetings (sounds like a plot for an action movie, doesn't it?), you might just have time to send the help down to Waitrose to stock up on the essentials before you leave on your next holiday later this month.

Yours, in sympathy,

Me.

Dear Boris,

Oh, I do love you for your unruly mop of butter-hued hair, your erudite wit and classical references, your claims that the English invented ping-pong, and those priceless shots of you in a helmet wobbling away on a Boris Bike, but we've missed you lately.

Where have you been?
Didn't you know that these past few days, more than ever, London has been absolutely "where it's at"?

Come home - there's much to be forgiven.

Yours, in bewilderment,

Moi.

Dear Theresa,

Still think that cutting police numbers and slashing budgets is a good idea?

(Nice shoes, by the way).

Just wondering,

Your Girl Power sistah.

Silent Sunday: Splash!

2011-07-31T17:19:00.002+03:00

Surviving the strikes

2011-07-28T12:14:00.005+03:00

Unless you’ve been living on the dark side of a small sub-planet in the quietest corner of Alpha Centauri, you can’t fail to have heard about Greece’s financial woes and the strikes in response to austerity measures being introduced. But, the country has not ground to a halt and residents and visitors alike can work around any disruption. In this latest of my Athens "Surviving" series, I give a few tips to visitors on how not to let the strikes ruin your stay...

So, you’ve made it to the city that gave birth to democracy more than 2,000 years ago. That in itself is a good start. It means that no air traffic controllers, port workers or other disgruntled group has conspired to prevent your arrival. Welcome!

Looking around, you may be a little surprised. The news headlines have prepared you for a city in uproar, pulsating with protestors and police, and a country crippled by constant strikes. Instead, the scents of souvlaki and jasmine on balconies are stronger than any residual whiff of tear gas. The trains, buses and trams are filled with Athenians on their way to work every morning. Folk in shops still smile and are as hospitable as ever.

Greek society has not imploded. Life goes on.

Industrial action and noisy protests have featured strongly on Greece’s political stage for months now. But strikes – be they for a few hours, a few days, or even weeks – have always been part of the way of life here. They’re as Greek as ouzo and summer sunshine. Even before the threat of radical changes and austerity measures in a bid to solve the country’s financial woes stirred up discontent, stoppages and downtown demos were a regular feature of city life.

Locals take it all in their stride, and use their wits to make a mere inconvenience from what some might consider a disaster. So, here are some tips on how to minimise the impact of any strikes during your visit.

Stay informed
A little bit of knowledge can save a whole day of heartache. Most strikes are announced in advance. In addition to TV and radio news, many Athenians rely on Greek-language websites like apergies.gr for regular updates, and reliable English information can also be found online. Check out livingingreece.gr/strikes or the English pages of Greek daily newspapers like www.ekathimerini.com.
If you are staying at a hotel, just ask the front desk staff about any strikes that might disrupt your plans.

Avoid hot spots
The angry riots that have filled the world’s TV screens are the exception, not the rule, and are generally limited to a few key ignition points. The whole city is not in turmoil when BBC or CNN show protesters hurling stones and street furniture at riot police lined up in front of parliament. Just a few blocks away, it’s business as usual with people serenely sipping coffee and reading the paper in street cafes.
The main hot spot to avoid when outrage is in the air is Syntagma Square - the front yard of Greece’s Parliament, and where the ‘Indignados of Athens’ have gathered in mostly peaceful protest since late May. It has also been the scene of occasional clashes with police when a small minority gets physical.
Staff at your hotel should be able to give you an idea of what areas to avoid.

Plan B
Flexibility is key. When a strike scuppers your plans, consider the alternatives.
If you turn up at the Metro station to find the shutters rolled down, think about taking the bus or tram instead, as it is rare for the entire public transport network to be closed at the same time. The Athens Urban Transport Organisation (OASA) website – http://www.oasa.gr – has information in Greek and English.
If you do find yourself stuck in the centre, take to the streets. Athens is a city best seen by foot, and has a myriad of cafes and snack bars when you can stop to quench your thirst and consult your map. A day exploring the small back streets can reveal some delights that you would never discover on a planned tour.
If you arrive at Piraeus eager to board your ferry for a day on one of the islands in the Saronic Gulf, only to find they’re not operating, don’t despair. Just hop onto a tram heading along the coast road. You’ll get a stately ride in a classily-designed air-conditioned carriage, with charming views of Athens’ seaside suburbs, and you’re bound to find a beach worthy of your towel along the way.

But if you’re an adrenaline junkie who’s been lured to Athens by the scent of danger, just head for the nearest protest and start loudly expressing your views about lazy Greeks who want to carry on riding the gravy train at Europe’s expense.

That’s one sure-fire way to experience Greek passion first hand.

The seven ages of smell

2011-07-26T12:51:00.004+03:00

Smell. It’s the poor relative of the five senses, yet perhaps the most evocative. Few of us think about it, but our lives would be so much poorer without it.

Just a whiff of tomato plants immediately transports me back to the greenhouses of my English childhood, where the glass panes entrapped the giddy scent of the vines and their rapidly ripening red fruits. The scent of fresh sawdust and wet mortar whips me down a wormhole to days spent playing around one of the building sites where my master-builder Grandad and his gang were hard at work. And the sweet smell of baby shampoo takes me back to the first days of my teenage son’s life, when I used to love to sniff the freshly-washed blonde fluff on his head after his evening bath.

I really only started to appreciate my sense of smell when I quit smoking five years ago. Along with the frayed nerves and flu-like symptoms of the first month of withdrawal from the devil weed, I noticed something much nicer…
…I could SMELL EVERYTHING!

It was as if the tiny hairs and receptors in my nostrils had been plunged into the deep freeze for a couple of decades, only to be slowly awoken in the ‘bain Marie’ of my newly smoke-free status. Within the first fortnight, I knew the minute I walked into the house that we had left an overnight mosquito-repellent tablet plugged in all day. I became an aroma junkie, obsessively breathing in the scent of fruit and veg at the grocers before selecting them – and summarily rejecting anything that smelt of nothing. I was even caught on a couple of occasions sniffing close friends and family.

The stages of most lives can be characterised by distinctive scents. So here are my seven ages of smell:

Childhood:
Fresh-mown grass, bicycle chain grease, mud after a downpour, Dad’s aftershave, Sunday roasts, the cloud of hairspray and perfume at Mum’s dressing table, allergy cream, a sponge cake cooling in the kitchen, the delicate aroma of Nana’s rouge and lipstick when I gave her a kiss, orange squash lollies from the cavernous freezer, Matey bubble bath, the earthy scent of a cuddle with Grandad after a day in the garden, freshly-baked shortbread, the summer stink that wafted across the fields when farmers sprayed with fertilizer, pencil shavings, blood, Dettol and apples.

Adolescence:
“Charlie” perfume, Indian ink, the chemical sharp edge of Sun-In hair lightener, greasy lipsticks left on the windowsill, wet schoolbooks, stale cigarette smoke on friends’ clothes, joss sticks, that ‘old man’ smell that refused to leave the army coats we bought from charity shops, second-hand books, Juicy Fruit chewing gum, dried watercolours, a new sketchpad, stinky hair-removing cream and far too much deodorant.

Single adulthood:
Carbon paper, alcohol, the first whiff of a lit cigarette, hot metal and ink from a printing press, paper dust, the marigold-reminiscent scent of petrol, facemasks, hair mousse, my first culinary experiments with soy sauce or oregano, garlic bread, wet hair, the summer reminder of that bottle of milk that spilled in my first car, vodka & orange and “Rive Gauche”.

Married life:
Scented candles, pretentious dinner party menus, newsprint in bed, ground coffee, the musky scent at the nape of his neck, red wine, sausages burning on the barby, his aftershave, fry-up breakfasts on Sunday mornings, someone else’s sweat, the comforting scent of his favourite t-shirt (the one you wear to bed when he’s away) and his & hers “Bulgari”.

Parenthood:
The unbeatable aroma of a new-born’s tummy, heavy nappies, washing powder, regurgitated milk, Sudocream, boiling water to sterilize bottles and dummies, that unmistakable “I’m cooking up something in my nappy” scent wafting from the cot (usually accompanied by a knowing grin), infant’s hair, Johnson’s baby powder, Dettol, burps and pureed carrot.

Middle age:
Home baked bread, the whiff of over-heated electric cables, anti-acid tablets, moisturising cream, herbal tea, jam, eye gel for those pesky bags, tiger balm, saffron rice, damp laundry under a hot iron, foot lotion, the smell of fellow passengers on public transport and lavender plants.

Dotage:
Who knows? It’s yet to come… ...but I supect it will include scents from all the previous ages. Not least Dettol, old books, favourite t-shirts, baby powder, moisturizing cream and anti-acid. But hopefully there will also be the scents of newborn grandchildren, fresh baked shortbread and tea too.

Tea, after all, is the scent for all ages.

Dear So and So: The working from home edition

2011-07-08T11:33:00.006+03:00

Dear Greek countryside,

Whoever said you were quiet and peaceful? Well, whoever it was, they were wrong.

Isn’t enough that I was rudely awoken by the rattling cry of a hooligan magpie and the sclatter of battling cats outside my bedroom door at 6 this morning?

But I’m an optimist and try to be philosophical about things, so I got up, grabbed my laptop and headed for the balcony to make an early start on work, surrounded by your early morning bounty.

All was well…. ‘til I settled down with my cup of Greek coffee (the type you have to sip slowly over a couple of hours if you don’t want a choking mouthful of coffee grounds) and starting reading my first emails. Serenity reigned (due in part to assorted family members we share this country hide-away with still snoozing gently) and I was ready for my morning productivity surge.

But then, just as I started going through with the latest magazine proof with a proverbial nit-comb, all hell broke loose!

The local cicadas woke up, en masse, with a sudden onslaught of synchronised chirping from the pine trees all around. We’re not talking a gentle chirruping here, we’re talking high octane, high decibel rhythmic waves of noise. Though weird looking, cicadas are harmless and strangely wonderful – especially when you learn the story of their life – but boy do they make a racket! They must be the metal heads of the insect world.

And if that wasn’t enough, the panic-stricken wood doves then decided to join in the cacophony. We’re not talking the gentle cooing that punctuated the more idyllic summer days of my English childhood – these are pigeons with attitude. Their cry is an aggressive reminder of their presence, probably tinged with the angst about Greece’s uncertain future that’s infected us all.

And another thing, how’s a girl to concentrate of the finer details of document when there’s the sight of a pine-covered hillside rolling down to the sea to distract her?

But you know me. I’m a trooper and I’ll battle through, despite your attempts to lure me away from my Protestant Work Ethic.

Until, at least, our date on the beach at the end of the day.

In eager anticipation – cos you know I love ya!
Mandi.

Dearest Mother-in-Law,

Thanks so much for the cup of coffee. I appreciate it, I really do.

But please understand that when I'm trying to work, I can’t sit and chat about the latest exploits of Kyria Mina’s daughter’s next-door-neighbour or the intricacies of the best pasta flora recipe.

I know you’re pleased to see me after so many days. I’m delighted that we get on just fine, but please try to understand that although I am physically in front of you on your balcony, in every other sense I am somewhere else.

The last thing I need when I’m trying to argue my case with a colleague in Singapore is you faffing around trying to straighten my collar and making disapproving faces at my shameless bare feet.

With love,
Your (mostly) dutiful but slightly off-centre English Daughter-in-Law.

Dear Battling Neighbours,

You really need to chill out.
Don't you know that so much anger is bad for you?

I've been listening to your screeched exchanges of "Go to hell", "Get out of my face", and much worse since the early hours - and I'm pretty sure that all the houses within a square kilometre know that you are definitely not the best of pals.

But please, can't you just put your border disputes and screaming matches to one side, and simply enjoy being here?

Don't make me come down there, alright?
You may not know this, but hell hath no fury like a middle-aged Englishwoman whose peace has been shattered by someone else's all-too-public arguments.

Yours,
The "Anglida nyfi ths Kyrias Renas".

Dear kids,

I really don’t have time for this, you know. You’re old enough to work things out for yourselves and I really shouldn’t have to play referee to your cousinly squabbles.

And for the last time, switch off the ******* Play Station and get outside to get some fresh air!

Your loving mother and auntie.

Dear seaside,

If I called you a beach, I hope you won’t be offended.

I know I haven’t been round to see you enough – it’s been WAY too long. But I’ll be there soon. Just save a spot in the shade for me to hide my pallid, puffed-up bod after a much-deserved dip in the briny.

Later!
Mandi.

Dear Boss,

I know I'm not at the office today, but believe me I'm hard at work. In fact I bet I sent my first email before you had your breakfast. Honest!

Your humble servant - remotely but nonetheless professionally.

Dear So and So: The Greek Edition

2011-07-01T09:04:00.005+03:00

Dear World,

I know your TV screens and newspapers have been full of images of violent clashes in Athens as the Greek Parliament voted on austerity measures, but please don't write the country off.

It's true that the current mess is the direct result of mismanagement and corruption (and even the following of some seriously dodgy advice from certain non-Greek financial giants) by a series of Governments stretching back over decades, but the people are hurting, they're angry and they're supremely frustrated.

Yes, the public sector has been bloated for years.

Yes, many of those with the means have avoided paying their dues to the State, and more than a few public officials have accepted envelopes stuffed with cash to turn a blind eye.

BUT...

many of the peaceful protestors in Syntagma Square (those who demonstrated without incident for weeks before a few trouble-makers turned things toxic with stone-throwing and Molotov cocktails, and before the police responded with tear-gas and baton bashing) are hurting like never before. Many are wage-slaves in the private sector, so have not benefited from the public sector cash cow and have never had the opportunity to cheat the tax man - even if they were inclined to do so. They're hard-working people who are trying to give their children a better life. With record unemployment, hikes in taxes, closures of schools and many of the young people who manage to find work earning a paltry minimum monthly wage of 740 Euros before deductions, that dream seems unlikely now for thousands of working and middle class families.

They know things had to change - they've known it for years now. But successive Governments have failed to grasp the nettle and make the changes that could have averted the disaster (primarily because it would have been political suicide). But that doesn't mean that they can stand by and see their hard-earned lives whittled away while those with power and influence continue to enjoy their (undeclared) swimming pools or sailing their yachts around the jet set's favourite summer spots.

It's hard to understand why you have to eat lentils three times a week, instead of having a Sunday roast, when you know those responsible are entertaining cronies at some of the best (and most exclusive) seafood restaurants in the Eastern Mediterranean.

It's hard to be philosophical when we all know that self-proclaimed men or women 'of the people' in Parliament have luxury villas and send their precious offspring to expensive private schools while you wonder if you will be able to afford new shoes for little Yianni's ever-growing feet when school starts again in September.

Of course Greek people are frustrated and angry. Wouldn't you be?

And remember, the rioters you've seen on your TV screens represent just a tiny fraction of a percentage of the people that live, work and pay taxes in this (still) lovely country. Most are just focusing on work (or trying to find it) to keep a roof over their heads, food on the table and some semblance of hope for the future for their children.

Despite the current troubles and woes Greece is going through, it remains a wonderful country with a great deal to offer: warm friendly people (honestly), amazing natural beauty, fantastic food, incomparable culture and history, a great climate.

But don't take my word for it - come and see for yourself (just avoid Syntagma Square for a while).

Mandi.

Dear People of Greece,

Hold on, hang on, never give up. I know it seems like the whole world is against Greece right now, but things can get better. I may be a 'xeni' (foreigner) but I've been living, working and paying taxes here since 1989 (more years than some of you have been alive), I'm married to a Greek, have a child at a Greek state school and am facing the same problems as many of you.

Now is the time to unite, to really work together, and to finally show those in power how it should be done. There is still so much great about this country - let's start showing the world the shiny side of the coin (whether it's a Euro or a Drachma, who knows?) and not just the filthy, smoke-stained side.

Greece still has so much to offer the world, not least the vision, passion, drive and warmth of its people. Let's show THAT side to the world.

Filakia,

Mandoula.

Dear Greek MPs,

OK, so you voted for the austerity measures. You probably feel there was no other option. Fine, OK.

But now, more than ever, it is time for you to finally start leading by example and to jump off the gravy train once and for all. The people out there in the streets around Syntagma (and millions more desperately trying to balance their household budgets around the country) are sick of you all. It doesn't matter whether you're left, right or central, whether you're blue, green, red, or sky-blue pink, most people blame you. You're the ones that have allowed the state system to fall into unforgivable disarray whilst milking the benefits of your power and influence.

Little wonder some of you have been the target of yoghurt pots.

Now is the time to really show the country that you deserve to be in your privileged position. And if you do not step up and prove your worth, you will never be forgiven. Even if it means taking steps that could end your political career, surely it's worth it if you really mean it when you say you have "the good of the country" at heart.

And in the name of all things you hold dear, slash through the choking red tape that stands in the way of innovative Greek entrepreneurs easily starting new enterprises without having to circumvent the system! New growth can only happen if seeds are sown.

As an-EU citizen who has not, and does not plan to, changed my citizenship, I cannot vote for any of you in Parliament, but as someone who has been honestly paying my dues to the state for more than two decades, I think I have some right to speak out.

Come on, sort out this mess. It's now or never.

Yours in desperate (and maybe deluded?) hope,

Angry of Aghia Paraskevi.

Dear IMF/EU/assorted rating agencies,

Enough already. Even convicted criminals are given the chance to redeem themselves after they've served their time. Give Greece a break, for goodness sake!

It's a country with an ambitious, highly-educated and fundamentally up-beat people. Given the chance, they can move the world in a positive way. But your constant undermining of the country means that the only earth-moving Greece is likely to do is the worst possible kind.

I think it's about time to stop punishing the 'upstart' Greeks who aspire to something more than the cliched image of a sun-baked fisherman mending his nets by hand or a black-clad granny sorting beans on her doorstep, isn't it?

Yours,

One of the little people.

Dear Husband,

I know everything looks bleak now, but we WILL get through this. And no matter what, I shall always be at your side - holding your hand, feeling your pain, laughing at your jokes, sharing your dreams and - yes - nagging you to do the things that have to be done.

I'm not going anywhere, sunshine. Σ'αγαπώ.

Always yours,

Mumbles.

The Gallery: Dad - my one-and-only

2011-06-16T09:13:00.005+03:00

This week, in honour of Father's Day (at least in the UK), Tara at Sticky Fingers has given us "Dads" as the Gallery theme.

My contribution will be dedicated to my one-and-only and definitely one-a-million, who sadly has not been with us for the past five-and-a-half years. He died a few months after being diagnosed with cancer of the oesophagus on 23 January 2006 - just a nine days before what would have been his 68th birthday.

He was a proper dad, though a complicated man. He was responsible for some of my happiest childhood memories. It was he who taught me to identify the sound of every instrument in the orchestra when listening to a piece of his beloved classical music. It was he who taught me the value of sheer silliness to chase away the black moods that chase us all (and plague some more than others).

He would have been stunned by the turn-out at his funeral. He was one of those people who never really understood how loved he was. Here's part of what I said on the unseasonably warm and sunny January day of his funeral:

"So, who – or what – was Dad, or John to those of you not lucky to have him as your father?

What a challenge! Try to sum up in mere words someone who was so many things to so many people. But, here goes.

First and foremost he was a devoted husband to Pauline, who he never stopped loving with all his heart and soul for all of the 43 years they were married. That love never waned, even when they were bickering about the best way to hang the fairy lights or who was the better (or worse) driver. They were living proof that opposites attract, and more to the point, they stuck together, complementing each other and growing stronger year on year.

Mum, know that such a love doesn’t die just because Dad has gone on ahead of you. It will always be with you, in the very air you breathe, for as long as you live.

Then, on a December evening in 1964 he got another role – being my Dad. Although he missed my “world debut” when I decided to make my appearance at the very moment he popped down the road to get some cigars, I have felt him by my side every single day since then. And when Deb joined us in March 1968, he became even more the proud doting father.

Of course, we had our run-ins with Dad. We always knew we were in trouble when he picked us up from somewhere in stony silence, and drove back breathing fiercely through his nostrils. At the time, it felt like torture, but looking back I realise that he was actually saving us the humiliation of the getting told off in front of our friends.

No matter how hard-done-by we sometimes thought we were as typical teenagers, we knew we were blessed. Mum and Dad gave us a home full of love, and tried to nurture our self-esteem and zest for life.

Dad was always there to read us a bed-time story when we were little, help explore the wonders of the universe with a huge atlas we used to spread out on the floor, introduce us to the joys of music or be our partner in crime in some piece of mischief. Or simply to be daft and have a laugh with us. It was no accident that many of our school friends called him 'Dad'. Even today, he is known to dozens of people of OUR children’s generation as 'Pops'.

I know that he was proud of both of us – I wonder if he knew just how proud, honoured and blessed we feel to have had him as our father? I hope so. And, Dad - if you’re listening – you’re the best and no-one could have done it better.

He used to joke that he was doomed in a house dominated by women. “Even the cat’s female!” he would say. But that changed in September 1985 when Peter was born. Along with Pete came another new role for Dad – that of 'Pops'.

Now, every grandfather is devoted. But he took it above and beyond the call of duty. He had a very special relationship with both Pete and of course with his little princess, Lauren. And even my son Konstantinos, growing up on the other side of Europe, has a very special bond with him – now and forever.

I’ve gone on too long – and there’s still so much to say. I have just touched on some of the many things he was to us all. Fantastic father-in-law, wonderful brother, loyal friend, trusted confidante, talented artist and musician, a brilliant mind, a sensitive heart.

I know that all of you here today have your own special memories of our Dad. I know that it hurts that he is no longer with us, but he is at rest now and that should be a comfort to us all. The hard part is now going to be living without him. But we have to – Dad says so, and as you all know, we always do as we’re told!"

I was lucky. I grew up with a devoted father, one who told me bedtime stories and shared silly jokes with me, one who loved me unconditionally and earned the love and respect of so many.

I'm sad that he's gone - but I'm so grateful that I had him for the first 41 years of my life.

Surviving: summer in the city

2011-06-11T10:13:00.005+03:00

Despite being in the world's headlines for all the wrong reasons lately, Greece is a wonderful country - and summer is very much its season. But you need to act smart to get the most of it, especially in the hot gritty city.

So, in the latest of my (very) occasional "Surviving" series, here's a quick guide to enjoying Athens during the hot summer months, without paying for it with sunstroke, new markings like a blushing zebra or a raging thirst-driven headache...

Spring’s showers have melted away, the temperature’s rising and the outlook is bright (at least weather-wise). Summer’s here and the great Athenian outdoors is calling.

It’s not all pool bars and beach umbrellas. The heat can be merciless, even after dark. At night in residential areas, the chirrup of cicadas is accompanied by the murmuring of TVs dragged onto balconies for family viewing, the chink of ouzo glasses and the scrape of knife and fork across plate for a late-night meal.

From June to September, Athens can be a sweaty, gritty city and if you don’t take care, you risk ending your day dizzy, dehydrated and sporting a painful plumage of bright pink and white stripes.

For every tourist to arrive during the summer, at least one year-round resident leaves. As the schools close in mid-June, most Athenians are planning their escape to the hills, islands or grandparents’ villages. And by the time the 15 August holiday rolls around, the city is like a ghost town of sun-baked concrete and shimmering heat mists.

That exodus offers some relief to users of public transport. Fewer people pouring into the buses, trams and trains means there’s less chance of being jammed up against someone’s pungent armpit as they dangle from the strap.

And if you’re smart, summer in the city can be a real joy. Here are a few tips.

Drink!
We’re not talking about a cup of tea, a couple of ouzos and a few litres of beer. Water is a must. It’s cheap too, as price is strictly controlled, so poverty is no excuse for not having a bottle to swig as you hit the tourist trail.

Dress right, dress light
Wear loose clothes made from natural fabrics. That skin-tight mini-dress might expose lots of luscious flesh to the Mediterranean sun, but you need a few molecules of space between your clothes and your skin to let a little air circulate if you want to avoid passing out. And unless you think a squint and lobster-red head is a good look, invest in a hat.

Protect yourself
Don’t even think of applying baby oil instead of high SPF sunscreen unless a special kind of masochism and doctors’ appointments are your thing.

Seek out shade
In any Greek café, the folk occupying the shadiest spots are the smart ones. Sipping your frappé is much less fun when you’re screwing your eyes up against the glare and the tingle of prickly heat is creeping along your arms.

If you don’t want to pay for your shade, grab a fresh bottle of water from the kiosk and head for the natural shade of the gardens around Zappeion.

Take your time
Summer’s not the season for pit-stop sightseeing, especially at midday when the sun is blazing down and the tarmac resembles warm toffee. Amble along, savour the sights, stop for a leisurely drink or ice-cream. Enjoy it.
Athens has a lot to see, but it’s really not worth rushing around like a manic mosquito just to tick things off your “Must See” list.

A/C relief
Most places are air-conditioned these days, so if the heat gets too much for you, just duck into a café or shop for a cool blast. But if you decide to take a taxi, don’t believe the driver if he tells there’s an extra charge for turning on the A/C.

And if the call of the Med gets too strong to resist, just jump on a tram and head for the beaches of the southern suburbs....

Silent Sunday: Life's a beach?

2011-06-05T19:48:00.004+03:00

Silent (slob-out) Sunday

2011-05-29T19:52:00.004+03:00

Education, edgoucasion, ejoucayshun!

2011-05-27T11:08:00.005+03:00

I think we all agree that education’s important, right?

There’s a reason why we slaved over our school books and revision notes all those years ago, and why we now stand over our teens Dominatrix-style (no, that’s not a whip behind my back, honest!) trying to make sure they do the same.

Nothing learned is ever wasted, surely? Well, yes. But it's equally true that “a little learning is a dangerous thing”. Obviously that’s especially true when applied to brain surgeons or airline pilots, but we don’t seem to mind when the folk around us – and yes, the ones we stare at on the box – drop gaffes and half-educated asides at the drop of a hat.

I know there’s a big debate about whether society is dumbing-down. Us oldies maintain that it is, but the newbies maintain quite the opposite – that they have greater knowledge and understanding of things we never even knew existed. I suspect that both camps are right, in part. I’ve seen a sample Maths GCSE paper and literally couldn’t make head nor tail of it – but then maths was always a bit of an academic No Man’s Land for me. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for the English paper I’ve seen.

ANYWAY.... if nothing else, some of the highlights of exam papers give us a good giggle every year – so who I am to deny you that joy?

These are allegedly extracts from genuine GCSE exam answers doing the rounds on the Internet:

Ancient Egypt was inhabited by mummies and they all wrote in hydraulics. They lived in the Sarah desert and travelled by Camelot. The climate of the Sarah is such that the inhabitants have to live elsewhere
The Bible is full of interesting caricatures. In the first book of the Bible, Guinnesses, Adam and Eve were created from an apple tree. One of their children, Cain, asked "Am I my brother's son?"
Moses led the Hebrew slaves to the Red Sea , where they made unleavened bread which is bread made without ingredients. Moses went up on mount Cyanide to get the Ten Commandments. He died before he reached Canada .
Solomon had three hundred wives and seven hundred porcupines.
The Greeks were a highly sculptured people, and without them we wouldn't have history. The Greeks also had myths. A myth is a female moth.
Actually, Homer was not written by Homer but by another man of that name.
Socrates was a famous Greek teacher who went around giving people advice. They killed him. Socrates died from an overdose of wedlock. After his death, his career took a dramatic decline.
In the Olympic games, Greeks ran races, jumped, hurled the biscuits, and threw the java.
Eventually, the Romans conquered the Greeks. History calls people Romans because they never stayed in one place for very long.
Julius Caesar extinguished himself on the battlefields of Gaul . The Ides of March murdered him because they thought he was going to be made king. Dying, he gasped out "Tee hee, Brutus."
Nero was a cruel tyranny who would torture his subjects by playing the fiddle to them.
Joan of Arc was burnt to a steak and was canonised by Bernard Shaw. Finally Magna Carta provided that no man should be hanged twice for the same offence.
In midevil times most people were alliterate. The greatest writer of the futile ages was Chaucer, who wrote many poems and verses and also wrote literature.
Another story was William Tell, who shot an arrow through an apple while standing on his son's head.
Queen Elizabeth was the "Virgin Queen". As a Queen she was a success. When she exposed herself before her troops they all shouted "hurrah".
It was an age of great inventions and discoveries. Gutenberg invented removable type and the Bible. Another important invention was the circulation of blood. Sir Walter Raleigh is a historical figure because he invented cigarettes and started smoking. And Sir Francis Drake circumcised the world with a 100 foot clipper.
The greatest writer of the Renaissance was William Shakespeare. He was born in the year 1564, supposedly on his birthday. He never made much money and is famous only because of his plays. He wrote tragedies, comedies, and hysterectomies, all in Islamic pentameter. Romeo and Juliet are an example of a heroic couplet. Romeo's last wish was to be laid by Juliet.
Writing at the same time as Shakespeare was Miquel Cervantes. He wrote Donkey Hote. The next great author was John Milton. Milton wrote Paradise Lost. Then his wife died and he wrote Paradise Regained.
During the Renaissance America began. Christopher Columbus was a great navigator who discovered America while cursing about the Atlantic . His ships were called the N1na, the Pinta, and the Santa Fe.
Later, the pilgrims crossed the ocean, and this was called Pilgrim's Progress. The winter of 1620 was a hard one for the settlers. Many people died and many babies were born. Captain John Smith was responsible for all this.
One of the causes of the Revolutionary War was the English put tacks in their tea. Also, the colonists would send their parcels through the post without stamps. Finally the colonists won the war and no longer had to pay for taxis. Delegates from the original 13 states formed the Contented Congress. Thomas Jefferson, a Virgin, and Benjamin Franklin were two singers of the Declaration of Independence. Franklin discovered electricity by rubbing two cats backwards and declared, "A horse divided against itself cannot stand" Franklin died in 1790 and is still dead.
Soon the Constitution of the United States was adopted to secure domestic hostility. Under the constitution the people enjoyed the right to keep bare arms.
Abraham Lincoln freed the slaves by signing the Emasculation Proclamation.
Meanwhile in Europe, the enlightenment was a reasonable time. Voltaire invented electricity and also wrote a book called Candy.
Gravity was invented by Isaac Walton. It is chiefly noticeable in the autumn when the apples are falling off the trees.
Johann Bach wrote a great many musical compositions and had a large number of children. In between he practiced on an old spinster which he kept up in his attic. Bach died in 1750 to the present. Bach was the most famous composer and so was Handel. Handel was half German half Italian and half English. He was very large.
Beethoven wrote music even though he was deaf. He was so deaf he wrote loud music. He took very long walks in the forest even though everyone was calling for him. Beethoven expired in 1827 and later died for this.
The French Revolution was accomplished before it had happened and catapulted into Napoleon. Napoleon wanted an heir to inherit his power, but since Josephine was a Baroness, she couldn't have any children.
The sun never set on the British Empire because the British Empire is in the East and the sun sets in the West.
Queen Victoria was the longest queen. She sat on the thorn for 63 years. She was a moral woman who practiced virtue. Her death was the final event of her reign.
The nineteenth century was a time of a great many thoughts and inventions. People stopped reproducing by hand and started reproducing by machine. The invention of the steamboat caused a network of rivers to spring up. Cyrus McCormick invented the McCormick raper, which did the work of a hundred men.
Lois Pasteur discovered a cure for rabbis. Charles Darwin was a naturalist who wrote the Organ of the Species. Madman Curie discovered radio. And Karl Marx became one of the Marx brothers.
The First World War, caused by the assignation of the Arch-Duck by an anahist, ushered in a new error in the anals of human history.

I’m not going to pass any comment, or draw any conclusions.

I just wonder how on earth the people who have to read and mark the papers manage to get through their days without collapsing in hysterics and drowning in a sea of mirth-induced tears.

StudySunday

2011-05-15T12:30:00.002+03:00

Chilling or cool?

2011-05-11T14:44:00.008+03:00

When it comes to chilling out, no-one can beat the sub-zero cool of a 14-year-old boy.

And of course, no matter what I tell him about actually being there at the birth of punk back in Blighty in the late '70s, nor his father's guitar mastery, the ManChild will only ever see us as old fogeys (albeit slightly eccentric ones).

In his eyes, youth has the monopoly on cool. We should really leave the serious chilling out - with attitude - to those that do it best, namely him and a select band of uber-cool friends.

He's got all the accessories - the shades, the 'do, the sullen gaze at the camera and the electric guitar (which he can actually play) to pump up his cool factor.

But to be honest, chilling out teen-style looks like just too much effort to me.
Even when I was a teen myself, I was blissfully ignorant of the nuances of cool-dom, bumbling my nerdish way through college with bad hair, ill fitting clothes and the enthusiasm of a hyperactive cocker spaniel on speed.

I was decidedly un-cool.

And despite my mantra of "It's good to be different, you don't have to follow the crowd to be liked" and occasional sheep-like bleets when I spot signs of him following the herd, the ManChild seems to be following his father's lead.

DaddyCool WAS one of the cool kids at school, had armies of pals and even knew all the words to the English Top Ten (a VERY BIG deal in Greece in the early '80s when the ultimate in cool was recording songs from the radio onto a cassette, then playing them in your room 3,000 times to learn every single syllable, before presenting it to the gang).

So, it comes as no surprise that he has appointed himself as ManChild's guide through the labyrinth of adolescence, determined to make sure that the fruit of his loins will be among the cool at school.

Me? I'm taking a back seat on the whole cool thing.

For a start, Kiddo would never take any lessons from me on the subject - he knows too much about me, including the fact that I used to be a young ornithologist, sang in a choral society and cried at Lassie films.

I'm just chilling out with the occasional glass of plonk and bowl of nuts, giving him a wee nudge now and then when he seems to be straying a little too far from himself.

And believe me, that kind of chilling takes much less effort than the tireless pursuit of cool.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Not chilled out enough yet? Head over to this week's Gallery over at http://stickyfingers1.blogspot.com/

In which I get Kreativ

2011-05-05T12:16:00.005+03:00

A funny thing happened to me on the way to Thursday this week.

There I was, minding my own business, trolling through Twitter, when I noticed an unexpected mention of my Tweet name. It was there cos I received an award. For my blog. From a complete stranger.

It was a big surprise for me, mostly because I have made a conscious decision not to get caught up in the statistics/popularity game in my online life. There are enough numbers for me to stress out about in my ‘real life’ without adding to it with anxieties about how many ‘Friends’/followers/hits/comments I get – and I do nothing to pursue them. I blog mainly to have an outlet for the random burblings that occur to me. For the pleasure of getting them out of my head and presented in some logical order on a website. It’s a wee ego boost for me – but it’s not a popularity contest. (That’s not to say that I don’t like the contacts I have made and interaction with cyber-buddies that has developed – but I’m more concerned about quality of those friends than quantity).

So, it was a pleasant surprise when I saw that John (a.k.a. @dogbombs, who writes the blog http://blog.filesandrecords.com/) has listed me among his ten nominations for the Kreativ Blooger award.

Thanks so much, John. Despite my protests at not being in the blogging game for acclaim, it is nice to know that someone reads my ramblings and thinks them worthy of a mention.

The deal with this particular award is that I now have to nominate ten of the blogs I follow for this award, let them know, and then share some unknown info about myself. So, here goes:

1. The brilliant and always busy Becca at http://www.beckicklesie.com/

2. The creative and always cuddly Mr Colgan at http://www.stevyncolgan.blogspot.com/ He’s supposed to be retired but his output leaves me gasping for breath like a stickleback in a dry spell

3. Then there’s the Fab Fran at http://ilurveenglish.blogspot.com/ Always erudite and entertaining

4. Scrumptious Kelly at http://big-fashionista.blogspot.com/ Often has me laughing out loud and is worth visiting every week for her regularly “nom or vom’ feature

5. The lovely and ludicrously talented Lucy at www.lucypepper.com/wdpr Not only is she a brilliant illustrator, quirky, funny and refreshingly down to earth, she’s another ex-pat to find herself transplanted in a country going through some tough times lately (she’s in Portugal, I’m in Greece and we’re both learning the real meaning of ‘austerity’)

6. Another one in a country facing some tough time is the sumptious Sarah in Ireland, who blogs at http://nevergoeswithoutsaying.blogspot.com/

7. At 18, James is a young man shouldering the burden of his father’s Alzheimers with remarkable maturity. Read more at http://sonofalzsuff.blogspot.com/

8. The terrific Tattie Weasle is always worth checking out http://tattieweasle.blogspot.com/

9. Full volume Viv claims to be unoriginal over at http://vivisunoriginal.wordpress.com/ I beg to differ. Check her out as she prepares to start Uni as a mature student later this year

10. And no list would be complete without my soul sistah Georgy – weird but wonderful, a creative force and artist in residence down in Brighton Town, and one-time avante-gardener. She has been inspiring me for more than a quarter of a century – check her out at http://ragazza64.blogspot.com/

And now, here’s 10 things you may not know (or may not wish to know) about me…

1. As a child, I had an imaginary child called Moke. I made my Mum lay a place at the table for him, and we once missed the bus because we had left him at home.

2. I also used to hear (or imagine) the voices of two people coming from the top of my wardrobe. They were not nice – a harsh stern man’s voice, accompanied by a sarcastic, weedling woman’s voice. I banished them for good one day by climbing to the top of the wardrobe to tell them to shut up and leave me alone. They did.

3. I then developed a habit of jumping off the top of wardrobe onto my bed, flapping my arms wildly to see if I could fly – just a little bit. Mum never did know how I managed to break the bead so thoroughly.

4. In my late childhood/early teens, I used to sing in a church choir and the local choral society (I know, nerd alert!). I was the only one under 50. I still adore the twiddly bits in baroque choral pieces.

5. I am more accurate hitting a target with cherry stones spat from my rolled-up tongue than I am with an air gun.

6. I can still remember the horror and humiliation of drying up in front of thousands of people when singing a solo at International Camp with the Woodcraft Folk in the late 1970s.

7. I am a hopeless idealist and have been since my childhood. I don’t plan on changing that.

8. I have freakishly long toes – especially the middle ones – and I can pick up things with them.

9. I still use the shorthand I learned as a cub reporter in the mid-80s. It’s great for making notes I want no-one else to read, especially as it’s a fairly rare form (i.e. not Pittmans)

10. I can swear fluently in Greek – but most of you would never know when I'm doing it!

So, there you go. Now you know more about this particular ‘Award-winning’ Blogger.

Macho May Day?

2011-05-01T16:03:00.003+03:00

So, today is May Day.
The day on which the glorious proletariat revolution is celebrated around the world.
The day where every worker marks the sacrifices made by his forefathers.
The day when….

No, sorry, wrong version.

Rewind please. I forgot – socialism is just soooo last decade. Even the socialists aren’t lefties any more, and just thinking about a workers’ revolution is rather passé these days.

No, May 1st is one of those days when all around England full-grown men put on their cricket whites and then tie ribbons and bells around their arms and legs (some even go as far as criss-crossing their chests). Then they don special bowler hats adorned with more ribbons and bells, adding a few sprigs of flowers and herbs for good measure.

The really lucky ones will even get a dried cow’s bladder (decorated with – you guessed it – ribbons and bells) to shake around.

Then these fine examples of English manhood gather on village greens around the country, where a massive tall pole is erected with yet more ribbons flowing down (note the heavy symbolism). Those ribbons are then grasped firmly by the Morris Men (for they are our macho Englishmen), who then dance round and round, gradually trying themselves up in knots around the Maypole.

All in the name of fertility rites, of course (bloody pagans)….

Good to know that my countrymen are such a manly lot!

(And they ask me why I ever left!?!)

The Gallery: Green!

2011-04-26T20:00:00.009+03:00

I'm a country girl at heart.

I grew up surrounded by the tame but nonetheless beautiful fields and forests of Surrey and Sussex.

Little wonder, then, that no matter where I go or what I do, there is little that can lift my spirits more than a nice bit of greenery.

And if it is the sight of the glorious countryside in the spring sunshine, burgeoning and bubbling with new growth, so much the better.

I used to think I didn't like the colour green - until one day when I tried to paint a picture in my High School art class without using any shade, tone or hint of it.
The results were interesting for sure - but somehow dead and unnatural.

Since I got more and more into snapping away with my camera, I have discovered a whole rainbow of greens: from the deepest midnight green of a pine forest in the black of the night, to the electric zazzy lime shot of new leaves or a bowl of pea and mint soup.

Just drinking in the greens of springtime feels like letting out a breath that I've been holding all winter, waiting for the fresh shoots of hope to appear, and inhaling a lungful of clean air.

Since I was a youngster, I have loved the feel of new grass between my toes, and and sniffing the scents of the herbs growing round the edge of my parent's vegetable garden.

And then there was my Dad's beloved tomatoes and runner beans - gloriously luxurious leaves that smell like heaven itself and give us the absolute BEST in fresh summer food come June.

The tomatoes and beans are still going strong, thanks to the loving care of my brillant (and slightly hyperactive) mother. Sadly, however, Dad is no longer around to enjoy them.

Dad loved the country - so every time I go for a long walk on my own through the leafy lanes, it's almost as if I can feel him strolling silently along next to me, pointing out tiny little details in the undergrowth that make this big old world so much more magical - if only we'd take the trouble to look.

For more Glorious Greenness, check out this week's Gallery over at http://stickyfingers1.blogspot.com/

Silent Sunday - In the country

2011-04-25T12:09:00.005+03:00

I posted this a day too late so I couldn't get it included in the Pantheon of last week's Silent Sunday gallery. A lot of folk (193 no less) did though - click on the below badge to go to Mocha Bean Mummy's brilliant blog and link to all those lovely Sunday images.

The Gallery: My (Other) Blog

2011-04-19T20:48:00.011+03:00

Like most folk, my blogging life has evolved through several stages.

One of my favourites (though with a limited shelf life) was my attempt at something like the blogging love child of Adian Mole and Bridget Jones.
My very own online journal called "The Secret Diary of a Transplanted Brit-Chick, Aged 44 and 3/4"

It was an attempt to catalogue my hum-drum life in a way that others like me might recognise - and perhaps make someone, somewhere smile.

I had to abandon it after I turned 45. Either that or change the title.

It's still there at http://transplantedbritchick.blogspot.com/ if any of you fancy a look and don't mind delving back into the annals of 2009.
(Stop sniggering, you at the back! I said "annals" with TWO 'n's).

Run, rabbit

2011-04-19T15:02:00.003+03:00

Rabbits are universally accepted as cute, adorable little creatures that no-one in their right mind could object to, right?

Everybody loves a bunny, don’t they?

Except for me.

I really cannot see the appeal of what are considered in rural areas of Australia as a serious pest.

My rabbit repulsion dates back to my childhood when a neighbours’ bunny bit me after I caught him in the flower bed after one of his many escape attempts, leading me to the local ‘cottage hospital’ (remember them? I guess I’m showing my age) for one of my many tetanus jabs.

I’m willing to bet I’m the only person you know that has been traumatised by a bunny!

And if that was not enough, we then went and got one!
Actually, I got a guinea pig (a cute black-and-tan number that I baptised “Pickles”) but my little sister got a mean-spirited, grunting albino bunny called (predictably) “Snowy”. They set up home together in a hutch and everything seemed to be fine…

….until we realised that I was allergic to rabbits. I just had to approach their cage and I would start sneezing, my eyes would stream and my skin puff up. And if I actually touched the flaming pink-eyed monstrosity, my eyes would quickly puff up and close.

Trouble is, we had promised that we would look after them.
And I was the eldest – well, say no more....

Feeding them was fine, I could get off fairly unscathed and little sis actually helped out with that. But what about the weekly cleaning out of the hutch?

Rabbits can produce a surprisingly prodigious amount of pooh, and not all in pellet form either. Add to that the fact that, within the space of two months, “little Snowy” had grown into a huge albino monster that snorted loudly every time the back door opened in the hope of more food.

But it had to be done. So every Saturday afternoon found me manhandling a struggling 10 kilo bunny with malevolent pink eyes and surprisingly sharp claws into his pen on the lawn so I could clean out his mess, all the time struggling to see through a veil of allergy-induced tears.

…until that fateful winter morning when I approached the hutch for their morning feed, and found Pickles gone! Not exactly gone, rather smothered under the considerable bulk of his bunny room-mate. Bloody Snowy had killed Pickles! Needless to say, from that day forward, I have never cleaned another rabbit hutch. And very soon, Snowy was shipped off to join my Uncle’s menagerie.

My lack of enthusiasm for rabbits also extends to the Easter Bunny, which I just don’t get. I just can’t see the connection to be honest. What is the point of the Easter Bunny? Is it just a pagan fertility thing, given their reputation as prolific breeders? Who knows?

I can handle Bugs Bunny – after all, he’s more human than most of us. But I am afraid that for the rest of his kind, I am more likely to reach for the bunny boiler like Glenn Close in ‘Fatal Attraction’ than I am to pet them.

Easter in my house is celebrated without the likes of Snowy et al, thank you very much. Just give me a collection of cute little ducks, chicks and basketful of painted eggs and I’m happy…

…and don’t forget the chocolate!

Minding my manners (or 'Protocol & Pitfalls')

2011-04-18T10:29:00.013+03:00

Etiquette is not my strong suit - just ask my mother. Many's the time she was left shaking her head in despair when her happy-go-lucky but klutzy first-born bowled into social situations without a thought for the proper protocol.

It's not that I don't consider common courtesy or good manners important (I do, and I think - or hope - my son is testament to that), it's just that I've never had much patience for the 'niceties' of which order people must be seated around a dinner table, the right fork to use for the salmon mousse, who should speak or wait to be spoken to, or where exactly you're supposed to put your linen napkin (tucked into neckline where it might serve some purpose or uselessly laid across the lap?).

You can tie yourself in knots trying to work out the intricacies of correct protocol even when you spend all your days, from cradle to grave, in the same place.

Imagine then, if you will, the joys of adapting to the 'new manners' of an adopted country. I was bought up in the classic middle class English tradition of 'please' and 'thank you', removing elbows from the table, offering your seat on the bus to senior citizens, and never discussing politics, religion or money (or weight gain, for that matter).

So it was a bit of a culture shock twenty-odd years ago when I arrived in the noisy, riotous, exuberant country that is now my home, and started adjusting to Greek etiquette.

You might think that some things are universal. And indeed, getting up to let a doddery old dear or a eight-month old pregnant lady sit down on the train is acceptable good manners in both countries (just be prepared for the possiblity of the fierce offended glare of a pugnaciously proud Greek grandad who considers your implication of his frailty as an insult).

But it's not quite as clear-cut as you may expect. For years, my father-in-law and I have been having a running battle over 'please' and 'thank you'. He considers it to be a formality between relative strangers, that lacks sincerity and has no place between family members. I say I can't undo the conditioning that was drummed into to me during my Home Counties childhood - I say thanks to my mum if she makes me cup of tea, after all. And, anyway, if a tendency to say 'please' and 'thank you' too much is the worse thing he can say about his daughter-in-law then he's a lucky man indeed!

As for taboo subjects - well, there are none. Just so long as you are prepared for noisy and rumbuctuous debate on the politics of the day, how much (or little) you make, or (my own personal favourite) how fat you've got.

Then, there's kissing. This is a positive minefield. Where I grew up, we kissed relatively few people - just immediate family members, the closest of close friends... and of course, boyfriends. For immediate family it was always a dry but affectionate peck on the lips. And, naturally, men NEVER kissed one another in greeting - at most there would be an awkward, manly handshake.

In Greece, you can't move for kisses. You see an old work mate on the street - kiss, kiss. Your hubby comes across an old buddy from the army - mwah, mwah. Mums, dads, brothers, sisters, cousins - even old bosses or teachers (depending on how you did with them) - they all come into for the kissing treatment. But it's a very specific kiss - grasp the hand, pull the other person close, and deliver two dry and noisy pecks, one on either cheek. NEVER on the lips. Never EVER! Oh no.

To outside eyes, Greeks may seem far more relaxed and less bound by conventions of etiquette than the so-called buttoned-down English. But the truth is very different - as I have learned from bitter experience.

For a start, you have the whole matter of two different forms of address - the informal and friendly "sou" (you), and the polite "sas" which is supposed to be used to show respect and deference to the person you're speaking to. Not to mention those who object to being addressed in the formal manner because they think it lacks warmth ("How am I supposed to know for flip's sake?")

There are very specific standard greetings that you are supposed to deliver on certain occasions - and heaven forbid that you should fail to say them both to the person directly involved AND their immediate family. It's not enough to ring up your mate Takis and wish him "Chronia Polla" (Many Happy Returns) on his birthday or Name Day (don't worry about forgetting to send a card - Greeks generally don't DO cards). But if you want to avoid being placed of the black list of his kindly Yiayia (granny) you need to make sure you also deliver the same wishes to her, as well as Takis' mother, father, brother and pet dog too.

There are specific special greetings for all life's major events. "Kai sta dika sas" (Here's to yours) to singletons at weddings. "Na zisete" (May you live, implying happily ever after) to the bride and groom. "Kai tou chronou" (here's to the next one, next year) for birthdays and anniversaries.

It's easy enough to learn the standard responses.
Unfortunately, it's equally easy to get them mixed up.

Believe me, you do NOT want to find yourself in the position of greeting a bride and groom you barely now with a wish of "Kai tou chronou" (here's to the next one). Or worse, trying to console the grieving relatives at a funeral with a heartfelt "Kai sta dika sas" (Here's to yours).

Fortunately, I LOOK foreign. It would be hard to confuse me with a native, and most Greeks are good-natured enough. They know that you are trying and their laughter at your Size 7s firmly shoved in your mouth is anything but malicious.

So, don't worry about etiquette. Those who want to take offence will always find a reason to get the hump no matter what. And the well-meaning ones will forgive you the most horrendous faux pas.

After all, my dear old Mum probably scored more Brownie Points with my Greek family when she enthusiastically (but mistakenly) shouted out "Kalimera!" (Good morning) at the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve (she should have said "Kali chronia!" - Happy New Year), than she could have in a century of correct napkin placement.

Silent Sunday (Spring is sprung edition)

2011-04-17T19:39:00.003+03:00

Stuck in the middle

2011-04-15T09:01:00.004+03:00

OK, it's time for me to 'fess up and lay myself bare to you. I think we've known each other long enough for me to take this momentous step and open up my innermost secrets.

I don't know if I even dare say this out loud - after all, there's no counsellor standing by to pick up the pieces when I crash and burn (which I will almost certainly do, if my spidey senses are right).

OK. Deep breath. Count to ten. Then backwards to one again.

The truth is (oh God) that....

(hyperventilates)....

....I'm ordinary.

There is nothing that makes me stand out (except for my height and inability to fit into Top Shop sizes).

I have no exotic psychological struggles that plague me whilst also making me fascinating and artistic and cool.

I'm not battling anything except a pile of ironing and the bank manager.

My greatest afflictions are myopia and mediocrity.

Jeez, I think that just won me 'Mrs Boring 2011'.

Middle seems to sum up everything about me. Mid 40s, middle class, (struggling) middle income, losing the fight against middle age spread, in the middle when the men in my life launch into their latest - ahem - 'philosophical debate'. I'm slap bang in the centre of Dullsville, unseen and unnoticed in my boring normality.

And I have nothing to blame it all on - not even a mild dose of dyslexia to hang 'my struggle' on.

(Don't get me wrong - I'm not trivialising the very real struggles that more than a few of my closest friends and family face every day. I know how hard it is for them, and what they wouldn't give for a day or two of 'ordinary'. You guys know that, don't you?)

But believe me, ordinary is not all it's cracked up to be.

It involves boring, mundane stuff like paying bills, emptying bins, unblocking sinks, making lists, balancing books and cleaning toilets.

There's no get-out clause. There's nothing wrong with me - so why shouldn't I plunge my hand into the scum-covered water in the kitchen sink to remove stray bits of potato peelings and semi-fermented rice?

But lurking deep within is a Drama Queen screaming to be released upon an unsuspecting world. To totter around in killer heels (before taking a melodramatic tumble), wear thigh-high kinky boots and long flowing coats that fan out as she strides down the street, give rapid-fire orders in an imperious voice reminiscent of Lady Bracknell on speed, and generally have the entire world revolve around her. She would use my height and build to its greatest advantage to grab the attention of anyone and everyone that strays within her orbit (rather than trying to hide my bulk in nondescript neutrals) and would present my many failings as part of what make me so WUNDERBAR, whacky and one in a million.

Trouble is, if I release her the flowers would wilt for want of water, the grime monster would take over the house (shortly before it's repossessed to pay our many creditors), new forms of life would grow in uncollected dirty cups, and the menfolk would go into testosterone-fuelled meltdown.

So it looks like I have to keep the Drama Queen safely locked up - and only let her alter-ego, the Inner Bitch, out to play when there's no-one around to hear her oh-so-witty but sharp-edged vitriol.

In other words, I'm back where I started - stuck in the middle, like so many others in the silent majority.

Maybe we should start a support group?

"Hello, my name's Mandi and I'm ordinary...."

Silent Sunday - Singapore style

2011-04-03T18:33:00.003+03:00

The (temporary) resurrection of a closet strumpet

2011-03-18T10:17:00.007+02:00

Today, I'm cheating a little. This is not a new post - it's a repeat of an experiment I started when I was mostly on MySpace (now abandoned), where I introduced the seemingly mild-mannered respectable librarian, Bambi Fancipants, and asked readers to help me run with her story.

I'm resurrecting her today in honour of Red Nose Day, one of those things that makes me proud of my British roots (comedy and compassion is always a winning combo for me), and in the hope that it might raise a small smile for someone, somewhere....

The Secret Life of Ms. B. Fancipants
As she closed the church door after making sure the flowers were in place for the Sunday morning service, Bambi Fancipants – spinster of the parish - smoothed out the wrinkles in her tweed skirt and straightened her twin-set as she prepared to face the world. As she did, her hand brushed against the outline of the suspender belt attached to the black-and-red basque trimmed with scarlet feathers beneath her schoolmarmish apparel. She smiled secretly to herself as she considered how very different she really was to the meek and modest librarian that everyone in Holthorne-by-Sea thought they knew....
As she turned to leave the covered doorway a loud voice startled her. "Tart!"

Bambi stood stock still, a thousand thoughts tumbling through her mind.

"For the fete tomorrow afternoon," continued the vicar. "Don't forget to bring one of your fabulous tarts!"

Bambi relaxed and smiled. "Of course," she replied.

"I fear Mrs Miggins’ baps will take a lot of beating on Sunday," said the Reverend. "But your tarts should give her a run for her money in the cooking competition."

As he mounted his bike and turned to leave, the Reverend gave her a wink and shouted "You provide a wonderful service for the village folk" as he cycled away.

A pensive look flitted across Bambi's face. Could he know? She shook her head to banish the thought. "No" she said out loud "He couldn't!"

Walking down the High Street, she paused at the window of Barnabas' Greengrocers. A prodigious grower, Barnabas was renowned throughout the county for his massive cucumbers and juicy plums.

"Ah, Ms. Fancipants," his eyes twinkled as she entered the shop. "You'll be looking
at my prize fruit, I'll warrant. Sunday's fete looks like it'll be a good'un."
He licked his lips. "I've always been partial to your cherry offerings."

"Actually, I was thinking of raspberries this year," Bambi shyly ventured.

Barnabas give a whoop of delight and clapped his hands. "Even better! There's nothing like a pouty red fruit atop a tart!"

Bambi left the shop puzzled, her pace slower than usual.
Was it her imagination, or were all the villagers beginning to sound like Sid James on an off day? No matter.

She patted her basket and sighed, brushing her fingers over a large punnet of berries and Barnabas' enormous carrot and cauliflowers. The man was a magician with soil. Many was the time she had spent bent over in his allotment watching him get stuck in.

Before long, she ran into across the local schoolmistress, Aida Romp. Miss Romp was known throughout the village as a strict taskmistress with her young male pupils. Once Bambi had witnessed her having it out with the young William Hung, after catching the poor young lad playing with the farmer’s cock: the biggest, proudest bird to be found at any village fete. She had chewed him up and spat him out - poor William had looked so pale, as if all the life had been sucked out of him.

"Morning Miss Romp," Bambi chirped.

"Oh, morning Fancipants." Aida always called people by their surname – an occupational habit she had never grown out of after years of teaching.

"I’m off to find something sticky and sweet to put inside..." started Bambi.

"...your hot tarts, Bambi." Miss Romp interrupted.

"Yes."

"Well, to be sure, it’s something that will have everyone drooling. I do so love to get my tongue around your juicy fillings."

As she opened the front door to the ivy-clad cottage she shared with her one-eyed cat, Madrigal, Bambi could barely contain her excitement at the thought of the fast-approaching village fete – the event of the year as far as she was concerned. This year, there was more than usual array of home-baked goodies and tombolas to look forward to. This year would see the return of Holthorne-by-Sea's prodigal son - and her first love.

After years carving out a distinguished career in Tinsel Town, Rick River (a.k.a little Dickie Pond) was returning to the village to open the fete in true Hollywood style. And Bambi Fancipants planned to be there to welcome him with open arms.

She sighed at the thought of their innocent stolen kisses behind the bike-sheds all those years ago. Even then, they had sent a thrill through her that she had never experienced since - try as she might.
If only Dickie's lipstick hadn't clashed so violently with her own modest shade....

It had been a long day and she needed to wind down. She took a book from her shelves and turning to Madrigal (who was now rubbing around her ankles), announced: “The cooking can wait, I need something to relax me a bit, and welcome as your attentions are, it isn't you...”

She went to the kitchen, fed the cat, and remembered some wine chilling in the fridge.
Just the thing.

"But relaxing is something you can't do in tweeds, least of all when there are tarts to make ...later.”

She took a long sip of her wine, put down her glass, and went upstairs to change. Off came the twinset and skirt, discarded as a butterfly sheds its chrysalis. She paused, turning sideways to approve of her profile in the mirror, smiling to herself, thinking: “Red always suited me; yes, I like red.”

She came downstairs to settle with her wine, a good book and her cat for company. But Madrigal was fussing to be let out, so Bambi stretched and rose from the sofa. She was about to open the front door when there was a knock. There was no mistaking the silhouette of her visitor even though she hadn't seen him in the flesh for years.

'Dickie!' she breathed. Madrigal escaped as she opened the door...

She slowly, shyly lifted her eyes to the face she remembered oh-so-well. She took in the well-honed golden-tanned body and… was that the suspicion of a visible corset line she could see beneath the expensive fitted silk shirt?
No matter, it was Dickie alright. That much she knew as she met his expectant gaze.
The spark was still there, and she was relieved to see that he had not added the ubiquitous blue contact lenses to hide his unique set of unmatched khaki-green and mud-brown peepers.

Nervously fingering the fur trim of her basque through the flimsy fabric of her trousers, Bambi took a deep breath – which, to her horror, came out as a star-struck gasp – smiled awkwardly and said "Well, hello stranger!"

"Hello yourself," drawled Dickie arrogantly, in a voice flattened by Hollywood and now completely devoid of any character. "It doesn't get much stranger than this, does it dahling?"

Dickie entered and stood looking around Bambi’s humble living room.

“How deliciously cheap, dahling!” he exclaimed at last “I always was impressed by your simple tastes.”

“None simpler than you” thought Bambi tartly.

“Tea?” she asked.

“Darjeeling?” enquired Dickie.

“ASDA.”

Dickie guffawed theatrically before delicately mopping the spittle from the corner of his mouth with a silk handkerchief flamboyantly produced from inside his blouse.

"You'll be the death of me!" he said. "Forget the tea. Let’s sit! You’ll be wanting to hear all about my wonderful life, dahling. While you’ve been here tending the vicar’s blooms I’ve been on a magical journey.”

Bambi sat down on the sofa opposite Dickie and listened politely as he went on – and on, and on.

“It wasn’t all plain sailing, dahling, I can tell you” he continued. “You know of my humble beginnings at the local Am Dram society but I left so hastily and without a word to you!
I had a calling you see. Kismet, if you will.
For two years, I worked the cruise ships to open my passage to the Land of The Free.”

Bambi frowned. It was going to be a long night. Sensing he was losing her attention, Dickie raised his voice a notch.

“DAHLING! Have you any idea how hard it is to work your passage with 200 sailors tossing about on the open sea? It really takes it out of a performer. Even one of my calibre.”

“Dickie, this is all fascinating,” Bambi retorted. “But I really must ask why you chose to visit me after all these years? After all, you had so many …. erm ….. ‘good friends’ in the village, didn’t you?”

She noted the tone of voice, the inclination of the head, so different from the image in her memory, yet there was still a vulnerability hiding in there somewhere, she was convinced.

“Well,” he said. “I have this fan site on the internet, where all my friends and fans can keep up with what I'm doing.”

“Fascinating,” said Bambi stifling a yawn. “Do go on.”

Hardly pausing for breath, he added: “The vicar is a great one for correspondence, and has kept in touch since I left. He knew that I’m planning a movie memoir, and wanted to return to do some research, so he volunteered in his own little way....”

("Lord, I need my wine!” thought Bambi. Her patience was beginning to wear thin.)

“So when he asked me to open the village fete, well, who was I to turn down free publicity? I decided to combine business with pleasure and come down here for a few days, back to dear old Holthorne. So Bambi darling, here I am...at your service!”

He ended with a flourish and waited expectantly, as if he had just delivered a momentous and well rehearsed speech. He moved earnestly toward her along the sofa.

“Wine?” she asked, standing suddenly and moving out of arms reach, deciding that she didn't want to take part in his research project tonight.

Dickie looked stunned that he had been so effortlessly out-manoeuvred.

“Thank you,” he replied meekly, remembering that Bambi Fancipants had never been a woman to trifle with, and that manners and decorum had always been demanded in his relationship with her. She had always been the soul of discretion, and his secrets had been safe with her. He watched at her as she poured his drink, noting how trim and firm her figure still was, how her voice had the same pleasant familiarity it had always had - and he began to regret his sudden departure.

She returned with the drinks, curling up opposite him in an armchair, and as time passed, shades of the old Dickie she knew reappeared. The cruise ships and Hollywood certainly had not, in reality, been nearly as glamourous as he had imagined they'd be, and his time there had taken its toll. But now he was back in England, and ready to relax a little in the company of old friends.

“Not so old!” scolded Bambi.

“Ahh!” he smiled slyly. “But old enough to remember the first strawberry flavoured
lipstick!”

There was a sudden gasp, “I'd completely forgotten...”

Crestfallen, Dickie said. "But darling, how could you? After all, we..”

“No, not you. Tarts! I have to do tarts."

He looked deeply shocked. “You? You’re a? I thought you were still at the library!”

She snatched his glass, saying “If I don't get on with it, there’ll be no time, and I'll be in big trouble. You must go Dickie. At once. I'll see you tomorrow…”

And with his head whirling, Dickie found himself unceremoniously bundled out the door….

....Now, neglect is a terrible thing, and when you fail to nurture something, events will sometimes punish you for your indifference. Such was the fate of Bambi and Dickie, as people joining in their story and left them to wither. It is with great sadness that we have to announce the passing of Bambi Fancipants and Rick Rivers, as reported in the “Daily Scum”:

Film star and librarian
crushed by flying ice boulder
by Dirk Digger

Hollywood and a sleepy Sussex village are today reeling after a freak accident claimed the lives of one of Tinsel Town’s hottest properties and the local librarian.
Rick Rivers and Bambi Fancipants were killed instantly when a one-tonne block of ice and frozen waste plummeted from the sky onto the main stage at the Holthorne-by-Sea fete, where Rivers was presenting the prizes for the local cooking competition.
Investigators believe the ice boulder formed as a result of a faulty waste release valve on the toilet of an aeroplane that had taken off from Gatwick Airport 20 minutes earlier. It is believed that accumulated waste and water formed the massive frozen sphere, which fell off just as the plane was crossing the English coast. Rivers and Ms Fancipants were the only victims of the tragedy.

Hollywood’s last lumberjack
Rick Rivers is best remembered for his impromptu performance of Monty Python’s “The Lumberjack Song” when accepting the Oscar for his supporting role in “Mounting Miss Maisy” earlier this year.
Born Dickie Pond in Holthorne-on-Sea, Rivers had returned to the village to conduct research for his next project, a documentary about his rise to fame – and to open the annual village fete.
Fighting back the tears, his Hollywood agent Barbra Heinschleck said: “Rick can never be replaced. Since he arrived in LA, he had turned our world upside-down with his cute English accent and his brilliance for playing bad guys. The tragedy is that he was poised for greatness – both professionally and personally, this was going to be his year. Not only had he been on the verge of signing for a major new deal, we were also about to announce our engagement.”
She dismissed rumours that the real reason Rivers had returned to his home village was to be reunited with his childhood sweetheart, Bambi Fancipants.

Heart of the village
Back in Sussex, residents of Holthorne-by-Sea were today clearing the debris from yesterday’s disaster. Sweeping away the last remnants of dozens of devastated strawberry tarts, the Reverend Obidiah Digby, vicar of St. Mary’s-On-The-Side, said the entire community was still trying to come to terms with the tragedy.
“Of course, we are saddened by the death of little Dickie Pond – I mean, Mr. Rivers,” he said. “But the greatest blow is the loss of Bambi Fancipants - the very heart of our village, who represented everything that is worth preserving about rural English life. She was the very soul of discretion and respectability, and was always eager to serve her community in any way she could.”

Bequest
Neither Rick Rivers nor Bambi Fancipants had any family. However, a Last Will and Testament found in the spinster’s cottage bequeaths her extensive collection of Anne Summers memorabilia to the Brighton Home for Wayward Strumpets and her recipe book to her neighbour, Mrs. Amelia Miggins. She also expressed the desire that her cottage be converted into a new 20th Century Erotica wing of the county library.
A memorial service for both victims of Monday’s tragedy will be held in Holthorne-by-Sea in October.

Bambi is keenly missed by those who knew her. And sadly, her secret life will remain one of those great untold stories that is lost in the sands of time.

She is survived by her cat, Madrigal, who was last seen wandering up the lane out of Holthorne-by-Sea, presumably in search of a new mistress.

Filling in some blanks

2011-03-16T13:19:00.011+02:00

You can thank the lovely @Beckicklesie for this post. She's probably trying to kick me out of my recent blogging doldrums, and I can't say I blame her. I'm a little off my game blog-wise lately, but in my defence, paying work has been keeping me more than busy (and a little dizzy too) and the news has hardly given me material for light-hearted banter.

Anyway, my cyber soul sistah Becca at www.beckicklesie.com has tagged me to join in with the Fill in the Blanks Meme - so here goes...

OK, it's simple. All I have to do is fill in the blanks, trying to be witty and perhaps a little zany, while also trying to impart something deep and meaningful whilst I'm at it.
Perhaps not so simple after all.

I am...
simply me, I don't know how to be anything else. And frankly I don't see why I should pretend. I'm also a trier, that's for sure. I may not always acheive my goals, but I'll certainly give it my best shot. If I could get in a Time Machine to visit my own grave, my epitaph would probably read "She tried her best".

The bravest thing I've ever done...
Probably packing up a well-paid job, my own flat and a comfortable Boho-Yuppy life in the UK in 1989, and heading to Greece in a bid to scratch some kind of indefinable inner itch.
I know that several of my friends thought I was off my rocker (and the way things are here now they probably still do), but I'm not one for regrets. Anyway, though I'm probably financially much poorer for it, I did meet my Soul Mate (a.k.a. the Ovver Arf), so I guess it's a case of "She who dares, wins", eh?

I feel prettiest when...
I'm with people who look at my (a-hem) 'charm, wit and personality' and not my dress size.

My favourite meal is...
I can never answer this question. I love all sorts of good food, so I cannot pick just one. My dream meal, however, would almost certainly end up with my Mum's blackberry & apple crumble with custard.

The way to my heart is...
Make me laugh, but with intelligence and compassion. I'm a great believer in the power of laughter - to make a serious point, to make us think or question authority, to disarm embarrassment, to show warmth or deliver a barbed attack (only on a deserving target, of course).
And of course, never forget, silliness does save lives.

I would like to be...
Rich and famous? Clutching an Oscar statuette and thanking my family for all their support? An accomplished boogey-woogey pianist? Able to wear anything and everything with flair and panache? Bloody brilliant at everything I do?
Realistically, though, I'd settle for being free of the stupid scenarios that play out in my head and keep me from falling asleep the moment my head hits the pillow.

So, now I have to do some tagging - let's see what these lovely people have to say:
@georgygirl64uk at http://ragazza64.blogspot.com
@FifiFluffikins at http://squidpigeons.co.uk
@Bigfashionista at http://big-fashionista.blogspot.com
@SmilingPamela at http://midwifeblogger.blogspot.com
@cosmicgirlie at http://mochabeaniemummy.com

Sendai port, Japan

2011-03-14T16:36:00.001+02:00

Sometimes, words just aren't enough...

New Commandments for the PC Age

2011-03-10T20:45:00.002+02:00

This week, my Other Half told me that he had read an EU directive stating that no official documents should refer to parents as Mother and/or Father, but rather Parent A and Parent B (naturally sparking off a debate about who should be A and who is B – it’s a bag of laughs in our house). But really, can anyone tell me what is potentially offensive about being labelled Mum and Dad (or Mum and Mum, or Dad and Dad for that matter)?

It reminded me of another news item a while ago about a school in North London that introduced a rule forbidding hugs between students, for fear that some embraces might be interpreted as 'inappropriate physical contact'.

So, let me get this straight. When they pass their exams, students at this school cannot jump for joy into the arms of their friends in a frenzy of celebration? Nor can they cry on the comforting shoulder of their best buddy when the latest love of their life dumps them? At best, I guess a polite handshake or a heartfelt “I feel your pain” might be considered ‘appropriate’.

Political correctness started off with the very best of intentions, in a bid to create a kinder, fairer and more understanding society. But it has morphed into a monster that makes sane people despair and gives ample ammunition to the bigots who pine for the days when they could slap insults into everyday conversation without anyone (apart from those insulted) batting an eyelid. For the likes of the legendary ‘Angry of Tunbridge Wells’, having the opportunity to justifiably fume “It’s Political Correctness gone mad!” at the drop of a hat is like having Christmas every day.

It seems to me that we need a whole new set of rules for this age of precautions and Political Correctness.

The old Ten Commandments we had into us at Sunday School are no longer enough, but I reckon the following are a good start - and there's 12 of them to reflect the spirit of excess that marks our new age:
1) Thou shalt not touch.
2) Thou shalt not question the Powers That Be.
3) Thou shalt not be thyself (unless thyself has been approved by an officially-appointed Commission).
4) Thou shalt worship at the altar of tabloid celebrity.
5) Thou shalt not go outside without permission.
6) Thou shalt not scold or punish thy children.
7) Thou shalt not take photographs at a school play without permission from the parents of all participants.
8) Thou shalt honour thy partner or significant other (the terms ‘husband’, ‘wife’ and ‘boy-’ or ‘girl-friend’ are hereby outlawed).
9) Thou shalt not risk... anything.
10) Thou shalt not answer for the consequences of your actions.
11) Thou shalt not reward ability, but encourage the ‘special talents’ of the intellectually-challenged.
12) Thou shalt not think.

But like all things PC, these new commandments must pass through a committee stage. So, please feel free to chip in with your thoughts.

English Eccentrics, Part 2: All that jazz

2011-03-10T14:22:00.004+02:00

When I was considering candidates for a list of great English eccentrics, it became quite a depressing exercise as I realised just how many are no longer with us. And one of who has shuffled off this mortal coil is the late, great George Melly.

Perhaps the nearest thing to a Bohemian Renaissance Man that 20th Century Britain could boast, Melly was a rather shambolic but always nattily-dressed figure known to many as an erudite and entertaining TV personality.

But what really made him tick was his passion for jazz and blues, writing and modern art. Over the years, he sang, wrote, judged (as a film & TV critic) and lectured with the authority and passion that only a true eccentric can muster.

Melly was born in August 1926 in Liverpool and discovered an interest in modern art and jazz and blues while still at school. He joined the Royal Navy towards the end of the Second World War – opting for the navy because the uniforms were “so much nicer”. But, according to his autobiography ‘Rum, Bum and Concertina’ he was disappointed when he was not sent to a ship and was thus denied the bell-bottom uniform he had set his heart on. Later, however, he did see ship duty but never saw active combat - but he was almost court-martialled for distributing anarchist literature.

After the war, Melly found work in a London surrealist gallery, and gradually drifted into the world of jazz music, finding work with Mick Mulligan's Magnolia Jazz Band. His distinctive singing style was heavily influenced by his idol, Bessie Smith, and he rejoiced in the earthy bawdy side of the music. At a time when many British jazz enthusiasts treated the genre with almost religious solemnity, Melly stood out for his exuberant stage performances.

He retired from jazz in the early 1960s when he became a film critic for The Observer, and started writing the Daily Mail’s satirical newspaper strip ‘Flook’. He also wrote the script of the 1967 satirical film ‘Smashing Time’.

But Melly couldn’t stay away from sirens of jazz for long. He returned to the scene in the early ‘70s with John Chilton’s Feetwarmers, a partnership that lasted until 2003. He later sang with Digby Fairweather's band. And all the while, he kept writing, including the ‘Mellymobile’ column in Punch magazine which described his life on tour.

His humour was never far from the surface, as reflected by his recording of a track called 'Old Codger' with The Stranglers in 1978 especially written for him by the band.

Melly married twice and had a child from each marriage. His second wife, Diana, gace birth to their son two days after their wedding in 1963 – a real scandal in those conservative times.

Not content with his wide range of professional interests, Melly was an Honorary Associate of the National Secular Society and a Distinguished Supporter of the British Humanist Association. He was also a member of the Max Miller Appreciation Society (Max Miller was a celebrated English music hall comedian and actor who died in the early 60s) and in May 2005 joined Roy Hudd, Sir Norman Wisdom and others to unveil a statue of Miller in Brighton.

George Melly was larger than life, brimming over with brio and with a wit as sharp and infectious as a contaminated needle.

As the end of the 20th century approached, Melly started suffering from a range of health problems, including vascular dementia, emphysema and lung cancer. Nonetheless, he remained active in music, journalism and lecturing on surrealism and other aspects of modern art.

His last performance, at the 100 Club in London, was on 10 June 2007, less than a month before his death at the age of 80.

Until the end, he lived life to the full – and I guess that’s the way it should be.

Another take on Greek 'fast' food

2011-03-04T11:26:00.008+02:00

This weekend is going to be a long one - but in the nicest possible way.

It's the first time this year that a public holiday tacks itself neatly onto the weekend to give us THREE WHOLE DAYS free of work, school or the need to get up at 6.45am (though knowing me, my eyes will snap open at that ungodly hour even though they don't need to).

The holiday that will give us that delightful gift is what the Greeks call Kathara Devtera (Clean Monday).

Like Pancake Day back in the UK, it marks the official start of the 40-day fast before Easter - but it's on a much bigger scale, like most things related to food and religion here.

Traditionally, for the duration of Lent, God-fearing folk swear off meat, fish, eggs and dairy products (although strangely, seafood is permitted). The "Clean" part refers to the fact that housewives used to throughly scrub their kitchens and cookware to be absolutely sure that no trace of animal product creeps into their cuisine.

Now, the truth is that few Greeks observe the fast for all of Lent these days (though many do in Holy Week, in preparation for the food fest that awaits them on Easter Day).

However, on Clean Monday, after the obligatory attempt to fly a kite (another tradition of the day whose origin is a total mystery to me), most Greeks can be found gathered at a table groaning with all manner of fast-friendly food, and having a good old natter with their friends and family.

Spinach pies, rich bean stews, chickpea fritters, barbecued prawns, macaroni with octopus cooked into velvety submission in a wine sauce, steaming bowls of wild greens, fresh crisp salads, aniseed flavoured bread - it's all good yummy stuff.

As you may have gathered, religion plays no part in my life. However, it is there in the background with the Greek family I married into - and it plays an important part in the social fabric of the Greek society.

I go with the flow.
After all, it's one of the few times I'm not viewed with surprise and suspicion for not eating meat.

Now, you might think that the Lenten fast is a great way to lose weight. Think again.

Consider the joys of chips, fried squid, fried aubergines, fried courgettes, deep fried prawns (are you seeing a trend here?) etc., and you'll see that we’re looking at a truck-load of calories. And then there are all the ‘virtuous’ sweets that the fast permits, all packed with sugar and usually swimming in syrup. Or my personal favourite, ‘tahini’ (sesame paste) mixed with honey, a delicious smooth and sweet nutty concoction that I can literally devour by the jar.

Not much chance of dropping a jean size or two before Easter then.

Now I do know that it is not really that hard to eat extremely healthily and lose weight while observing the traditional fast. Trouble is, I’m a foody. I love food. I love planning it, I love cooking it and I love eating it (so long as it is well-made from good ingredients). While I don’t think I live to eat, I do consider it to be one of life’s pleasures, so a week of plain boiled cauliflower is not for me. Is that a sin?

And finally, a question for any Greek readers out there (@HonestMummy can you hear me?). Fish and eggs are forbidden during the Lenten fast, right? Why, then, is taramosalata (principal ingredient fish roe) permitted?

Not that I mind, of course.

Pass me that bit of pitta bread.

Silent Sunday: You looking at me?

2011-02-27T15:13:00.003+02:00

English Eccentrics, Part 1: Gazing at the stars

2011-02-26T10:10:00.004+02:00

One of the things I am most proud of about being British is our love of our own peculiar brand of eccentrics. But it’s only recently that I have realised that anyone reading who doesn’t hail from the UK probably hasn’t got the foggiest idea what I’m talking about.

There have been many of note over the years – and it could be argued that some simply played up their personal oddities to grow into the expected foibles of eccentricity. But there are a few who simply are what they are, and don’t give a monkey’s about what anyone else thinks. They just are who and what they are.

One of the things that often sets these “true eccentrics” apart is their consuming passion for their particular area of expertise, and an almost child-like innocence of the fact that the rest of the world does not see things like them.

Perhaps one of the best-known (and best-loved) examples is the man who is listed in the Guinness Book of Records as the presenter of the longest-running TV programme - Sir Patrick Moore.

Though he has had no formal training, Sir Patrick has attained legendary status in British astronomy as an expert on the subject and is credited as having done more than any other to raise the profile of astronomy among the British general public. He is a former president of the British Astronomical Association, co-founder and former president of the Society for Popular Astronomy, author of over 70 books on astronomy and a number of science fictions novels (all bashed out on a 1908 Woodstock typewriter), and presenter of “The Sky at Night” for more than half a century. And he has had no formal training whatsoever.

He is well known for his rapid mode of speech, trademark monocle, poorly fitting blazers and a surprising virtuoso talent on the xylophone. Sir Patrick is also an accomplished composer – again entirely self-taught.

He was born in March 1923 in Pinner in Middlesex and moved to Selsey in Sussex as a child, where he has lived ever since. A sickly lad, he was educated at home by private tutors and developed a passion for astronomy by the age of six. At the tender age of 11, he was elected to the British Astronomical Association.

With the coming of the WW2 Moore lied about his age in order to join the RAF and served as a navigator in Bomber Command. His only known romance ended during the war when his fiancée, a nurse, was killed when a bomb fell on her ambulance. He later said he never married because "There was no one else for me... second best is no good for me...I would have liked a wife and family, but it was not to be."

After the war, Moore returned to Selsey and constructed a home-made reflecting telescope in his garden. He began to observe the moon and soon earned a reputation as an expert. Indeed, when the Russians wanted accurate information on the Moon over a number of years, after an extensive worldwide search, they got what they needed from a pile of exercise books filled with Moore’s notes and observations.

Late at night on 26 April 1957, Moore presented the first episode of "The Sky at Night", a BBC television programme for astronomy enthusiasts. Since then, he presented every episode each month - excepting July 2004 thanks to a near-fatal bout of food poisoning caused by eating a bad goose egg. Early editions were transmitted live, and on one occasion he swallowed a fly live on air. During the Apollo programme, he was one of the presenters of BBC television's coverage of the moon landing missions.

In 1968, he was appointed OBE and was promoted to CBE in 1988. In 2001, he was knighted "for services to the popularisation of science and to broadcasting". In the same year, he was appointed an Honorary Fellow of the Royal Society. In June 2002, he was appointed as Hon. Vice President of the Society for the History of Astronomy. He has also won a BAFTA for services to television.

On 1 April 2007, a 50th anniversary semi-spoof edition of the programme was broadcast on BBC1, with Moore played a Time Lord (mirroring the special role Dr Who plays in the British consciousness - hiding behind the sofa for fear of the Daleks is an experience shared by entire generations).

Despite believing that there may well be life in other parts of the universe, he has stated that he believes that there has not been any real contact with space aliens and he dismisses theories of the extra-terrestrial origin of UFOs.

Along with many other celebrities, Patrick Moore has been the subject of crank-calls by comedian Jon Culshaw, as part of the show "Dead Ringers". But Moore got his revenge when Culshaw called him under the guise of Tom Baker’s version of Dr Who, supposedly seeking Moore’s advice on astronomy-related matters. Moore twigged that it was a prank and proceeded to out-play the prankster by launching into a stream of techno-babble which resulted in a rare pause from Culshaw as he tried to think of a response.

His sense of humour came to the fore again in 1976, when he played on his status as Britain’s favourite boffin for an April Fool's spoof on BBC Radion 2. Moore announced that at 9.47am, a once-in-a-lifetime astronomical event would occur: Pluto would pass behind Jupiter, temporarily causing a gravitational alignment that would reduce the Earth's own gravity. He told listeners that if they could jump at the exact moment that this event occurred, they would experience a temporary floating sensation. The BBC received many telephone calls from listeners alleging that they actually experienced the sensation.

Moore also joined the Flat Earth Society as a joke (though some in dire need of an irony implant have taken this seriously).

Not bad for a sickly young lad from Selsey with his head in the clouds, eh?

Not such a poker face

2011-02-23T09:48:00.015+02:00

No-one has ever accused me of having a poker face. Inscrutable is definitely not the word.

That makes me the world's worst liar - and a pretty lousy diplomat to boot.

If I'm talking to - or tolerating - someone I don't think much of, I'm told that contempt can be seen glaring laser-like from my eyes. And if I find something ridiculous, the guffaw I'm fighting to suppress is lurking in the wrinkles at the corners of my mouth.

On the plus said, what I lack in beauty, elegance and general poise is made up for by a pretty expressive face (my body language virtually screams too - often resulting in breakages, bruises and blushes).

It's also proof-positive that, despite the march of the years, I have not yet resorted to a visit to the Botox Fairy.

Maybe I should? You tell me:

"Oooh - freebies!"

"Me? Tired? What makes you think that?"

"Aaargghh! Handy tip of the day: Never confuse super-glue with hair gel."

A considered and mature response to life is the secret of my success.

"Am I fed-up, you say? Ya think?"

"What? ANOTHER bill/deadline/bus strike!"

"Now, you didn't really mean that - did you?"

Danger UXB!

"Deep down, I'm nice. Really I am. Please like me!"

=================================================================

This post was inspired by the lovely Tara over at http://stickyfingers1.blogspot.com and her weekly Gallery. I have been conspicuously absent from the Gallery over the past couple of months - I'm trying to make amends with this week's theme: Expressions.

There are bound to be lots more expressions, outragous and otherwise, at this week's Gallery. Check it out.

Educating Zenia

2011-02-21T21:40:00.004+02:00

Words, words, words... I love ‘em.

Ask anyone who even vaguely knows me and they’ll tell you that I can waffle for my nation at the drop of a hat (and frequently do).

But I've been venturing into virgin territory over the past few months. New strange and intimidating phrases have entered my vocabulary – simple past perfect, imperative pronouns, the rather too Teutonic sounding gerund – as I try to get my head around the sometimes clumsy building blocks that make up the language that seems so natural and obvious to me.

No, I haven’t been sent to the bottom of the class for a misplaced apostrophe (heaven forbid!). I have been asked to act as an English tutor to my 11-year-old dyslexic Greek niece.

‘So what?’ I hear you cry. ‘How hard can it be?’

And the answer is: Much, MUCH harder than you might imagine.

I grew up back in Blighty at a time when the Old School teaching of grammar had been consigned to the back of a dusty cupboard in the staff room. We were taught the structure of the language in a touchy-feely, hands-on, label-free way.
A sort of education by osmosis, if you will.

It’s not my place to say whether this was a good thing or not. It didn’t seem to do too much harm to my own use of the language - possibly because I spent most of my childhood with my nose buried in a book, allowing the correct prose of the published ones to seep unnoticed into my consciousness. But the truth is, I managed to pass my exams (even some with flying colours) and dive into the world of work (with words as my tools, no less) without knowing one end of a past participle from the other of a reflexive pronoun.

As it turns out, that’s a bit of a problem when teaching English to non-native speakers.

And when you add the joys of dyslexia to the mix, it makes for quite a ride.

It could be much worse. Zenia is only mildly dyslexic and she loves stories, so we're not up against the classic fear and aversion of the written word that some dyslexic kids have.

BUT…
…she is what used to call a Little Minx, with a good dash of laziness added to the mix. She’s cute and funny and affectionate - and more likely to take a wild guess at what we’re reading, or bat her eyelids and crack a joke, than get down to nuts and bolts of adverbs.

She’s my niece, and I love her. But my twice weekly sessions with her have me veering wildly from the bi-polar extremes of triumphant joy (“By George, she’s got it!”) and utter despair that makes me want to bang my head repeatedly against the desk for a bit of light relief.

It’s not the classic word blindness or confusing letters that present the biggest challenge. In fact, we have a good laugh at the mental images summed up by confusing ‘babysitting’ with ‘daddysitting’ or Zenia’s strangulated attempts to pronounce illogically spelled gems like ‘laughter’, 'eight' or ‘cough’. Nor is it her habit of reading sentences backwards when I ask her to translate them back to Greek.

It’s the little tricks that her mind has devised over the years to cover up her uncertainty, insecurity or sheer simple fact that she’d much rather be watching TV, playing computer games or cleaning her toenails than sitting at a desk with Auntie Mandi in strict school ma’am mode.

For the first year or so in Greece, about half of my grasp of the language was based on semi-educated guesses, so I’m pretty adept at spotting when my young pupil is taking a wild stab based on recognition of a single word rather than making the effort of reading the whole sentence.

And I’ve getting better at deflecting her attempts to go off on a tangent that has as much to do with the past continuous as Telly Tubbies have to do with Chaucer.

I’ve even managed to use Zenia’s taste for the theatrical to my advantage by acting out with her extracts from the glorious writings of Roald Dahl, before going through to spot the adjectives, propositions, a collection of tenses and participles, and the occasional gerund.

It’s hard work, and sometimes I wonder if we're achieving anything at all.

Then, when I'm least expecting it, she floors me by accurately identifying the difference between the gerund and the past continuous, explaining it with a logic that makes so much more sense than the academic defintion in the musty, dusty text books I’ve had to consult in preparation to teach her.

As native English-speakers we tend to think our language is a doddle.
But just try deconstructing it and analysing it to explain how it works to someone who didn’t take it in with their mother’s milk, Blue Peter, Enid Blyton and Dr Who, and you’ll soon realise what a cussed tongue it is to learn (and teach).

So, next time you're tempted to mock a foreigner’s accent or sentence construction - don’t.
There’s a good chance that they’re more grammatically correct than you...

Love in the deep freeze

2011-02-16T19:18:00.010+02:00

My relationship with my freezer is a complex one. You could call it a love-hate relationship, for it is underlined by fear.

Like all deep-seated terrors, it goes back years. Almost a quarter of a century, in this case.

Back in those days I had a second-hand fridge/freezer, one that pre-dated today's fancy self-defrosting appliances, which meant the freezer constantly froze up. And being a young flippertygibbet at the time, I never got round to a regular precautionary defrost every few months.

So, of course, it iced up - big time.

It got to the stage where I was scared to open it the freezer section and face the ice ogre that lurked inside. In the end I stopped using it completely.

The frozen Yuppy treats (this was the late '80s, remember) so lovingly selected at Marks & Sparks were trapped in a state of permanent suspended animation. Zipper bags filled with blackberries gathered from the hedgerows near my Nana's house were held captive by clenched fists of frost. And an anonymous lump of meat lurked like an unfortunate yeti that had been caught in an avalanche.

As I was on the second floor of an old Victorian house with wooden floors, I didn’t dare defrost for fear of flooding the loopy old dear downstairs (Rita - she of the ochre-stained net curtains and flower pot hats). If I did, she would probably have thought that Judgement Day had finally arrived and broken out her tambourine in a last-ditch attempt at Salvation.

In the end, I had to chuck the entire thing away - CFCs and all - with the ice monster intact. Now, many years later, I suspect it may have taken flesh and still be lurking somewhere around a Brighton landfill.

Fortunately, as I grew (and my disposal income shrunk), I overcame that fear and learned to love my deep freeze.

I now love it for the convenience it offers; for the way it preserves the glory of (certain) fresh vegetables well beyond their season; for its ability to offer up surprise (sometimes mystery, if not labelled properly) ingredients to challenge my culinary creativity; and the fact that it always holds something I can serve up to the hungry carnivores I share my life with. But perhaps its greatest blessing is the way in which is allows me to pursue my so-called 'eccentricity' of cutting meat out of my diet, whilst still catering for those beloved flesh-devouring men.

A quick glimpse at our family deep freeze will reveal the usual pork chops, chicken breasts, minced beef and perhaps a leg of lamb - as well as some deep chilled bottles of Limoncello and Masticha liquors - but I suspect that the lion's share is devoted to feeding my veggy preferences. Its drawers open up to reveal countless tupperware pots filled with vegetable mixture just right for meatless lasagnes or my flesh-free version of Shepherd's Pie (Gardener's Pie, I suppose), slices of vegatable & nut loaf, and a selection of soups whizzed up from the neglected carrots et al that graze at the bottom of my fridge.

But perhaps my favourite - and fastest - soup is one I make fresh, from the freezer.

Frozen pea and mint soup is simplicity personified - if a rather shocking shade of green. It takes a maximum of 15 minutes from freezer to ladle, and is ideal for any time of the year.

It also has the advantage of being mine, all mine. The carnivores take one look at it and wrinkle up their noses in disgust (philistines!).

Take 3-4 good handfuls of frozen peas, and a few sprigs of fresh mint (which you may also have preserved and ready for use in the deep freeze), and chuck them in a small saucepan with a peeled garlic glove and enough vegetable stock to cover them well. Add a teaspoon of sugar and a little salt & pepper, and bring to the boil. Simmer for 5-10 minutes, then whizz it all up in your blender with a couple more good sprigs of mint and a good glug of olive oil. Then serve with a hunk of fresh crusty bread.

No matter what time of year you make it, it tastes like your Mum's vegetable garden in early summer (minus the slugs, snails and dirt) in a bowl.

Who'd have thought it would be the humble pea that could banish my ice demons and make me love my deep freeze again?

===========================================================

This post was inspired by Oui Chef at http://www.beckicklesie.com/, where the theme for February was "Frozen with love".

Check out Oui Chef for other frozen delights to tickle your tonsils.

Urban Safari: The ten-toed sloth

2011-02-15T09:17:00.015+02:00

The undergrowth is dense.
The light is dim.
A musty smell hangs in the air.
There is a faint rustling of something moving - veeeerrrrrryyyyy slowly - unseen in the depths of the flora before us.

Carefully and quietly, we make our way towards the sound. Unsure exactly what awaits us, we're hoping for a glimpse of a shy, slovenly animal with no known sense of urgency (until the need to eat strikes).

But patience is the naturalist's ally, and our hours of waiting at the entrance to its lair (interspersed by distant bird-like cries of "Get up NOW!") are finally rewarded by the sight of our prey.

There it is, blinking bemusedly in the half-light, and languidly looking around at its habitat with the question "Wha-aaa?" in its semi-opened eyes.

It's the legendary giant ten-toed sloth (scientific name: adolescentius lethargious). Magnificent, isn't he?

We've all heard tales of this mythical creature, but some never quite believed it existed outside of the horror stories of parents of teenage boys.

But there it is, in all its glory, looking amiably at us through its matted fringe, confident in the knowledge that we mean it no harm.

Inch-by-inch it painstakingly makes its way out from beneath its bedding undergrowth, lethargically rubbing the tangled pelt that serves so well as camouflage in the 18 hours a day it spends stock-still.

An hour later, it has moved from its supine position to sitting on the edge of its nesting site. And then it stops and stares into a space on the forest floor about two feet in front of it....

Then, a mere two hours later, it makes its move - labouriously making its way to the water hole for its morning ablutions.

It's an epic journey, against all odds, but the ten-toed sloth is spurred on by threats of disappearing PlayStations and possible lifetime captivity enforced by its keepers.

All the ten-toed teenage sloth's daily endeavours are focused on feeding. Despite its langourous demeanour, it has a fearsomely fast metabolism. Its economy of exertion requires collosal amount of fuel to feed it.

Much of the day is spent foraging its territory for tasty morsels to keep them going and prevent their usual speed of very slow dropping a notch to..... stop.

It's omnivorous, hoovering up almost everything it finds with surprising vigour before returning to its usual laid-back hanging around.

Some observers find the ten-toed sloth a frustrating animal, lacking motivation or direction.

But it's hard to resent them their admirable angst-free stance, especially when they turn and give you a lazy but well-meaning smile.

After all, who can stay mad at their 14-year-old son for long?

Bowled over by brass

2011-02-14T12:10:00.014+02:00

It was a typical Monday morning as I emerged from the train station and started my 10-minute walk to the office.

The start of another working week in Athens: "another day, another drachma", as I used to say in the days before the Euro swept away one of the world's longest-lasting currencies and brought a tsunami of price increases with it.

The Monday Morning Blues were threatening to bite. Despite the mild weather and blue skies, these days most folk in Greece are walking around with a little black cloud of anxiety floating above their heads - money's too tight to mention, and all the signs are that it is just going to get tighter.

But moments after stomping out of Piraeus station, my worry cloud was blown away by a blast of high-energy music from street corner that usually only plays host to abandoned store fronts and the occasional beggar waving their misery in your face in the hope of a handful of spare change.

I heard them before I saw them. But the Balkan brass version of Bizet's Carmen made me look up to see where the up-beat blast through the morning commute was coming from.

Then I spotted them - five musicians giving it their all on a hand drum, saxophone, accordion (normally a pet hate of mine) and two cornets, to the delight of the morning crowd of shoppers and wage-slaves.

They were almost certainly immigrants - a favourite group for many Greeks to revile in these days of unprecendented illegal migration into a country that is barely equipped to care for its own growing army of the needy.
But where their Greek may have been limited, at best, they were fluent in the international language of music.

They made my day, and I told them so as they cheerfully posed for a photo.

I gave them what loose change I had, but I felt it was mean and stingy compared to the lift they gave me on a gloomy Monday morning.

Hopefully, my big grin (and inner resolution to find some bigger value coins next time I see them) will encourage them to make a repeat performance later in the week.

Silent Sunday: A sign of spring to make me smile

2011-02-06T13:31:00.003+02:00

This little piggy...

2011-01-14T19:18:00.015+02:00

...didn't get to see in 2011. But she was certainly appreciated at Casa Mumbles.

As you may have already worked out, we're a household with a fondness for good home-cooked food. Under the auspices of dear Becca and "Oui Chef!" at http://www.beckicklesie.com I have treated you to some of my own slurpy kitchen experiments as well as the delights of a teenage boy rustling up a family meal in "Cooking with Mother".

It's about time the Ovver Arf and his culinary skills got a look in, dontcha think?

The perfect opportunity presented itself when Becca and Cheffy Daddy announced the "Oui Chef!" theme for January as "You Swine!" in honour of all things porcine.

It just so happens that the Galloping Greek Gourmet had turned out a piggy masterpiece for our New Year's Day family do - rolled leg of pork, stuffed with prunes and apples, and cooked slowly in apple juice.

So, here we go:

First take a boned leg of pork, and open it up flat, cutting away any excess lumps of fat (a bit like performing home liposuction, I imagine).

Sprinkle it with salt and pepper.

Prepare your stuffing ingredients.

Lovingly lay them on the waiting slab of meat (with a couple of slices of bacon for a little extra oomph!).

Roll it all up (careful not to lose your ingredients as you go) and truss it up good and tight (things are starting to sound vaguely S&M now - oo-er, Missus!).

Put it in a large ceramic crockpot with a lid, spread a little honey over the top, pour about half a litre of apple juice over it all and place it tenderly in the over to cook gently for 2-3 hours, basting every now and then with the apple juice and liquids from the meat.

When it is cooked thoroughly, take a bow and serve up to the waiting hungry masses.

(The cooking liquid makes a gorgeous gravy when whizzed up in the food processor to make it smooth and creamy.)

And you lot wonder what I see in him?

(He also makes me laugh and plays a mean guitar - the rest is private!)

The Year of the Smile

2011-01-13T15:46:00.004+02:00

I know it’s a bit late for New Year resolutions. And, to be honest, I usually never make them (if only to avoid the crushing humiliation of having to admit that I’ve broken them a few weeks later).

But this year, it’s different.

For a start, I decided that I would make a resolution that
1) is easier to keep than “lose 35 kg before Valentine’s Day” or "never eat cheese again"
and
2) might actually make a difference.

I decided that I would make 2011 The Year of the Smile.

Yes, I know what you’re all thinking.
She’s finally flipped, you say as you shake you heads sadly. Off her bloody rocker. On her way to the Funny Farm.

As you read this, you probably have images of me gibbering and hooting at every new proclamation of doom the news headlines bring, whilst trying on a spanking new straitjacket and being guided gently into the back of a padded van by those nice blank-eyed men in white coats.

You could be right.

Tis true - there’s not much to smile about these days.
On a personal level, we’re still struggling and we have no idea if the Universe (and the Greek economy) will give us a break any time in the near future.
And on a wider scale, things are even worse. Money’s too tight to mention (hums and does a little Motown shuffle) wherever you look, floods on a Biblical scale are literally sweeping lives, communities and livelihoods away, the desperate and disenfranchised of the world look set to be ignored for yet another year, random nutters still manage to get hold of guns and go on killing sprees, doomsayers are still rubbing their hands in glee at the prospect of the end of the world in 2012 (at least I wouldn’t have to worry about the mortgage then). And to top it all, the nicest man in Ambridge fell off his roof.

And there’s me, saying I’m going to make 2011 The Year of The Smile?

"Yeah, right" you may say.

But that’s the whole point. Things are grim for everyone.

We need smiles now more than ever. It takes no effort on my part to smile and say a genuine “Good morning” to the lady I see every day at the bus stop. I may startle her at first, but hopefully after she’s recovered, she’ll realise that I’m just trying to make contact and respond to the need for human contact and a little warmth that we all crave as much as we do food, drink, sleep and a satellite dish beaming 527 channels of crap into our homes every day. Maybe even more.

So, I am going to make an effort to remember that the folk I come across every day are real people, with real needs, and real problems.
I’m going to look the girl at the supermarket check-out in the eye when I dump my groceries on her conveyor belt and ask how she’s doing. I’m going to grin at the chap at the petrol station and thank him when he gives me my change. I’m going to help the flustered mum get her overladen pushchair down the escalator, and tell her how adorable her kids are.

I plan to try and put my own woes aside a little. They won’t go away, but I’m not alone, and the problems some face make mine look like a pimple on the little toe of the Venus de Milo.

This year, we could all do with a few more smiles.

And if I’m lucky, one of these days, someone may even smile back.

Slumbering scriptwriter

2010-12-20T19:53:00.002+02:00

I think there must be a TV scriptwriter living in my head that only comes out to play when I am tucked up in the land of nod.

Not for the first time, this week my dreams have been extraordinarily vivid and structured, almost like whole episodes of TV drama series in my head.

Last Wednesday night, it was about a rock band living all together on a replica pirate ship and traveling across the seas to take part in some renowned music festival during the summer. I even had the soundtrack in mind as I was (literally) dreaming that one up.

And last night, it was an episode from one of those 'unlikely sleuth' detective series, with a genteel (but feisty, sharp witted and steely willed) lady of certain years (think Judi Dench or Maggie Smith) as the main protagonist. It's set against a cathedral, at which our lady sleuth is the curator or something, and she lives or works from quarters in a converted part of the church crypt. The title could even be something like "Other Tales from the Crypt".

The trouble is that when you wake up from such a dream, it is never as clear and vivid as it was when you were asleep. I could (and have in the past) kept a notebook and pen by the bed to jot down the basics when I wake. But, honestly, when you've got to drag yourself out of bed, rouse a sleepy teen, shower, change, prepare for the working day, misplace your keys, hunt the house from top to bottom, find keys in the freezer, spot toothpaste stain on top then change clothes and re-apply make-up – all in the space of 40 minutes – your first thought is not for writing down your dreams in detail.

Now what I could REALLY do with is one of those penseive thingies that JK Rowling came up with for Dumbledore to unload excess memories for future reference...

Rules Britannia

2010-12-16T08:58:00.002+02:00

OK, I’ll own up. I’m a criminal. In fact, I’m a multiple-offender. And yet, I’ve never spent a single night in a jail cell.

“But how could this travesty of justice have come about?" I hear you cry.

The answer is simple. If they locked me up, they have to imprison at least half the population of the UK, ‘cos I’m pretty sure that I’m not the only one guilty of having scoffed mince pies on Christmas Day.

“What?”

Yes, folks. According to long-standing and never-repealed legislation introduced by England's very own revolutionary and arch-Puritan Oliver Cromwell back in the 17th Century, it is against the law to stuff your face with those tasty little (and misleadingly named) fruit pies on December 25.

But even if you can sanctimoniously resist a Yuletide mince pie-fest, stop before you condemn me and consider if you should be joining me in the dungeons, if English Law was to be followed to the letter.

Other ancient laws that have never been repealed say:

- anyone who sticks a postage stamp on a letter upside-down is guilty of treason;

- it's illegal to die while in the Houses of Parliament (prompting the plagiarised question of “How would they tell?” if certain excessively low profile Members of Parliament broke this particular law);

- in the UK, a pregnant woman is entitled to relieve herself anywhere she wants;

- the use of any kind of slide upon ice or snow is against the law;

- you cannot drive cattle through the streets of London (but I’ve love to see you try!);

- it is illegal to enter the Houses of Parliament wearing a suit of armour (and if you then sit down and die, you’re REALLY in trouble!);

- the head of any dead whale found on the British coast is automatically the property of the King, and the tail of the Queen (leaving the blubber for us plebs, presumably?);

and, finally, my favourite:

- it is illegal not to tell the tax man anything you don’t want him to know, but it is perfectly legal to not give him information you don’t mind him knowing (erm, yeah. I think I’ve got that).

In my adopted country, Greece, we have no such ridiculous quirks of legislation. As every Greek knows, “rules were made to be broken”.

So bring on the mince pies, give me that whale’s head and hand me my armour!

All I want for Christmas is...

2010-12-15T08:59:00.004+02:00

...the chance to let out this breath I've been holding since January.

It's been a bit of year for us here at SMW Towers - just like it has been for so many round the world - and I'm trying very hard to be positive about 2011 (though I'll confess I struggle at times).

2010 started off well enough, with a New Year trip to the Mandi Mum in the UK, unexpectedly extended by a few days when Mother Nature decided to dump an unusual amount of snow on the south-east of England, closing Gatwick Airport. That meant we got to shovel snow, build snowmen and miss a few days of school and work. All in all, something we could deal with.

Unfortunately, as it turned out, that was the high point of the year.

Less than a month later, we got the news that the Ovver Arf was out of a job (in possibly the worst time in the past half-century to be looking for work in Greece). Then, some kindly pickpocket decided to relieve me of my purse (containing passport, credit cards, etc.) on the crowded train home from work one rainy March evening (Lessons learned? Carry as little as possible. And trust no-one).

My beloved Nana died just before her 100th birthday in June, and my brilliant tough cookie of a mother was diagnosed with a form of lymphoma (which, thankfully, has stayed under control so far - largely due to her positive attitude, healthy lifestyle and sheer grit).

As the end of the year approaches, we have managed to stay afloat - just - thanks largely to the help and support of our families, both back in Blighty and here in Greece.

But the stress has never really gone away.
Even at our most light-hearted times, when we're laughing at some random silliness or bathing in the warmth of the love and affection from those we cherish, it's there in the background. It sits there like a heavy weight in the pit of our stomach, gnawing away at our sleep and fraying our nerves in our waking hours.

The possibility of losing everything we have worked so hard for all these years - despite me thankfully still having a pretty good job - just doesn't go away.

We have tried very hard to protect Kidling Grand from the immediate impact. Of course, he knows things are tough and that we have had to cut back severely, but we have tried to keep the worst of it from him.

Part of me has tried to work at everything extra hard, in the hope that I can save everything.
I log-in every evening, weekend and holiday to my email to make sure I'm not missing a trick for work or the possibility of earning a few extra Euros with some proof-reading or translation.
Not a single piece of veg languishing at the bottom of the fridge has gone in the bin where a soup pan could welcome it, and I've started baking our own bread each weekend.
There's a part of me that believes that if I try really, REALLY hard, I can save the world - or at least our little corner of it.

Meanwhile, life just keep getting more expensive here in Greece. A standard weekly shop for the basics from the supermarket, without meat, rarely comes in under 70 Euros. Petrol is now heading towards 1.60 a litre. And all the household bills are heading ever upwards. Things will get even worse in the months to come. Tickets for public transit are about to go up 30%, VAT on everything will rise 2% to 13% from 1 January, and 2011 will bring more measures which will force ordinary working bods to pay the price for the mess Greece got itself into after generations of mis-management and evasion by those who could get away with it.

I try hard not to be a Moaning Minnie - weeping and wailing about our fate achieves nothing. And I know that there are many others much worse-off than us. But there are times when I just have to let it all out.

This month, on top of all the usual expenses and winter extras, we have the cost of Christmas to meet (severely cut back this year), car tax for the entire year which have to be paid by the last day of the year (amounting to several hundreds) - and my vehicle insurance to cough up for.

And now we have to find the means to fix our tiled loungue floor, after it decided to rise up (literally) in revolt on Friday night, a few hours after we had finally given in and put the heating on for the first time.
The result was my poor Ovver Arf kneeling on the floor staring in tiles that had lifted up like a mini-tsunami, almost in tears of frustration, and me losing a few more nights' sleep and offering up a plea to the Universe to PLEASE just give us a break.

We'll muddle through - one way or another - and we'll make the sacrifices we have to. We know that compared to many, we still rank among the lucky ones. We appreciate the good things we have and - despite a few fraught moments - we have managed to keep our relationship on an even keel (if anything, it's stronger than ever). We know we're blessed with terrific family, friends and each other.

We have been good - really good - all year. I think we deserve a place on Santa's "Nice" list. But we don't want fancy wrapped gifts or glitter-filled festivities.

No, all I want for Christmas is a little peace of mind.

=================================================

(Apologies to you all for the whinging nature of this post. Normal service with all its random witterings will return shortly.)

Laughter, megaphone to the soul

2010-12-12T13:46:00.007+02:00

I'm guest blogging over at http://www.beckicklesie.com again today, with a little meditation on the subject of laughter - something I'm convinced saves lives.

Here's a little taster.
=======================================

You can tell a lot about someone from the way they laugh - probably a lot more than they'd like you to know.

A shy swallowed chuckle might betray the shrinking violet lurking beneath a brash and apparently fearless exterior; a Mutley-like snigger might surprise you coming from a seemingly respectable librarian; a roaring guffaw might shake you out of your boots if it comes from a mousey accountant; and as for that sweet little old lady - well you'd be surprised just what a filthy laugh she has!....

(to read on, head over to http://www.beckicklesie.com/2010/12/laughter-megaphone-to-soul.html )

Stuck in the middle of misconceptions

2010-12-10T20:05:00.007+02:00

Being a True Brit but living in Greece for more than two decades, I usually find myself having to fend off a flurry of misconceptions about one nation or the other. And it's not just from one side - I'm usually stuck in the middle of the mistaken ideas of the Greeks about the English, and England's equally misplaced concepts of the Greeks. Oh the joys of living the Life Bilingual.

Whenever I reconnect with an old friend through Facebook and they discover I now live in Athens, their automatic reaction always seems to be "Ooh, lucky you!" (or at least it was until the Greek economy went officially down the toilet).

In their minds, I was the lucky escapee from Colditz Britain, having fled my homeland's soggy shores for sunnier climes, probably living next to a beachside taverna, sipping ouzo and playing backgammon, surrounded by colourful locals grinning through their moustaches as they randomly yell "Opa!" and smash the crockery.

And of course, don't forget that after a heaving plate of midday souvlaki we all hit our beds for an afternoon nap before heading out for more food, drink and complicated dancing some time after midnight. (Yeah, right. A swift sarny at my laptop followed by a train ride home to a pile of ironing is closer to my reality - if I'm lucky.)

These are my same countrymen who might look on in terror whenever they witness a couple of Greeks who spot each other on the London Underground, convinced that their loud rapid-fire speech and bristling facial hair are a sure sign of blood about to be spilled. It's not, it's just the thrill of spotting a fellow Ellinas in a foreign land - and the conversation nearly always starts with an enthusiastic "Yeia sou, Patrioti!" (Rough translation: Hello! A fellow Greek - thanks to God!).

And they may be the same Brits who are shocked to find that Athens' Syntagma Square is miles from the beach, and there are no sunbeds around the Acropolis.

But, to be fair, the Greeks more than make up for those misplaced misconceptions with a huge mountain of scurrulous stereotypes about the Brits.

For a start, one of the first things you'll hear when they learn you're from the UK is always: "Well, of course, it rains constantly there, doesn't it?". True, as any Brit will tell you, we do get more than our fair share of the wet stuff but now and again the clouds do clear and a strange yellow round thing can be spotted in the sky.

My own beloved Ovver Arf, being Samos-born and Athens-bred, was convinced that he would go rusty or grow mould when visiting my family for the first time. It was November, and he was heading for England, he was bound to spend the entire six weeks in a state of constant sogginess, wasn't he? (As it turned out, it rained on just one day - my birthday - during that first visit in 1989.)

Then there is the idea that everything stops for tea in England - at 4 o'clock in the afternoon (mind you, the cucumber sandwiches cliche seems have to passed by most Greeks' radar - I'm consider a madwoman for suggesting anything between two slices of bread beyond the ubiquitous ham and cheese). Some Greeks still expect us drink our brew out of dainty porcelain cups, poured from a silver teapot polished by 'Our Man Jeeves', as we elegantly stick our little fingers out. (It must come as a horrible disappointment to them to see me plonk a Tesco's teabag in a mug and throw the resulting brew down my throat with all the poise of a hippo in a hurry.)

Then there is the idea that the Brits are cold fish who throw their young out into the cruel world the minute they recover from the first squeaks and spots of puberty. This must be the one misconception that REALLY gets to me. I don't know how typical I am, but my family is a tight-knit one, oozing with emotion. Passions run high and hearts are warm in our little clan, despite the frosty weather, and I'm probably the nearest thing to a cold fish of the lot of us (please someone, tell me it ain't so).

Yes, we generally do encourage our children to move out and make a life for themselves before they hit 30 (though that looks set to change in light of the latest news from the homeland). However, on the other hand, we do usually manage to acknowledge that our offspring are no longer infants before we are actually dribbling away in our dotage.

Not so in Greece - and believe me, I know. My mother-in-law still sometimes refers to my 44-year-old Ovver Arf as "to paidi" (the child). And at least you get to choose your own furniture when you're not still firmly tied to your mother's apron (and purse) strings.

I have to admit, however, that it's sometimes fun to play up to those misconceptions.

So, bear with me as I nibble on a digestive, drink a dainty cuppa (with pinky duly raised) and utter "Oh, I say" and "Bloody hell, Nigel!" in my best cut-glass Rodean accent (not bad for a graduate of Balcombe Road Comprehensive, eh?).

Waging war on wimpish words

2010-12-07T23:12:00.005+02:00

That’s it, I've had enough.

I am now officially declaring war on the ubiquitous and gratuitous use of euphemisms. If I hear the death of one more well-known worthy announced on Greek TV as “today, so-and-so left their final breath…” I shall scream blue murder!

It’s not just the fact that the newsreaders don't simply say “so-and-so died today”, it’s the fact that they ALWAYS churn out to the same tired old cliché!

At least have the imagination to find a new cliché, please! (?)

If they need inspiration, they need look no further than the famous Monty Python Parrot sketch. Admittedly, “he’s f****** snuffed it” is a tad on the insensitive side, but there are plenty more there including “gone to meet his Maker” or the wonderfully Shakespearian “shuffled off this mortal coil”. And beyond Python and the famous Norwegian Blue, there are still plenty of options. I have even heard of someone dearly departed being referred to as having been “astrally gathered”.

But when it comes right down to it, what's wrong with simply saying they died? Dressing up the news doesn't make the loss any less painful nor the departure any more dignified.

There's simply too much potential for horrific embarrassment due to innocent misinterpretation of phrases like “he’s left us” or “he moved on” (the most painful response – for all concerned – must be “Oh really? So where’s the old bugger living these days then?”).

It seems that the human race is addicted to euphemisms – not just for death but also for other great fundamentals of life, like going to the toilet or having sex.

I mean, do we really have to talk about No.1s and No.2s (on which my Other Half and I are in complete disagreement about which is which), or doing the horizontal tango instead of just saying what we mean?

Let’s face it, euphemisms are just way out for wimps, aren’t they? Why not call a spade a spade? Unless you’re a character from an Oscar Wilde play, in which case you'll probably be glad to report - in your best Lady Bracknell voice - that you have “never seen a spade”.

I know euphemisms are meant to spare the embarrassment of others. Fair enough, I guess. That’s why we use words like "willy" and talk about dog "do" and "you-know-what" around the faint-hearted.

Really, if it embarrasses you so, why not simply shut up?

Now, I could go on (and on, and on), but I have to nip off to the "little girls’ room" to - ahem - "powder my nose"...

Sinful cinnamon rolls

2010-12-06T21:09:00.008+02:00

Nothing can compare to the scent of homemade cinnamon rolls wafting out of the kitchen as you hang up you pinny, reapply your lipstick and slip on your high heels to serve the men in your life a plate of fresh pastries with their mid-morning coffee, right?

OK, I admit it. Those of you who know me will already know that I'm no Stepford Wife (nor do I have any desire to be one), but lately I have been gripped by the desire to make my own cinnamon rolls (and to scoff them with my own morning cuppa).

This weekend, as if the utter chaos of our flat in mid-festive decorating blitz wasn't enough, I decided to add to the mayhem by trying out my cinnamon roll recipe for the first time.

I was a little apprehensive, as I don't have much experience of cooking with yeast (nor the necessary patience). But they turned out to be much simpler, and tastier, than I expected.

If you want to try for yourself, here's the recipe.

First of all, for the dough you will need:
400 grammes of strong white flour
2.5 ml (half a teaspoon) salt
30 ml (2 tablespoons) sugar, plus 1 teaspoon of sugar to mix with yeast
5ml (1 teaspoon) fast-acting dried yeast
45 ml (3 tablespoons) olive oil
1 egg
100-120 ml warm water
100-120 ml warm milk

and for the filling:
50 grammes melted butter
50 grammes dark brown sugar
20 grammes ground cinnamon
1-2 tablespoons sultanas (optional - alternatively you could use choc chips. Personally I prefer them with sugar and cinnamon alone)

Dissolve the teaspoon of sugar in the warm milk and warm water, then add the dried yeast. Mix and leave for about 5 minutes to forth up slightly.

Sift the flour, salt and 2 tablespoons of sugar into a large bowl.

Add the oil and egg to the milk/yeast mixture and stir gently. Add to the flour mix.

Mix to a dough, then knead til smooth, adding more flour if necessary. Knead for a couple of minutes then leave in the bowl, covered with a clean tea towel, in a warm place to rise.

Roll out to a large rectangle, then cut in half lengthwise and brush with butter.
Mix the dark brown sugar and cinnamon together well, and sprinkle on the buttered dough. If using sultanas or choc chips, sprinkle these as well. Roll into a sausage shape to enclose the filling .

Cut the roll into slices about 1 inch (2.5 cm) thick and place the pinwheels on a greased baking tray. Brush with a little melted butter, and leave to prove for half an hour.

Bake in a pre-heated over (180-200 degrees C, depending on how 'hot' your oven burns) for 15-20 minutes, until golden.

When cooked, mix some icing sugar and cinnamon with some water to my a fairly liquid glaze and drizzle over the hot buns. Allow to cool, so the glaze will sink into the pastry a little and harden a little on the outside.

Then all you need is a willing volunteer to savour your wares.

(Word of warning: If you have a teenage boy in the house, hide half the cinnamon rolls from him - that is, if you want to enjoy one to yourself with a well-deserved cup of coffee once you've done the washing up.)

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My cinnamon roll adventure was inspired by Oui Chef at http://www.beckicklesie.com/, where the theme for December was "Cinnamon and wine".

These deliciously sinful buns take care of the cinnamon side of things, and I'll just have to rely on my friendly household wine waiter to provide the rest!

Perfect, for me

2010-12-06T10:09:00.006+02:00

Today, the Ovver Arf and all the other Nikos, Nikolauses, Nikolettas et al in Greece (and that's a lot, believe me!) celebrate their Name Day.

So do sailors, as in Greek tradition Saint Nick is the patron saint of sailors. The chap that bring the prezzies to good children is Saint Basil (which always brings to my mind images of a manic red & white-clad John Cleese doing silly walks across festive hearths to fill the waiting stockings... but that's another story).

It is the 21st time we have celebrated his Name Day together. Mind-boggling, but kinda marvellous too.

At the risk of sounding cheesy and gloopy, I have to say that my particular Nikos is the one who completes me. Cue Renee whatersface looking all tearful and blurting out "You had me at Hello".

I know, it's horribly corny, but he really did have me at that first (very Greek) "Hhhhhello" back in April 1989, when he looked across the lobby of the hotel where he was working, gave me a cheeky grin, and suggested the perfect place to hang my Holiday Rep notice board. A quick peek at us, the way we were then, probably tells you all you need to know.

Since then, we've both changed quite a bit. Fluctuating fashions and haircuts, expanding waistlines, a few more wrinkles, some adjusted priorities and a good few revised preconceptions.

We've been through quite a bit too - the thrill of buying our own home (along with the scary mortgage payments), the deaths of dearly-loved and greatly-missed family members, a heart attack (fortunately minor) when he was away on a business trip on the other side of the world in Singapore, periods of bleak depression and anxiety, the constant flow of my 'does my bum look big in this' insecurities, and - of course - the birth of our very own Kidling Grand.

But one thing that has remained constant, throughout all those years, is our ability to make each other laugh.

Nikos is a natural born comic, with a phenomenal memory for jokes and the way to tell 'em, enormous personal magnetism, a brain as sharp as a razor and a heart as big and warm as the sun.

It is laughter that has gone us this far - and I'm sure that it will take us much, much further.

Nikos is not perfect, though there's plenty of things he is: smart; funny; frustrating; creative; demanding; laid-back; confusing; inventive; complicated; generous; cynical; excitable; cool; infuriating; ingenious; original; kind-hearted; quick-tempered; borderline manic depressive; idealistic; fun; warm; sexy; cuddly; charismatic; abrupt; neurotic; clever; charming; hard work; a challenge.

No, my Ovver Arf aint perfect - but he's perfect for me.

Happy Name Day, Niko!

Silent Sunday: Madvent Calendar

2010-12-05T19:22:00.001+02:00

Glögg! (or "Mandi lets her Swedish Chef out to play")

2010-12-02T20:01:00.009+02:00

Meet Lars. You may not know his name, but I'm sure you all know him.

He's the Swedish Chef, usually seen burbling incomprehensively (but enthusiastically) around The Muppet Show kitchen, often with a chicken looking on in horror.

I don't really know his name, but after 18 years of working for a company with Swedish management, he is definitely a Lars to me.
When Becca and CheffyDaddy announced Cinnamon & Wine as the theme(s) for December's "Oui Chef!" ( http://www.beckicklesie.com/2010/12/oui-chef-table-3-cinnamon-and-wine.html ) I just knew that it was time to let my Swedish Chef out to play and introduce you to a peculiarly Scandiniavian way of beating the winter chill and welcoming the Festive Season.

Glögg.

I first came across it as an innocent 28-year-old, as I approached my first Christmas in my new job. Though based in Greece, many of the managers were Swedes - and they were keen as mustard to bring a little taste of the Baltic to the Eastern Mediterranean. I had already reluctantly sampled reindeer (I know, I know - but actually Rudolph and his ilk are surprisingly tasty) and had managed to avoid Rotten Herring (don't ask - it IS what it sounds like), but the smells coming from the lunchroom that December morning were infinitely more enouraging.

Curiosity got the better of me and I was soon to found hanging my head over a gently seething cauldron of ruby red liquor bubbling with almonds, orange peel and sultanas, with my boss stirring away merrily. It smelt orgasmic. (The booze, not my boss!).

Before I knew it, I had a little glass of the stuff in my hand and was taking my first tentative sip. Then a bolder slurp. Then another glass or two - or four.

I don't remember much after that... except a mental note that this Yuletide concoction was lethal enough to fell a whole longship of Vikings. And that I got the bus home that evening. I think.

So, if you're feeling bold, here is a recipe, including the extras my boss liked to throw into the mix. It will certainly keep the cold at bay - but you may not feel your nose after a glass or two.

You will need:
3 sticks cinnamon
2-3 pieces dried Seville orange peel (use fresh if dried not available
2-3 pieces dried or fresh ginger (not ground)
some 10 cardamom seeds (whole)
some 10 cloves (whole)
1 cup (2.5dl) water

and:
sugar
1 bottle of red wine
(added extras: a few good slugs of vodka or brandy, or both!)
Blanched almonds and sultanas for serving

What to do:
- Put the spices and water in a small pan and bring to the boil. Then turn off heat and let it stand overnight
- Pass the mixture through a sieve to filter out the 'bits' from the spices
- Pour in the wine and gently heat (don't boil!)
- Add sugar to taste (about half a cup) and stir til it dissolves
- Heat but do not bring it to the boil. Alcohol evaporates when boiled and that sort of defeats the object!
- If you're feeling naughty, spike the whole thing with a splash or three of vodka or brandy
- Serve hot with raisins and blanched almonds (dropped into the cups after serving).

Skål!

Surprise Celebration

2010-12-01T20:58:00.009+02:00

I entered uncharted territory today. For the first time, I set foot into the 46-55 demographic, my late-forties, or the pre-SAGA generation as a helpful friend suggested (gee, thanks Fran!).

Considering that I have blown out candles on 45 birthday cakes to date, the fact that it was a normal working day, and our general financial situation, I wasn't expecting much of a fuss to be made of my birthday - or me.

I was pleasantly surprised.

Most of my 'working day' was spent thanking colleagues from (literally) all around the world for their birthday wishes. And then there were the dozens of brilliant friends clamouring to wish me Many Happy Returns and put a smile on my face (yes, even 'dear George' who reminded me that I am now "just under 50").

I was in a pretty good mood as I made my way home, but I thought the highlight of my evening would be a glass of plonk and maybe a favourite DVD, having issued instructions for "no gifts or birthday cake" to the hubby.

For some strange reason I thought he'd break the habit of a lifetime and do as he was told.

I was wrong.

As I opened the front door, I was greeted by darkness, and the faint glow of flickering candlelight on the dining room, surrounded by the Ovver Arf, Kidling Grand, my in-laws and neices singing a uniquely Greek version of "Happy Birthday"!

Despite my protests that I didn't want a fuss, they decided to pamper me - complete with a homemade cake and prezzies to open.

Though I could have perhaps done without the reminder of my antiquity in the glaring "46" candles (the Ovver Arf said if he had got one for each year, the candles would have cost more than the cake!), I was blushing furiously with pleasure as I huffed and I puffed and I blew out my birthday flame.

And there was more to come, with a special birthday supper lovingly prepared by hubby so we could have the sustenance essential for a typical (noisy) Greek family celebration - and I was the one being celebrated!

It was a reminder that it's not the fancy gifts that make a real celebration.

It's the little touches: a homemade cake; a favourite dish; or a cardboard & glitter birthday brooch crafted by an 11-year-old.

They're what makes you feel like you matter.

And that is certainly worth celebrating.

Smarts in an hourglass

2010-11-30T10:58:00.003+02:00

Today, I'm guest posting over at http://www.beckicklesie.com/ with a little piece about the link between the fatty acids that give us our womany curves, and IQ levels.

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Next time you come face-to-face with the ironing board tyranny that batters the egos of those with figures that owe more to an hourglass than a plank of wood, take heart.

Studies have shown that curvy women are likely to be brighter than our waif-like sisters – and more likely to produce intelligent offspring.

Yes! (You have to imagine me punching the air at this point). At last, scientific proof that not only is it alright, but BETTER, to be All Woman.

Apparently, the bigger the difference between a woman’s waist and hips, the better. And, speaking as your classic English pear-shape, that’s great news....

(Read on at http://www.beckicklesie.com/2010/11/smarts-in-hourglass.html)

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There's a bit of a Guest Blog Festival going on right now, so head over to www.beckicklesie.com for many more words of wit and wisdom on a wide range of issues.

You won't regret it!

Let's talk about sex

2010-11-29T21:45:00.003+02:00

The world is obsessed with it.

When it’s good, there’s nothing like it. When it’s bad, it’s just not worth the bother.

For centuries it was taboo – and now you can’t escape it.

Sex.

But I think we take it all too seriously, don’t you? I mean, I’m all for it. But is it only me that thinks it is SO much better when it’s served up with a side dish of laughter?

Judging by what some memorable folk have had to say about the subject, I'm happy to report that I’m not alone:

You know ‘that look’ women get when they want sex? Me neither.
- Steve Martin

Having sex is like playing bridge. If you don’t have a good partner, you better have a good hand.
- Woody Allen

Bisexuality immediately doubles your chances of a date on a Saturday night.
- Rodney Dangerfield

Sex at age 90 is like trying to shoot pool with a rope.
- George Burns

Women might be able to fake orgasms. But men can fake whole relationships.
- Sharon Stone

My girlfriend always laughs during sex – no matter what she’s reading.
- Steve Jobs

Clinton lied. A man might forget where he parks or where he lives, but he never forgets oral sex, no matter how bad it is.
- Barbara Bush (an unexpected spark of wicked humour from a former First Lady)

Women need a reason to have sex. Men need a place.
- Billy Crystal

According to a new survey, women say they feel more comfortable undressing in front of men than they do undressing in front of other women. They say that women are too judgmental, where of course men are just grateful.
- Robert De Niro

The problem is that God gives men a brain and a penis, and only enough blood to run one at a time.
- Robin Williams

So, don’t be afraid to giggle as you tussle under the eiderdown folks.

And, you men-folk out there, please don’t take it personally. Laughter is good (and surprisingly sexy).

You’d prefer that we cry when you whip off your Y-Fronts, maybe?

(Not so) Silent Sunday

2010-11-28T12:50:00.006+02:00

Athens Portraits: School run scramble

2010-11-25T09:34:00.004+02:00

8am outside the local primary school.
The troops are gathering - and with them an entire support battalion.

Fathers zoom up to the gates on motorbikes with tots perched precariously on the back without the benefit of a crash helmet (but you’d better not even think of breathing a word about them being anything less than a devoted dads).

Mums heave bags packed to bursting point with books – the weight of which their little darlings couldn’t possibly shoulder (I swear those bags weigh more than the kids that have to carry them).

Grannies faff about at the baker’s shop across the road to make sure their little darlings are stocked up with pies and pastries (and enough carbohydrates to sink a battleship) to see them through the rigours of the school day.

And the cars – the cars!
Seen from above, the school gates would look more like a smashed open ants’ nest with the insects dashing here and there in a blind panic.

Vehicles swerve crazily into that parking spot (supposedly reserved for the headmistress) that ensures the sprogs will have ten paces less to take, oblivious to the hooting honking bottleneck of cars, delivery vans and buses backing up behind them. Alarm lights flash in imagined justification for total disregard of the law of the road or common civility. And on most mornings, a shiny white and blue police car is abandoned in the middle of the road – not to get things under control, but so the local Constable can deliver his son and heir safely to the playground.

This morning, a spanking new, flashy red Ferrari drew gasps of admiration and awe from pre-pubescent boys as it drew up and stopped ON the pedestrian crossing. The long-suffering lollipop lady (or crossing guard if you prefer) tried - in vain - to shame the greasy middle-aged man who emerged from the swanky sports car, but he just ignored her and carried his child across the road to the school.

It’s dog eat dog on the morning school run scramble.

I guess it’s only to be expected that the start of the school day should be a raucous affair. But, in Greece that it’s not the kids - but their parents - that are the main source of the rumpus.

How’s that for teaching by example?